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& 24 22- . /2 2.
WISDOM, WIT, AND ALLEGORY.








Banks ºcesanº


W I S D O M, W IT,
A L L E G O R Y.
SELECTED
F ROM “T H E SPECTA TO R.”
NEW YORK :
V I R T U E A N D Y O R S T ON,
12 DEY STREET.


K b > toº a
HARVARD
UNIVERSITY
Ll BRARY
S/T3 … 3 87
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year Eighteen
ſhundred and sixty-nine, by VIRTUE AND YORSTON, in the
Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.


PR E FA C E.
THE collection of papers forming the present volume is
selected from the celebrated Spectator, and, with two excep-
tions, are written entirely by Addison. Joseph Addison,
who is justly considered as one of the great authors
of England, was born at Milston, Wiltshire, on May 1,
1672; and, after receiving an elementary education at
various public schools, he entered the University of Oxford
at the age of fifteen. His original intention was to study
for the Church, but circumstances compelled him to aban-
don it, and he afterwards devoted himself exclusively to
literature and politics. After several years of study and
travel, he received various important political appointments,
in all of which he acquitted himself with ability and honour.
After engaging in several minor literary efforts, Addison,
in conjunction with his friend Sir Richard Steele, projected,
in 1711, the Spectator, a daily paper, and the first number
was published on the 1st of March. The “great and noble”
objects of this publication—the most popular and elegant
miscellany in English literature—as originally set forth, was
to correct the vices, ridicule the follies, dissipate the igno-
rance, cultivate the understanding, and refine the taste of
the public; and how ably the authors attained these
objects is now matter of history. This success was in a
great measure due to Addison, whose essays on the circum-


vi Preface.
stances, morals, and follies of the day have now become
classic models of style, characterised by a strength and
delicacy which has never been excelled.
Many of the papers in the Spectator were merely of a
temporary interest, treating of the fashions of the day,
the vices, rudenesses, and absurdities of the town and
country of the period, now obsolete; but a large number
of the papers are of a permanent and sterling nature, and
well worthy of preservation. From the latter class
the present selection has been made, and it contains, to
quote the words of a recent writer on Addison, “many
admirably written essays on subjects of abiding interest
and importance, on characters, virtues, vices, and manners,
which will chequer society while the human race endures;
and a judicious selection of which can never fail to present
indescribable charms to the man of taste, piety, philan-
thropy, and refinement.”
In 1713 Addison published Cato, a Tragedy, which,
although never popular on the stage, still retains its place
in English literature: and he also, at various periods of his
life, published several treatises on educational and other
subjects. In 1716 he contracted an injudicious marriage
with the Dowager-Countess of Warwick; and in the follow-
ing year was appointed Secretary of State, which office he
resigned in 1718. At this time his health had been for
some years in a precarious state; and, after a lingering but
severe illness of several months' duration, he died at
Holland House, Kensington, on the 17th of June 1719, in
the 48th year of his age, leaving behind him, however, a
name which will ever stand prominently forth in the annals
of British literature.


C O N T E N T S.
- PAGE
proper EMPLOYMENT of TIME, . e e e 9
THE THEORY OF LAUGHTER, - e e e I9
THE DANGER OF SATIRE, . e tº e - 24
LUXURY AND AVARICE: AN ALLEGORY, . - s 29
HUMOUR : FALSE AND TRUE, - - e e 3 I
THE VISION OF MIRZA: AN ORIENTAL ALLEGORY, • 35
NATURAL GENIUS, • - e e - 4 I
oN INCONSISTENCY AND IRRESOLUTION, . e - 46
VALUE OF GOOD NATURE, . • - e º 5o
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF FABLE, . - e e 53
THE DANGER OF MISTAKEN ZEAL, . . . e e 59
TEMPERANCE, A NATURAL NECESSITY, - e e 64
THE INFLUENCE OF EDUCATION, . - e e 69
ON GRATITUDE TO GOD, . • • e e 74
THE PARADISE OF FOOLS: AN ALLEGORY, . e e 78
THE IMPORTANCE OF METHOD, e - e e 84
PATIENCE: AN ALLEGORY, e - e e 87
AMBITION: ITS USE AND ABUSE, . • e • 93
CHEERFULNESS, e e - • e e Io8
THE INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM, - e - e I 18
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE, . - - e - I23
oN GIVING ADVICE, - e - e • I31
THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES : AN ALLEGORY, - - I35
oN HUMAN vaNITY, - - - º - I43


V111 Contents.
THE VALUE of DISCRETION, -
FALSE WIT: A HISTORY, . -
THE PLEASUREs of content, -
EVIL SPEAKING, . - -
ON FEAR, . - - -
LovE OF PRAISE, . - -
THE PICTURE GALLERY: A DREAM,
ANIMAL INSTINCT, e -
WISDOM AND RICHES : A VISION, .
POVERTY versus weALTH, . -
ON JUDGING THE FAULTs of oth ERs,
THE MAJESTY of THE ocEAN, -
THE BEAUTY of virtue, . -
LAUGHTER AND RIDICULE, •
THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE, -
on GooD INTENTIONs, - -
MEDITATIONS ON ANATOMY, -
TRUE LIBERALITY, . e -
ADVANTAGE OF TRUTH, - -
THE REASONABLENESS OF VIRTUE : AN ALLEGORY,
THE IDEA OF A SUPREME BEING, .
THE DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE,
THE IMPROVEMENT OF GENIUS, -
THE MUSICAL HOST, - .
SINGULARITY IN BEHAVIOUR, •
THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION,
*
pact:
148
I53
163
168
172
177
18O
185
195
2OO
2O4
209
213
217
222
227
232
237
24 I
245
251
256
261
267
27o
273


WISDOM, WIT, AND ALLEGORY.
PROPER EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.
“Thy lengthen’d hopes with prudence bound
Proportion'd to the flying hour:
While thus we talk in careless ease,
The envious moments wing their flight;
Instant the fleeting pleasure seize,
Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful light.”
FRANCIS's HoRACE.
ºE all of us complain of the shortness of time, saith
Seneca, and yet have much more than we know
what to do with. Our lives, says he, are spent
either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing
to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do.
We are always complaining our days are few, and acting as
though there would be no end of them. That noble philo-
sopher has described our inconsistency with ourselves in
this particular by all those various turns of expression and
thought which are peculiar to his writings.
I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with
itself in a point that bears some affinity to the former.
Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in general,


IO Wisdom, Wit, and A//gony. -
we are wishing every period of it at an end. The minor
longs to be at age, then to be a man of business, then to
make up an estate, then to arrive at honours, then to retire.
Thus, although the whole life is allowed by every one to be
short, the several divisions of it appear long and tedious.
We are lengthening our span in general, but would fain
contract the parts of which it is composed. The usurer
would be very well satisfied to have all the time annihilated
that lies between the present moment and next quarter-day.
The politician would be contented to lose three years of his
life, could he place things in the posture which he fancies
they will stand in after such a revolution of time. The
lover would be glad to strike out of his existence all the
moments that are to pass away before the happy meeting.
Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should be very glad in
most parts of our lives that it ran much faster than it does.
Several hours of the day hang upon our hands; nay, we wish
away whole years; and travel through time as through a
country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we
would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several
little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dis-
persed up and down in it.
If we divide the life of most men into twenty parts, we
shall find, that at least nineteen of them are mere gaps and
chasms, which are neither filled with pleasure nor business.
I do not, however, include in this calculation the life of
those men who are in a perpetual hurry of affairs, but of
those only who are not always engaged in scenes of action;
and I hope I shall not do an unacceptable piece of service
to these persons, if I point out to them certain methods for
the filling up their empty spaces of life. The methods I
shall propose to them are as follow —


Proper Employment of Zime. I I
The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most general ac-
ceptation of the word. The particular scheme which com-
prehends the social virtues may give employment to the
most industrious temper, and find a man in business more
than the most active station of life. To advise the ignorant,
relieve the needy, comfort the afflicted, are duties that fall
in our way almost every day of our lives. A man has fre-
quent opportunities of mitigating the fierceness of a party;
of doing justice to the character of a deserving man; of
softening the envious, quieting the angry, and rectifying the
prejudiced; which are all of them employments suited to a
reasonable nature, and bring great satisfaction to the person
who can busy himself in them with discretion.
There is another kind of virtue that may find employment
for those retired hours in which we are altogether left to
ourselves, and destitute of company and conversation; I
mean that intercourse and communication which every
reasonable creature ought to maintain with the great Author
of his being. The man who lives under a habitual sense
of the Divine presence keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of
temper, and enjoys every moment the satisfaction of think-
ing himself in company with his dearest and best of friends.
The time never lies heavy upon him: it is impossible for
him to be alone. His thoughts and passions are the most
busied at such hours when those of other men are the most
inactive. He no sooner steps out of the world but his
heart burns with devotion, swells with hope, and triumphs
in the consciousness of that Presence which everywhere sur-
rounds him; or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, its
sorrows, its apprehensions, to the great Supporter of its
existence.
I have here only considered the necessity of a man's being


I 2 JWisdom, JWit, and A //gory.
virtuous, that he may have something to do; but if we con-
sider further, that the exercise of virtue is not only an amuse-
ment for the time it lasts, but that its influence extends to
those parts of our existence which lie beyond the grave, and
that our whole eternity is to take its colour from those hours
which we here employ in virtue or in vice, the argument re-
doubles upon us for putting in practice this method of pass-
ing away our time.
When a man has but a little stock to improve, and has
opportunities of turning it all to good account, what shall we
think of him if he suffers nineteen parts of it to lie dead,
and perhaps employs even the twentieth to his ruin or dis-
advantage'. But because the mind cannot be always in its
fervours, nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, it is necessary
to find out proper employments for it in its relaxations.
The next method, therefore, that I would propose to fill up
our time should be useful and innocent diversions. I must
confess I think it is below reasonable creatures to be alto-
gether conversant in such diversions as are merely innocent,
and have nothing else to recommend them but that there is
no hurt in them. Whether any kind of gaming has even
thus much to say for itself I shall not determine; but I
think it is very wonderful to see persons of the best sense
passing away a dozen hours together in shuffling and divid-
ing a pack of cards, with no other conversation but what is
made up of a few game phrases, and no other ideas but
those of black or red spots ranged together in different
figures. Would not a man laugh to hear any one of this
species complaining that life is short?
The stage might be made a perpetual source of the most
noble and useful entertainments, were it under proper
regulations.


Proper Employment of Time. I 3
But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably as in the
conversation of a well-chosen friend. There is indeed no
blessing of life that is any way comparable to the enjoyment
of a discreet and virtuous friend. It eases and unloads the
mind, clears and improves the understanding, engenders
thoughts and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolu-
tions, soothes and allays the passions, and finds employ-
ments for most of the vacant hours of life.
Next to such an intimacy with a particular person, one
would endeavour after a more general conversation with such
as are able to entertain and improve those with whom they
converse, which are qualifications that seldom go asunder.
There are many other useful employments of life, which
one would endeavour to multiply, that one might on all oc-
casions have recourse to something, rather than suffer the
mind to lie idle, or run adrift with any passion that chances
to rise in it.
A man that has a taste for music, painting, or architecture,
is like one that has another sense, when compared with such
as have no relish for those arts. The florist, the planter, the
gardener, the husbandman, when they are only as accom-
plishments to the man of fortune, are great reliefs to a
country life, and many ways useful to those who are pos-
sessed of them. . . . . . I remember an author, speaking
of a certain mineral, tells us, that a man may consume his
whole life in the study of it without arriving at the knowledge
of all its qualities. The truth of it is, there is not a single
science, or any branch of it, that might not furnish a man
with business for life, though it were much longer than it is.
I shall not here engage on those beaten subjects of the
usefulness of knowledge ; nor of the pleasure and perfection
it gives the mind; nor on the methods of attaining it;


I4. Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
nor recommend any particular branch of it; all which have
been the topics of many other writers; but shall indulge
myself in a speculation that is more uncommon, and may
therefore perhaps be more entertaining.
I have before shewn how the unemployed parts of life
appear long and tedious, and shall here endeavour to shew
how those parts of life which are exercised in study, reading,
and the pursuits of knowledge, are long, but not tedious,
and by that means discover a method of lengthening our
lives, and at the same time of turning all the parts of them
to our advantage.
Mr Locke observes, “That we get the idea of time or
duration by reflecting on that train of ideas which succeed
one another in our minds: that for this reason, when we
sleep soundly without dreaming, we have no perception of
time, or the length of it whilst we sleep ; and that the
moment wherein we leave off to think, till the moment we
begin to think again, seems to have no distance.” To
which the author adds, “And so I doubt not but it would
be to a waking man if it were possible for him to keep only
one idea in his mind, without variation, and the succession
of others: and we see that one who fixes his thoughts very
intently on one thing, so as to take but little notice of the
succession of ideas that pass in his mind whilst he is taken
up with that earnest contemplation, lets slip out of his ac-
count a good part of that duration, and thinks that time
shorter than it is.”
We might carry this thought further; and consider a man
as, on one side, shortening his time by thinking on nothing,
or but a few things; so, on the other, as lengthening it, by
employing his thoughts on many subjects, or by entertaining
a quick and constant succession of ideas. Accordingly,


Proper Employment of Time. 17
head above the water but he found himself standing by the
side of the tub, with the great men of his court about him,
and the holy man at his side. He immediately upbraided
his teacher for having sent him on such a course of adven-
tures, and betrayed him into so long a state of misery and
servitude; but was wonderfully surprised when he heard
that the state he talked of was only a dream and delusion;
chat he had not stirred from the place where he then stood;
and that he had only dipped his head into the water, and
immediately taken it out again.
The Mohammedan doctor took this occasion of instruct-
ing the sultan, that nothing was impossible with God;
and that He with whom a thousand years are but as one
day can, if He pleases, make a single day, nay, a single
moment, appear to any of His creatures as a thousand
years.
I shall leave my reader to compare these Eastern fables
with the notions of those two great philosophers whom I
have quoted in this paper; and shall only, by way of appli-
cation, desire him to consider how we may extend life
beyond its natural dimensions by applying ourselves dili-
gently to the pursuits of knowledge.
The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his ideas, as
those of a fool are by his passions. The time of the one is
long, because he does not know what to do with it; so is
that of the other, because he distinguishes every moment of
it with useful or amusing thoughts ; or, in other words,
because the one is always wishing it away, and the other
always enjoying it.
How different is the view of past life in the man who is
grown old in knowledge and wisdom, from that of him who
is grown old in ignorance and folly! The latter is like the
B


I 8 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
owner of a barren country, that fills his eye with the pros-
pect of naked hills and plains, which produce nothing either
profitable or ornamental; the other beholds a beautiful and
spacious landscape divided into delightful gardens, green
meadows, fruitful fields, and can scarce cast his eye on a
single spot of his possessions that is not covered with some
beautiful plant or flower.


THE THEORY OF LAUGHTER.
“Laugh if you are wise.”—MARTIAL.
vºR HOBBES, in his Discourse of Human Nature,
which, in my humble opinion, is much the best
of all his works, after some very curious obser-
vations upon laughter, concludes thus:—“The
passion of laughter is nothing else but sudden glory arising
from some sudden conception of some eminency in our
selves, by comparison with the infirmities of others, or with
our own formerly: for men laugh at the follies of them-
selves past, when they come suddenly to remembrance,
except they bring with them any present dishonour.”
According to this author, therefore, when we hear a man
laugh excessively, instead of saying he is very merry, we
ought to tell him he is very proud. And indeed if we look
into the bottom of this matter, we shall meet with many
observations to confirm us in this opinion. Every one
laughs at somebody that is in an inferior state of folly to
himself. It was formerly the custom for every great house
in England to keep a tame fool dressed in petticoats, that
the heir of the family might have an opportunity of joking
upon him, and diverting himself with his absurdities. For
the same reason, idiots are still in request in most of the
courts of Germany, where there is not a prince of any


20 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
great magnificence who has not two or three dressed, dis-
tinguished, undisputed fools in his retinue, whom the rest of
the courtiers are always breaking their jests upon.
The Dutch, who are more famous for their industry and
application than for wit and humour, hang up in several of
their streets what they call the sign of the Gaper, that is,
the head of an idiot dressed in a cap and bells, and gaping
in a most immoderate manner. This is a standing jest at
Amsterdam.
Thus every one diverts himself with some person or
other that is below him in point of understanding, and
triumphs in the superiority of his genius whilst he has such
objects of derision before his eyes. Mr Dennis has very
well expressed this in a couple of humorous lines which are
part of a translation of a satire in Monsieur Boileau —
“Thus one fool lolls his tongue out at another,
And shakes his empty noddle at his brother.”
Mr Hobbes's reflection gives us the reason why the insig-
nificant people above mentioned are stirrers up of laughter
among men of a gross taste; but as the more understand-
ing part of mankind do not find their risibility affected by
such ordinary objects, it may be worth the while to ex-
amine into the several provocatives of laughter in men of
superior sense and knowledge.
In the first place, I must observe, that there is a set of
merry drolls, whom the common people of all countries
admire, and seem to love so well, “that they could eat
them,” according to the old proverb–I mean those circum-
foraneous wits whom every nation calls by the name of
that dish of meat which it loves best : in Holland they are
termed Pickled Herrings; in France, Jean Pottages; in


22 Wisdom, Iſiſ, and A//gory.
-
Thus we see, in proportion as one man is more refined
than another, he chooses his fool out of a lower or higher
class of mankind ; or, to speak in a more philosophical
language, that secret elation or pride of heart which is
generally called laughter, arises in him from his comparing
himself with an object below him, whether it so happens
that it be a natural or an artificial fool. It is, indeed, very
possible that the persons we laugh at may in the main of
their characters be much wiser men than ourselves; but
if they would have us laugh at them, they must fall short of
us in those respects which stir up this passion.
I am afraid I shall appear too abstracted in my specula-
tions if I shew that, when a man of wit makes us laugh, it
is by betraying some oddness or infirmity in his own char-
acter, or in the representation which he makes of others;
and that when we laugh at a brute, or even at an inanimate
thing, it is at some action or incident that bears a remote
analogy to any blunder or absurdity in reasonable creatures.
But to come into common life; I shall pass by the con-
sideration of those stage coxcombs that are able to shake a
whole audience, and take notice of a particular sort of men
who are such provokers of mirth in conversation, that it is
impossible for a club or merry-meeting to subsist without
them—I mean those honest gentlemen that are always
exposed to the wit and raillery of their well-wishers and
companions; that are pelted by men, women, and children,
friends and foes, and, in a word, stand as butts in conversa-
tion, for every one to shoot at that pleases. I know several
of these butts, who are men of wit and sense, though by
some odd turn of humour, some unlucky cast in their per-
son or behaviour, they have always the misfortune to make
the company merry. The truth of it is, a man is not quali-


The Theory of Laug//cr. 23
fied for a butt who has not a good deal of wit and vivacity,
even in the ridiculous side of his character. A stupid butt
is only fit for the conversation of ordinary people: men of
wit require one that will give them play, and bestir himself
in the absurd part of his behaviour. A butt with these
accomplishments frequently gets the laugh on his side, and
turns the ridicule upon him that attacks him. Sir John
Falstaff was a hero of this species, and gives a good descrip-
tion of himself in his capacity of a butt after the following
manner: “Men of all sorts,” says that merry knight, “take
a pride to gird at me. The brain of man is not able to
invent anything that tends to laughter more than I invent,
or is invented on me. I am not only witty in myself, but
the cause that wit is in other men.”


THE DANGER OF SATIRE.
“Fierce Volscians foam with rage, and gazing round,
Descried not him who gave the fatal wound ;
Nor knew to fix revenge.” DRY DEN's VIRGIL.
tº HERE is nothing that more betrays a base ungener-
§ # ous spirit than the giving of secret stabs to a
§§ º man's reputation; lampoons and satires that are
written with wit and spirit are like poisoned darts,
which not only inflict a wound, but make it incurable. For
this reason I am very much troubled when I see the talents
of humour and ridicule in the possession of an ill-natured
man. There cannot be a greater gratification to a bar-
barous and inhuman wit than to stir up sorrow in the heart
of a private person, to raise uneasiness among near relations,
and to expose whole families to derision, at the same time
that he remains unseen and undiscovered. If, besides the
accomplishments of being witty and ill-natured, a man is
vicious into the bargain, he is one of the most mischievous
creatures that can enter into a civil society. His satire will
then chiefly fall upon those who ought to be the most
exempt from it. Virtue, merit, and everything that is
praiseworthy, will be made the subject of ridicule and
buffoonery. It is impossible to enumerate the evils which
arise from these arrows that fly in the dark; and I know
no other excuse that is or can be made for them, than that
the wounds they give are only imaginary, and produce no-


The Danger of Satire. 25
thing more than a secret shame or sorrow in the mind of the
suffering person. It must, indeed, be confessed that a lam-
poon or a satire do not carry in them robbery or murder; but
at the same time how many are there that would not rather
lose a considerable sum of money, or even life itself, than
be set up as a mark of infamy and derision? And in this
case a man should consider, that an injury is not to be
measured by the notions of him that gives, but of him that
receives it.
Those who can put the best countenance upon the out-
rages of this nature which are offered them, are not without
their secret anguish. I have often observed a passage in
Socrates's behaviour at his death, in a light wherein none of
the critics have considered it. That excellent man, enter-
taining his friends, a little before he drank the bowl of
poison, with a discourse on the immortality of the soul,
at his entering upon it says that he does not believe any,
the most comic genius, can censure him for talking upon
such a subject at such a time. This passage, I think, evi-
dently glances upon Aristophanes, who wrote a comedy on
purpose to ridicule the discourses of that divine philosopher.
It has been observed by many writers, that Socrates was
so little moved at this piece of buffoonery, that he was
several times present at its being acted upon the stage, and
never expressed the least resentment of it. But with sub-
mission, I think the remark I have here made shews us, that
this unworthy treatment made an impression upon his mind
though he had been too wise to discover it.
When Julius Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, he invited
him to supper, and treated him with such a generous civility,
that he made the poet his friend ever after. Cardinal
Mazarine gave the same kind of treatment to the learned


26 JWisdom, Ji'if, and A//gory.
Quillet, who had reflected upon his eminence in a famous
Latin poem. The cardinal sent for him, and, after some
kind expostulations upon what he had written, assured him
of his esteem, and dismissed him with the promise of the
next good abbey that should fall, which he accordingly con-
ferred upon him in a few months after. This had so good
an effect upon the author, that he dedicated the second
edition of his book to the cardinal, after having expunged
the passages which had given him offence.
Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and forgiving a tem-
per. Upon his being made Pope, the very statue of Pasquin
was one night dressed in a very dirty shirt, with an excuse
written under it, that he was forced to wear foul linen,
because his laundress was made a princess. This was a
reflection upon the Pope's sister, who, before the promotion
of her brother, was in those mean circumstances that Pas-
quin represented her. As this pasquinade made a great
noise in Rome, the Pope offered a considerable sum of
money to any person that should discover the author of it.
The author, relying upon his Holiness's generosity, as also
on some private overtures which he had received from him,
made the discovery himself; upon which the Pope gave him
the reward he had promised, but, at the same time, to disable
the satirist for the future, ordered his tongue to be cut out,
and both his hands to be chopped off. Aretine” is too
trite an instance. Every one knows that all the kings of
Europe were his tributaries. Nay, there is a letter of his
extant, in which he makes his boast that he laid the Sophi
of Persia under contribution.
Though, in the various examples which I have here drawn
together, these several great men behaved themselves very
* Peter Aretine, infamous for his writings, died in 1556.


7%e /)anger of Safire. 27
differently toward the wits of the age who had reproached
them; they all of them plainly shewed that they were very
sensible of their reproaches, and consequently that they
received them as very great injuries. For my own part, I
would never trust a man that I thought was capable of
giving these secret wounds ; and cannot but think that he
would hurt the person whose reputation he thus assaults, in
his body or in his fortune, could he do it with the same
security. There is, indeed, something very barbarous and
inhuman in the ordinary scribblers of lampoons. An inno-
cent young lady shall be exposed for an unhappy feature;
a father of a family turned to ridicule for some domestic
calamity; a wife made uneasy all her life for a misinter-
preted word or action ; nay, a good, a temperate, and a just
man shall be put out of countenance by the representation
of those qualities that should do him honour. So per-
nicious a thing is wit, when it is not tempered with virtue
and humanity. -
I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate writers,
that without any malice have sacrificed the reputation of
their friends and acquaintance to a certain levity of temper,
and a silly ambition of distinguishing themselves by a spirit
of raillery and satire : as if it were not infinitely more honour-
able to be a good-natured man than a wit. Where there is
this little petulant humour in an author, he is often very
mischievous without designing to be so. . For which reason,
I always lay it down as a rule, that an indiscrete man is
more hurtful than an ill-natured one; for as the latter will
only attack his enemies, and those he wishes ill to, the
other injures indifferently both friends and foes. I cannot
forbear on this occasion transcribing a fable out of Sir Roger
l'Estrange, which accidentally lies before me. “A company


28 Wisdom, JVit, and Allegory.
of waggish boys were watching frogs at the side of a pond,
and still as any of them put up their heads, they would be
pelting them down again with stones. “Children,’ says one
of the frogs, ‘you never consider, that though this may be
x 22
play to you, it is death to us.


IUXURY AND AVARICE: AN ALLEGORY.
“Our passions play the tyrants in our breasts.”
PERSE U.S.
ğHERE were two very powerful tyrants engaged in a
§ # perpetual war against each other; the name of the
§§ first was Luxury, and of the second Avarice. The
aim of each of them was no less than universal
monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury had many
generals under him, who did him great service, as Pleasure,
Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Avarice was likewise very strong
in his officers, being faithfully served by Hunger, Industry,
Care, and Watchfulness: he had likewise a privy-councillor
who was always at his elbow, and whispering something or
other in his ear: the name of this privy-councillor was
Poverty. As Avarice conducted himself by the counsels of
Poverty, his antagonist was entirely guided by the dictates
and advice of Plenty, who was his first counsellor and minister
of state, that concerted all his measures for him, and never
departed out of his sight. While these two great rivals
were thus contending for empire, their conquests were very
various. Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice
of another. The father of a family would often range him-
self under the banners of Avarice, and the son under those
of Luxury. The wife and husband would often declare
themselves on the two different parties; nay, the same per-


3O Iſisdom, Wiſ, and A//gory.
son would very often side with one in his youth, and revolt to
the other in his old age. Indeed, the wise men of the world
stood neuter; but, alas ! their numbers were not consider-
able. At length, when these two potentates had wearied
themselves with waging war upon one another, they agreed
upon an interview, at which none of their counsellors were
to be present. It is said that Luxury began the parley,
and after having represented the endless state of war in
which they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness
of heart which is natural to him, that he believed they two
should be very good friends were it not for the instigations
of Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use
of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions
and prejudices. To this Avarice replied, that he looked
upon Plenty (the first minister of his antagonist) to be a
much more destructive counsellor than Poverty, for that
he was perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the
necessary cautions against want, and consequently under-
mining those principles on which the government of Avarice
was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they
agreed upon this preliminary, that each of them should im-
mediately dismiss his privy-councillor. When things were
thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other differences
were soon accommodated, insomuch that for the future
they resolved to live as good friends and confederates, and
to share between them whatever conquests were made on
either side. For this reason we now find Luxury and Avarice
taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the same
person between them. To which I shall only add, that
since the discarding of the counsellors above-mentioned,
Avarice supplies Luxury in the room of Plenty, as Luxury
prompts Avarice in the place of Poverty.


HUMOUR : FAISE AND TRUE.
“Nothing so foolish as the laugh of fools.”—CATULLUs.
3 MONG all kinds of writing, there is none in which
authors are more apt to miscarry than in works
of humour, as there is none in which they are
more ambitious to excel. It is not in imagina-
tion that teems with monsters, a head that is filled with
extravagant conceptions, which is capable of furnishing the
world with diversions of this nature; and yet if we look
into the productions of several writers, who set up for men
of humour, what wild irregular fancies, what unnatural
distortions of thought do we meet with ? If they speak
nonsense, they believe they are talking humour; and when
they have drawn together a scheme of absurd, inconsistent
ideas, they are not able to read it over to themselves with-
out laughing. These poor gentlemen endeavour to gain
themselves the reputation of wits and humorists, by such
monstrous conceits as almost qualify them for Bedlam ; not
considering that humour should always lie under the check
of reason, and that it requires the direction of the nicest
judgment, by so much the more as it indulges itself in the
most boundless freedoms. There is a kind of nature that
is to be observed in this sort of compositions, as well as in
all other; and a certain regularity of thought, which must
discover the writer to be a man of sense, at the same time


32 lſ isdom, Wiſ, and .1//gong'.
that he appears altogether given up to caprice. For my
part, when I read the delirious mirth of an unskilful author,
I cannot be so barbarous as to divert myself with it, but am
rather apt to pity the man, than laugh at anything he writes.
A playwright, who had himself a great deal of the talent
which I am treating of, represents a character, in one of his
plays, as very much surprised to hear one say that breaking
of windows was not humour; and I question not but several
English readers will be as much startled to hear me affirm
that many of those raving incoherent pieces, which are often
spread among us under odd chimerical titles, are rather the
offsprings of a distempered brain than works of humour.
It is, indeed, much easier to describe what is not humour
than what is ; and very difficult to define it otherwise than
as Cowley has done wit, by negatives. Were I to give my
own notions of it, I would deliver them after Plato's manner,
in a kind of allegory, and, by supposing Humour to be a
person, deduce to him all his qualifications, according to
the following genealogy. Truth was the founder of the
family, and the father of Good Sense. Good Sense was
the father of Wit, who married a lady of collateral line
called Mirth, by whom he had issue Humour. Humour,
therefore, being the youngest of this illustrious family, and
descended from parents of such different dispositions, is
very various and unequal in his temper; sometimes you
see him putting on grave looks and a solemn habit, some-
times airy in his behaviour and fantastic in his dress; inso-
much that at different times he appears as serious as a
judge, and as jocular as a merry-andrew. But as he has a
great deal of the mother in his constitution, whatever mood
he is in, he never fails to make his company laugh.
But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes upon
him the name of this young gentleman, and would willingly


A/umour: Zºalse and 7 rue. 33
pass for him in the world; to the end that well-meaning
persons may not be imposed upon by cheats, I would desire
my readers, when they meet with this pretender, to look
into his parentage, and to examine him strictly whether or
no he be remotely allied to Truth, and lineally descended
from Good Sense ; if not, they may conclude him a coun-
terfeit. They may likewise distinguish him by a loud and
excessive laughter, in which he seldom gets his company to
join with him. For as True Humour generally looks serious,
while everybody laughs about him ; False Humour is
always laughing, whilst everybody about him looks serious.
I shall only add, if he has not in him a mixture of both
parents—that is, if he would pass for the offspring of Wit
without Mirth, or Mirth without Wit, you may conclude
him to be altogether spurious and a cheat.
The impostor of whom I am speaking descends origin-
ally from Falsehood, who was the mother of Nonsense, who
was brought to bed of a son called Frenzy, who married
one of the daughters of Folly, commonly known by the
name of Laughter, on whom he begot that monstrous infant
of which I have here been speaking. I shall set down at
length the genealogical table of False Humour, and, at the
same time, place under it the genealogy of True Humour,
that the reader may at one view behold their different pedi-
grees and relations:— -
Falsehood.
Nonsense.
Frenzy Laughter.
False Humour.
Truth.
Good Sense.
Wit Mirth.
Humour. C


34 Wisdom, Wit, and Allgory.
I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several of the
children of False Humour, who are more in number than
the sands of the sea, and might, in particular, enumerate the
many sons and daughters which he has begot in this island.
But as this would be a very invidious task, I shall only
observe, in general, that False Humour differs from the
True, as a monkey does from a man.
First of all, He is exceedingly given to little apish tricks
and buffooneries.
Secondly, He so much delights in mimicry, that it is all
one to him whether he exposes by it vice and folly, luxury
and avarice ; or, on the contrary, virtue and wisdom, pain
and poverty.
Thirdly, He is wonderfully unlucky, insomuch that he
will bite the hand that feeds him, and endeavour to ridicule
both friends and foes indifferently. For having but small
talents, he must be merry where he can, not where he
should.
Fourthly, Being entirely void of reason, he pursues no
point either of morality or instruction, but is ludicrous only
for the sake of being so.
Fifthly, Being incapable of anything but mock represen-
tations, his ridicule is always personal, and aimed at the
vicious man or the writer—not at the vice, or the writing.
sº G 5)/º-
c-º-º-º-o


THE VISION OF MIRZA : AN ORIENTAL
ALLEGORY.
“The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light,
Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight,
73
I will remove VIRGIL.
ºN the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the
custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy,
after having washed myself, and offered up my
morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of
Bagdad in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation
and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the
mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the
vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to an-
other, “Surely,” said I, “man is but a shadow, and life a
dream.” Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards
the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I
discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little
musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he
applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The
sound of it was exceeding Sweet, and wrought into a variety
of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether
different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in
mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed
souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to
wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify


36 JWisdom, Iſiſ, and A//gory.
them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart
melted away in Secret raptures.
I had been often told that the rock before me was the
haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained
with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the
musician had before made himself visible. When he had
raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he
played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked
upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by
the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place
where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due
to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued
by the captivating strains I had heard, I ſell down at his
feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of
compassion and affability that familiarised him to my imagin-
ation, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions
with which I approached him. He lifted me from the
ground, and taking me by the hand, “Mirza,” said he, “I
have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.”
He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and
placing me on the top of it—“Cast thy eyes eastward,” said
he, “and tell me what thou seest.”—“I see,” said I, “a
huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through
it.”—“The valley that thou seest,” said he, “is the Vale of
Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the
great tide of eternity.”—“What is the reason,” said I, “that
the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again
loses itself in a thick nist at the other? — What thou
seest,” said he, “is that portion of eternity which is called
time, measured out by the Sun, and reaching from the begin-
ning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,”
said he, “this sea that is bounded with darkness at both


The Vision of Mirza. 39
out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into
which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that
fall into it.” I directed my sight as I was ordered, and
(whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any
supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was
before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley
opening at the further end, and spreading forth into an im-
mense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running
through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts.
The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I
could discover nothing in it: but the other appeared to me
a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were
covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thou-
sand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see
persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their
heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a
confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human
voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon
the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the
wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy
seats: but the genius told me there was no passage to them,
except through the gates of death that I saw opening every
moment upon the bridge. “The islands,” said he, “that lie
so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole
face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see,
are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore; there
are myriads of islands behind those which thou here dis-
coverest, reaching further than thine eye, or even thine
imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of
good men after death, who, according to the degree and
kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among


4O Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
these several islands; which abound with pleasures of differ-
ent kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections
of those who are settled in them ; every island is a paradise
accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these,
O Mirza, habitations worth contending for Does life
appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning
such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee
to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in
vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him.” I gazed
with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. “At
length,” said I, “shew me now, I beseech thee, the secrets
that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean
on the other side of the rock of adamant.” The genius
making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to
him a second time, but I found that he had left me: I then
turned again to the vision which I had been so long
contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched:
bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long
hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels
grazing upon the sides of it.


NATURAL GENIUS,
“On him confer the poet's sacred name,
Whose lofty voice declares the heavenly flame.”
HORACE.
many a little sonnetteer called a fine genius. There
is not a heroic scribbler in the nation, that has
not his admirers who think him a great genius; and as for
your smatterers in tragedy, there is scarce a man among
them who is not cried up by one or other for a prodigious
genius.
My design in this paper is to consider what is properly a
great genius, and to throw some thoughts together on so
uncommon a subject.
Among great geniuses, those few draw the admiration of
all the world upon them, and stand up as the prodigies of
mankind, who by the mere strength of natural parts, and
without any assistance of art or learning, have produced
works that were the delight of their own times, and the won-
der of posterity. There appears something nobly wild and
extravagant in these great natural geniuses, that is infinitely
more beautiful than all turn and polishing of what the French
call a bel esprit, by which they would express a genius refined
by conversation, reflection, and the reading of the most


42 Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
polite authors. The greatest genius which runs through the
arts and sciences, takes a kind of tincture from them, and
falls unavoidably into imitation.
Many of these great natural geniuses that were never dis-
ciplined and broken by rules of art, are to be found among
the ancients, and in particular among those of the more
eastern parts of the world. Homer has innumerable flights
that Virgil was not able to reach, and in the Old Testament
we find several passages more elevated and sublime than
any in Homer. At the same time that we allow a greater
and more daring genius to the ancients, we must own that
the greatest of them very much failed in, or, if you will, that
they were much above, the nicety and correctness of the
moderns. In their similitudes and allusions, provided there
was a likeness, they did not much trouble themselves about
the decency of the comparison; thus Solomon resembles the
nose of his beloved to the tower of Lebanon, which looketh
towards Damascus; us the coming of a thief in the night, is
a similitude of the same kind in the New Testament. It
would be endless to make collections of this nature; Homer
illustrates one of his heroes encompassed with the enemy,
by an ass in a field of corn that has his sides belaboured by
all the boys of the village without stirring a foot for it; and
another of them tossing to and fro in his bed and burning
with resentment, to a piece of flesh broiled on the coals.
This particular failure in the ancients opens a large field of
raillery to the little wits, who can laugh at an indecency, but
not relish the sublime in these sorts of writing. A former
Emperor of Persia, conformably to this eastern way of
thinking, amidst a great many pompous titles, denominated
himself “the sun of glory,” and “the nutmeg of delight.”
In short, to cut off all cavilling against the ancients, and


AWatural Genius. 43
particularly those of the warmer climates, who had most heat
and life in their imaginations, we are to consider that the
rule of observing what the French call the bienséance in an
allusion, has been found out of later years, and in the colder
regions of the world; where we could make some amends
for our want of force and spirit, by a scrupulous nicety and
exactness in our compositions. Our countryman, Shak-
speare, was a remarkable instance of this first kind of great
geniuses.
I cannot quit this head without observing that Pindar was
a great genius of the first-class, who was hurried on by a
natural fire and impetuosity to vast conceptions of things
and noble sallies of imagination. At the same time, can
anything be more ridiculous than for men of a sober and
moderate fancy to imitate this poet's way of writing, in
those monstrous compositions which go among us under the
name of Pindarics? When I see people copying works,
which, as Horace has represented them, are singular in their
kind, and inimitable; when I see men following irregularities
by rule, and by the little tricks of art straining after the
most unbounded flights of nature, I cannot but apply to
them that passage in Terence:–
“You may as well pretend to be mad and in your senses at the same
time, as to think of reducing these uncertain things to any certainty by
reason.”
In short, a modern Pindaric writer, compared with Pin-
dar, is but the distortion, grimace, and outward figure, with
nothing of that divine impulse which raises the mind above
itself, and makes the sounds more than human.
There is another kind of great geniuses which I shall
place in a second class, not as I think them inferior to the
first, but only for distinction's sake, as they are of a different


44 Wisdom, Il’if, and A //gory.
kind. The second class of great geniuses are those that have
formed themselves by rules, and submitted the greatness of
their natural talents to the corrections and restraints of art.
Such among the Greeks were Plato and Aristotle; among
the Romans, Virgil and Tully; among the English, Milton
and Sir Francis Bacon.
The genius in both these classes of authors may be equally
great, but shews itself after a different manner. In the first,
it is like a rich soil in a happy climate, that produces a whole
wilderness of noble plants rising in a thousand beautiful
landscapes, without any certain order or regularity. In the
other it is the same rich soil under the same happy climate,
that has been laid out in walks and parterres, and cut into
shape and beauty by the skill of the gardener.
The great danger in the latter kind of geniuses is, lest
they cramp their own abilities too much by imitation, and
form themselves altogether upon models, without giving the
full play to their own natural parts. An imitation of the
best authors is not to compare with a good original; and I
believe we may observe that very few writers make an extra-
ordinary figure in the world, who have not something in
their way of thinking or expressing themselves that is pe-
culiar to them, and entirely their own.
It is odd to consider what great geniuses are sometimes
thrown away upon trifles.
“I once saw a shepherd,” says a famous Italian author,
“who used to divert himself in his solitudes with tossing up
eggs and catching them again without breaking them : in
which he had arrived to so great a degree of perfecticn, that
he would keep up four at a time for several minutes together
playing in the air, and falling into his hands by turns. I
think,” says the author, “I never saw a greater severity than


AWatural Genius. 45
in this man's face ; for, by his wonderful perseverance and
application, he had contracted the seriousness and gravity of
a privy-councillor; and I could not but reflect with myself,
that the same assiduity and attention, had they been rightly
applied, might have made him a greater mathematician
than Archimedes.”


ON INCONSISTENCY AND IRRESOLUTION.
“Keep one consistent plan from end to end.”
HORACE.
OTHING that is not a real crime makes a man
#| appear so contemptible and little in the eyes of
the world as inconstancy, especially when it
regards religion or party. In either of these
cases, though a man perhaps does but his duty in changing
his side, he not only makes himself hated by those he
left, but is seldom heartily esteemed by those he comes
Over to. -
In these great articles of life, therefore, a man's con-
viction ought to be very strong, and, if possible, so well
timed, that worldly advantages may seem to have no share
in it, or mankind will be ill natured enough to think he
does not change sides out of principle, but either out of
levity of temper, or prospects of interest. Converts and
renegadoes of all kinds should take particular care to let
the world see they act upon honourable motives: or, what-
ever approbations they may receive from themselves, and
applauses from those they converse with, they may be very
well assured that they are the scorn of all good men, and
the public marks of infamy and derision.
Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer them-
selves to our choice, and inconstancy in pursuing them,
are the greatest and most universal causes of all our


On Anconsistency and /rresolution. 47
disquiet and unhappiness. When ambition pulls one away,
interest another, inclination a third, and, perhaps, reason
contrary to all, a man is likely to pass his time but ill
who has so many different parties to please. When the
mind hovers among such a variety of allurements, one had
better settle on a way of life that is not the very best we
might have chosen, than grow old without determining our
choice, and go out of the world as the greatest part of man-
kind do, before we have resolved how to live in it. There
is but one method of setting ourselves at rest in this par-
ticular, and that is by adhering steadfastly to one great end
as the chief and ultimate aim of all our pursuits. If we are
firmly resolved to live up to the dictates of reason, without
any regard to wealth, reputation, or the like considerations,
any more than as they fall in with our principal design, we
may go through life with steadiness and pleasure; but if we
act by several broken views, and will not only be virtuous,
but wealthy, popular, and everything that has a value set
upon it by the world, we shall live and die in misery and
repentance.
One would take more than ordinary care to guard one's
self against this particular imperfection, because it is that
which our nature very strongly inclines us to ; for if we
examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find that we are the
most changeable beings in the universe. In respect of our
understanding, we often embrace and reject the very same
opinions; whereas beings above and beneath us have pro-
bably no opinions at all, or, at least, no wavering and un-
certainties in those they have. Our superiors are guided by
intuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In respect of our
wills, we fall into crimes and recover out of them, are
amiable or odious in the eyes of our great Judge, and pass


48 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
our whole life in offending and asking pardon. On the con-
trary, the beings underneath us are not capable of sinning,
nor those above us of repenting. The one is out of the
possibilities of duty, and the other fixed in an eternal course
of sin, or an eternal course of virtue.
There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it, which does
not produce changes and revolutions in the mind of man.
Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost in those of
youth; these, too, take a different turn in manhood, until
old age often leads us back into our former infancy. A
new title or an unexpected success throws us out of our-
selves, and in a manner destroys our identity. A cloudy
day, or a little sunshine, have as great an influence on
many constitutions, as the most real blessing or misfortunes.
A dream varies our being, and changes our condition while
it lasts; and every passion, not to mention health and sick-
ness, and the greater alterations in body and mind, makes
us appear almost different creatures. If a man is so dis-
tinguished among other beings by this infirmity, what can
we think of such as make themselves remarkable for it even
among their own species? It is a very trifling character to
be one of the most variable beings of the most variable
kind, especially if we consider that He who is the great
standard of perfection has in Him no shadow of change,
but “is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.”
As this mutability of temper and inconsistency with our-
selves is the greatest weakness of human nature, so it makes
the person who is remarkable for it in a very particular
manner, more ridiculous than any other infirmity whatso-
ever, as it sets him in a greater variety of foolish lights, and
distinguishes him from himself by an opposition of party-
coloured characters. A humorous character in Dryden's


On J.nconsistency and /rresolution. 49
Absalom and Achitophel is founded upon this unevenness
of temper, and irregularity of conduct:—
“In the first rank of these did Zimri stand:
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome.
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong;
Was every thing by starts, and nothing long.
But in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon:
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman who could every hour employ,
With something new to wish, or to enjoy!”


VALUE OF GOOD NATURE.
“His manner of life was this: to bear with everybody's humours; to
comply with the inclinations and pursuits of those he conversed
with ; to contradict nobody; never to assume a superiority over
others. This is the ready way to gain applause without exciting
envy.
7,
TERENCE.
the very condition of humanity, and yet, as if
nature had not sown evils enough in life, we are
continually adding grief to grief, and aggravating
the common calamity by our cruel treatment of one another.
Every man's natural weight of afflictions is still made more
heavy by the envy, malice, treachery, or injustice of his
neighbour. At the same time that the storm beats upon
the whole species, we are falling foul upon one another.
Half the misery of human life might be extinguished,
would men alleviate the general curse they lie under, by
mutual offices of compassion, benevolence, and humanity.
There is nothing, therefore, which we ought more to en-
courage in ourselves and others, than that disposition of
mind which, in our language, goes under the title of good-
nature, and which I shall choose for the subject of this day's
speculation.
Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation than wit,
and gives a certain air to the countenance, which is more
amiable than beauty. It shews virtue in the fairest light,


Value of Good Avature. 5 I
takes off in some measure from the deformity of vice, and
makes even folly and impertinence supportable.
There is no society or conversation to be kept up in the
world without good-nature, or something which must bear
its appearance, and supply its place. For this reason man-
kind have been forced to invent a kind of artificial humanity,
which is what we express by the word good-breeding. For
if we examine thoroughly the idea of what we call so, we
shall find it to be nothing else but an imitation and mimicry
of good-nature, or, in other terms, affability, complaisance,
and easiness of temper reduced into an art.
These exterior shows and appearances of humanity render
a man wonderfully popular and beloved, when they are
founded upon a real good-nature; but without it, are like
hypocrisy in religion, or a bare form of holiness, which,
when it is discovered, makes a man more detestable than
professed impiety.
Good-nature is generally born with us; health, prosperity,
and kind treatment from the world are great cherishers of
it where they find it ; but nothing is capable of forcing it
up, where it does not grow of itself. It is one of the bless-
ings of a happy constitution, which education may improve,
but not produce.
Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince, whom he
describes as a pattern for real ones, is always celebrating
the philanthropy or good-nature of his hero, which he tells
us he brought into the work, with him, and gives many re-
markable instances of it in his childhood, as well as in all
the several parts of his life. Nay, on his death-bed, he de-
scribes him as being pleased, that while his soul returned to
him who made it, his body should incorporate with the
great mother of all things, and by that means become bene-


52 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
ficial to all mankind. For which reason he gives his sons
a positive order not to enshrine it in gold or silver, but to
lay it in the earth as soon as the life was gone out of it.
An instance of such an overflowing of humanity, such an
exuberant love to mankind, could not have entered into
the imagination of a writer, who had not a soul filled with
great ideas, and a general benevolence to mankind.
In a celebrated passage of Sallust, where Caesar and Cato
are placed in such beautiful, but opposite lights, Caesar's
character is chiefly made up of good-nature, as it shewed it-
self in all its forms towards his friends or his enemies, his
servants or dependants, the guilty or the distressed. As for
Cato's character, it is rather awful than amiable. Justice
seems most agreeable to the nature of God, and mercy to
that of man. A being who has nothing to pardon in him-
self, may reward every man according to his works; but he
whose very best actions must be seen with grains of allow-
ance, cannot be too mild, moderate, and forgiving. For
this reason, among all the monstrous characters in human
nature, there is none so odious, nor indeed so exquisitely
ridiculous, as that of a rigid, severe temper in a worthless
Iman.
This part of good-nature, however, which consists in the
pardoning and overlooking of faults, is to be exercised only
in doing ourselves justice, and that, too, in the ordinary com-
merce and occurrences of life: for in the public administra-
tions of justice, mercy to one may be cruelty to others.


ON THE IMPORTANCE OF FABLE.
“Sometimes fair truth in fiction we disguise;
Sometimes present her naked to men's eyes.”
POPE's HOM.
§ABLES were the first pieces of wit that made their
appearance in the world, and have been still
highly valued not only in times of the greatest
simplicity, but among the most polite ages of
mankind. Jotham's fable of the trees” is the oldest that is
extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made since
that time. Nathan's fable of the poor man and his lambt
is likewise more ancient than any that is extant, besides the
above mentioned, and had so good an effect, as to convey
instruction to the ear of a king, without offending it, and to
bring a man after God's own heart to a right sense of his
guilt and his duty. We find Æsop in the most distant ages
of Greece; and if we look into the very beginnings of the
commonwealth of Rome, we see a mutiny among the com-
mon people appeased by a fable of the belly and the limbs,
which was indeed very proper to gain the attention of an
incensed rabble, at a time when perhaps they would have
torn to pieces any man who had preached the same doctrine
to them in an open and direct manner. As fables took
their birth in the very infancy of learning, they never flour-
ished more than when learning was at its greatest height.
* Judges ix. 8-15. + 2 Sam. xii. I -4,


54 II’isdom, Iſiſ, and A1//goſy.
To justify this assertion, I shall put my reader in mind of
Horace, the greatest wit and critic in the Augustan age;
and of Boileau, the most correct poet among the moderns;
not to mention La Fontaine, who by this way of writing has
come more into vogue than any other author of our times.
The fables I have here mentioned are raised altogether
upon brutes and vegetables, with some of our own species
mixed among them, when the moral hath so required. But,
besides this kind of fable, there is another in which the
actors are passions, virtues, vices, and other imaginary per-
sons of the like nature. Some of the ancient critics will
have it, that the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are fables of
this nature; and that the several names of gods and heroes
are nothing else but the affections of the mind in a visible
shape and character. Thus they tell us, that Achilles, in
the first Iliad, represents anger, or the irascible part of
human nature; that upon drawing his sword against his
superior in a full assembly, Pallas is only another name for
reason, which checks and advises him upon that occasion;
and at her first appearance touches him upon the head, that
part of the man being looked upon as the seat of reason.
And thus of the rest of the poem. As for the Odyssey, I
think it is plain that Horace considered it as one of these
allegorical fables, by the moral which he has given us of
several parts of it. The greatest Italian wits have applied
themselves to the writing of this latter kind of fables.
Spenser's Fairy-Queen is one continued series of them from
the beginning to the end of that admirable work. If we
look into the finest prose authors of antiquity, such as
Cicero, Plato, Xenophon, and many others, we shall find
that this was likewise their favourite kind of fable. I shall
only further observe upon it, that the first of this sort that


On the Importance of Fa&ſe. 55 -
made any considerable figure in the world, was that of Her-
cules meeting with Pleasure and Virtue ; which was invented
by Prodicus, who lived before Socrates, and in the first
dawnings of philosophy. He used to travel through Greece
by virtue of this fable, which procured him a kind reception
in all the market towns, where he never failed telling it as
soon as he had gathered an audience about him.
After this short preface, which I have made up of such
materials as my memory does at present suggest to me, be-
fore I present my reader with a fable of this kind, which I
design as the entertainment of the present paper, I must, in
a few words, open the occasion of it.
In the account which Plato gives us of the conversation
and behaviour of Socrates, the morning he was to die, he
tells the following circumstance:–
When Socrates “his” ſetters were knocked off, (as was
usual to be done on the day that the condemned person
was to be executed,) being seated in the midst of his dis-
ciples, and laying one of his legs over the other, in a very
unconcerned posture, he began to rub it where it had been
galled by the iron; and whether it was to shew the indif.
ference with which he entertained the thoughts of his ap-
proaching death, or (after his usual manner) to take every
occasion of philosophising upon some useful subject, he
observed the pleasure of that sensation which now arose in
those very parts of his leg, that just before had been so much
pained by the fetter. Upon this he reflected on the nature
of pleasure and pain in general, and how constantly they
succeed one another. To this he added, that if a man of a
good genius for a fable were to represent the nature of plea-
sure and pain in that way of writing, he would probably join
them together after such a manner, that it would be impos-


56 Wisdom, JViſ, and Allgory.
sible for the one to come into any place without being ſol-
lowed by the other.
It is possible, that if Plato had thought it proper at
such a time to describe Socrates launching out into a dis-
course which was not of a piece with the business of the
day, he would have enlarged upon this hint, and have
drawn it out into some beautiful allegory or fable. But
since he has not done it, I shall attempt to write one my-
self in the spirit of that divine author.
“There were two families which, from the beginning of
the world, were as opposite to each other as light and dark-
ness. The one of them lived in heaven, and the other in
hell. The youngest descendant of the first family was Plea-
sure, who was the daughter of Happiness, who was the child
of Virtue, who was the offspring of the gods. These, as I
said before, had their habitation in heaven. The youngest
of the opposite family was Pain, who was the son of Misery,
who was the child of Vice, who was the offspring of the
Furies. The habitation of this race of beings was in hell.
“The middle station of nature between these two oppo-
site extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by crea-
tures of a middle kind, neither so virtuous as the one, nor
so vicious as the other, but partaking of the good and bad
qualities of these two opposite families. Jupiter, considering
that the species, commonly called man, was too virtuous to
be miserable, and too vicious to be happy; that he might
make a distinction between the good and the bad, ordered
the two youngest of the above-mentioned families, Pleasure,
who was the daughter of Happiness, and Pain, who was the
son of Misery, to meet one another upon this part of nature
which lay in the half-way between them, having promised
to settle it upon them both, provided they could agree


On the Importance of Faële. - 57
upon the division of it, so as to share mankind between
them. -
“Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new
habitation, but they immediately agreed upon this point,
that Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and
Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given up
to them. But upon examining to which of them any indi-
vidual they met with belonged, they found each of them had
a right to him : for that, contrary to what they had seen in
their old places of residence, there was no person so vicious
who had not some good in him, nor any person so virtuous
who had not in him some evil. The truth of it is, they
generally found upon search, that in the most vicious man
Pleasure might lay claim to a hundredth part, and that in
the most virtuous man Pain might come in for at least two-
thirds. This they saw would occasion endless disputes
between them, unless they could come to some accommo-
dation. To this end there was a marriage proposed between
them, and at length concluded. By this means it is that
we find Pleasure and Pain are such constant yoke-fellows;
and that they either make their visits together, or are never
far asunder. If Pain comes into a heart, he is quickly fol-
lowed by Pleasure ; and if Pleasure enters, you may be sure
Pain is not far off.
“But notwithstanding this marriage was very convenient
for the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention
of Jupiter in sending them among mankind. To remedy,
therefore, this inconvenience, it was stipulated between
them by article, and confirmed by the consent of each
family, that notwithstanding they here possessed the species
indifferently, upon the death of every single person, if he
was found to have in him a certain proportion of evil, he


58 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
should be despatched into the infernal regions by a passport
from Pain, there to dwell with Misery, Vice, and the Furies.
Or, on the contrary, if he had in him a certain proportion
of good, he should be despatched into heaven by a pass-
port from Pleasure, there to dwell with Happiness, Virtue,
and the gods.”


THE DANGER OF MISTAKEN ZEAL.
selves than in what the world calls zeal. There
are so many passions which hide themselves
under it, and so many mischiefs arising from it,
that some have gone so far as to say it would have been for
the benefit of mankind if it had never been reckoned in the
catalogue of virtues. It is certain, where it is once laudable
and prudential, it is a hundred times criminal and erroneous:
nor can it be otherwise, if we consider that it operates with
equal violence in all religions, however opposite they may
be to one another, and in all the subdivisions of each reli-
gion in particular.
We are told by some of the Jewish rabbins that the first
murder was occasioned by a religious controversy ; and if
we had the whole history of zeal from the days of Cain to
our own times, we should see it filled with so many scenes
of slaughter and bloodshed, as would make a wise man very
careful how he suffers himself to be actuated by such a
principle when it only regards matters of opinion and specu-
lation.
I would have every zealous man examine his heart
thoroughly, and I believe he will often find that what he
calls a zeal for his religion, is either pride, interest, or ill-
nature. A man who differs from another in opinion, sets
himself above him in his own judgment, and in several par-


6O Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
ticulars pretends to be the wiser person. This is a great
provocation to the proud man, and gives a very keen edge
to what he calls his zeal. And that this is the case very
often, we may observe from the behaviour of some of the
most zealous for orthodoxy, who have often great friendships
and intimacies with vicious and immoral men, provided they
do but agree with them in the same scheme of belief. The
reason is, because the vicious believer gives the precedency
to the virtuous man, and allows the good Christian to be the
worthier person, at the same time that he cannot come up
to his perfection. This we find exemplified in that trite
passage which we see quoted in almost every system of
ethics, though upon another occasion —
“I see the right, and I approve it too;
Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.”
TAIT's OvID.
On the contrary, it is certain if our zeal were true and
genuine, we should be much more angry with a sinner than
a heretic, since there are several cases which may excuse
the latter before his great Judge, but none which can excuse
the former.
Interest is likewise a great inflamer, and sets a man on
persecution under the colour of zeal. For this reason we
find none are so forward to promote the true worship by fire
and sword as those who find their present account in it.
But I shall extend the word interest to a larger meaning
than what is generally given it, as it relates to our spiritual
safety and welfare, as well as to our temporal. A man is
glad to gain numbers on his side, as they serve to strengthen
him in his private opinions. Every proselyte is like a new
argument for the establishment of his faith. It makes him
believe that his principles carry conviction with them, and


The Danger of Mistaken Zeal. 6 I
are the more likely to be true, when he finds they are con-
formable to the reason of others, as well as to his own.
And that this temper of mind deludes a man very often
into an opinion of his zeal, may appear from the common
behaviour of the atheist, who maintains and spreads his
opinions with as much heat as those who believe they do
it only out of a passion for God's glory.
Ill-nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal.—Many a
good man may have a natural rancour and malice in his
heart, which has been in some measure quelled and sub.
dued by religion: but if it finds pretence of breaking out,
which does not seem to him inconsistent with the duties of
a Christian, it throws off all restraint, and rages in full fury.
Zealis, therefore, a great ease to a malicious man, by making
him believe he does God service, whilst he is gratifying the
bent of a perverse, revengeful temper. For this reason we
find that most of the massacres and devastations which have
been in the world, have taken their rise from a furious pre-
tended zeal.
I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, and espe-
cially when his zeal shews itself for advancing morality, and
promoting the happiness of mankind. But when I find the
instruments he works with are racks and gibbets, galleys and
dungeons: when he imprisons men's persons, confiscates
their estates, ruins their families, and burns the body to save
the soul, I cannot stick to pronounce of such a one, that
(whatever he may think of his faith and religion) his faith is
vain, and his religion unprofitable.
After having treated of these false zealots in religion, I
cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous species of men, who
one would not think had any existence in nature, were they
not to be met with in ordinary conversation—I mean the


62 JWisdom, l l if, and Allegory.
zealots in atheism. One would fancy that these men, though
they fall short in every other respect of those who make a
profession of religion, would at least outshine them in this
particular, and be exempt from that single fault which seems
to grow out of the imprudent fervours of religion. But so it
is, that infidelity is propagated with as much fierceness and
contention, wrath and indignation, as if the safety of man-
kind depended upon it. There is something so ridiculous
and perverse in this kind of zealots, that one does not know
how to set them out in their proper colours. They are a
sort of gamesters who are eternally upon the fret, though
they play for nothing. They are perpetually teazing their
friends to come over to them, though at the same time they
allow that neither of them shall get anything by the bargain.
In short, the zeal of spreading atheism is, if possible, more
absurd than atheism itself.
Since I have mentioned this unaccountable zeal which
appears in atheists and infidels, I must further observe that
they are likewise in a most particular manner possessed with
the spirit of bigotry. They are wedded to opinions full of
contradiction and impossibility, and at the same time look
upon the smallest difficulty in an article of faith as a suffi-
cient reason for rejecting it. Notions that fall in with the
common reason of mankind, that are conformable to the
sense of all ages and all nations, not to mention their ten-
dency for promoting the happiness of societies, or of par-
ticular persons, are exploded as errors and prejudices; and
schemes erected in their stead that are altogether monstrous
and irrational, and require the most extravagant credulity to
embrace them. I would fain ask one of these bigoted infi-
dels, supposing all the great points of atheism, as the casual
or eternal formation of the world, the materiality of a think-


The Danger of Mistaken Zeal. 63
ing substance, the mortality of the soul, the fortuitous organ-
isation of the body, the motions and gravitation of matter,
with the like particulars, were laid together and formed into
a kind of creed, according to the opinions of the most cele-
brated atheists; I say, supposing such a creed as this were
formed, and imposed upon any one people in the world,
whether it would not require an infinitely greater measure of
faith than any set of articles which they so violently oppose.
Let me therefore advise this generation of wranglers, for their
own and for the public good, to act at least so consistently
with themselves, as not to burn with zeal for irreligion, and
with bigotry for nonsense.


TEMPERANCE, A NATURAL NECESSITY.
“Fools not to know that half exceeds the whole,
How blest the sparing meal and temperate bowl!”
׺ HERE is a story in the Arabian Nights Tales of a
jº king who had long languished under an ill habit
of body, and had taken abundance of remedies
to no purpose. At length, says the fable, a
physician cured him by the following method: he took a
hollow ball of wood, and filled it with several drugs; after
which he closed it up so artificially that nothing appeared.
He likewise took a mall, and after having hollowed the
handle, and that part which strikes the ball, he enclosed in
them several drugs after the same manner as in the ball
itself. He then ordered the sultan, who was his patient, to
exercise himself early in the morning with these rightly pre-
pared instruments, till such time as he should sweat; when,
as the story goes, the virtue of the medicaments perspiring
through the wood had so good an influence on the sultan's
constitution, that they cured him of an indisposition which
all the compositions he had taken inwardly had not been
able to remove. This Eastern allegory is finely contrived to
shew us how beneficial bodily labour is to health, and that
exercise is the most effectual physic. I have described in
my hundred and fifteenth paper, from the general structure
and mechanism of a human body, how absolutely necessary
exercise is for its preservation. I shall in this place recom-


Temperance, a Watural Mecessity. 65
mend another great preservative of health, which in many
cases produces the same effects as exercise, and may, in
some measure, supply its place, where opportunities of
exercise are wanting. The preservative I am speaking of
is temperance, which has those particular advantages above
all other means of health, that it may be practised by all
ranks and conditions, at any season, or in any place. It is
a kind of regimen into which every man may put himself,
without interruption to business, expense of money, or loss
of time. If exercise throws off all superfluities, temperance
prevents them ; if exercise clears the vessels, temperance
neither satiates nor overstrains them ; if exercise raises pro-
per ferments in the humours, and promotes the circulation of
the blood, temperance gives nature her full play, and enables
her to exert herself in all her force and vigour; if exercise
dissipates a growing distemper, temperance starves it.
Physic for the most part is nothing else but the substitute
of exercise or temperance. Medicines are indeed absolutely
necessary in acute distempers, that cannot wait the slow
operations of these two great instruments of health; but did
men live in an habitual course of exercise and temperance,
there could be but little occasion for them. Accordingly
we find that those parts of the world are the most healthy,
where they subsist by the chase; and that men lived longest
when their lives were employed in hunting, and when they
had little food besides what they caught. Blistering, cup-
ping, bleeding, are seldom of use but to the idle and intem-
perate; as all those inward applications which are so much
in practice among us, are for the most part nothing else but
expedients to make luxury consistent with health. The
apothecary is perpetually employed in countermining the
cook and the vintner. It is said of Diogenes, that meeting
E


66 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
a young man who was going to a feast, he took him up in
the street and carried him to his own friends, as one who
was running into imminent danger, had not he prevented
him. What would that philosopher have said, had he been
present at the gluttony of a modern meal? Would not he
have thought the master of a family mad, and have begged
his servants to tie down his hands, had he seen him devour
a fowl, fish, and flesh; swallow oil and vinegar, wines and
spices; throw down salads of twenty different herbs, sauces
of a hundred ingredients, confections and fruits of number-
less sweets and flavours? What unnatural motions and
counter-ferments must such a medley of intemperance pro-
duce in the body . For my part, when I behold a fashion-
able table set out in all its magnificence, I fancy that I see
gouts and dropsies, fevers and lethargies, with other innu-
merable distempers, lying in ambuscade among the dishes.
Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. Every
animal, but man, keeps to one dish. Herbs are the food of
this species, fish of that, and flesh of a third. Man falls
upon everything that comes in his way; not the smallest
fruit or excrescence of the earth, Scarce a berry or a mush-
room, can escape him.
It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule for
temperance, because what is luxury in one may be temper-
ance in another; but there are few that have lived any time
in the world, who are not judges of their own constitutions,
so far as to know what kinds and what proportions of food
do best agree with them. Were I to consider my readers
as my patients, and to prescribe such a kind of temperance
as is accommodated to all persons, and such as is particu-
larly suitable to our climate and way of living, I would copy
the following rules of a very eminent physician. “Make


Temperance, a Natural AVecessity. 67
your whole repast out of one dish. If you indulge in a
second, avoid drinking anything strong until you have
finished your meal; at the same time abstain from all sauces,
or at least such as are not the most plain and simple.” A
man could not be well guilty of gluttony, if he stuck to these
few obvious and easy rules. In the first case there would
be no variety of tastes to solicit his palate, and occasion
excess; nor in the second, any artificial provocatives to re-
lieve satiety, and create a false appetite. Were I to
prescribe a rule for drinking, it should be formed upon a
saying quoted by Sir William Temple: “The first glass for
myself, the second for my friends, the third for good
humour, and the fourth for mine enemies.” But because it
is impossible for one who lives in the world to diet himself
always in so philosophical a manner, I think every man
should have his days of abstinence according as his consti-
tution will permit. These are great reliefs to nature, as they
qualify her for struggling with hunger and thirst whenever
any distemper or duty of life may put her upon such diffi-
culties; and at the same time give her an opportunity of
extricating herself from her oppressions, and recovering the
several tones and springs of her distended vessels. Besides
that, abstinence well-timed often kills a sickness in embryo,
and destroys the first seeds of an indisposition. It was ob-
served by several ancient authors, that Socrates, notwith-
standing he lived in Athens during that great plague which
has made so much noise through all ages, and has been
celebrated at different times by such eminent hands; I say,
notwithstanding that he lived in the times of this devouring
pestilence, he never caught the least infection, which those
writers unanimously ascribe to that uninterrupted temperance
which he always observed.


68 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
And here I cannot but mention an observation which I
have often made, upon reading the lives of the philosophers,
and comparing them with any series of kings or great men
of the same number. If we consider these ancient sages, a
great part of whose philosophy consisted in a temperate and
abstemious course of life, one would think the life of a
philosopher and the life of a man were of two different
dates. For we find that the generality of these wise men
were nearer a hundred than sixty years of age, at the time
of their respective deaths. But the most remarkable in-
stance of the efficacy of temperance towards the procuring
of long life, is what we meet with in a little book published
by Lewis Cornaro the Venetian ; which I the rather men-
tion, because it is of undoubted credit, as the late Venetian
ambassador, who was of the same family, attested more
than once in conversation, when he resided in England.
Cornaro, who was the author of the little treatise I am men-
tioning, was of an infirm constitution, until about forty,
when by obstinately persisting in an exact course of tem-
perance, he recovered a perfect state of health; insomuch
that at fourscore he published his book, which has been
translated into English under the title of “Sure and Certain
Methods of Attaining a Long and Healthy Life.” He lived
to give a third or fourth edition of it; and after having
passed his hundredth year, died without pain or agony, and
like one who falls asleep. The treatise I mention has been
taken notice of by several eminent authors, and is written
with such a spirit of cheerfulness, religion, and good sense,
as are the natural concomitants of temperance and sobriety.
The mixture of the old man in it is rather a recommenda-
tion than a discredit to it. .*


THE INFLUENCE OF EDUCATION.
“Ingenuous arts, where they an entrance find,
Soften the manners, and subdue the mind.”
OvID.
§ CONSIDER a human soul without education like
§ marble in the quarry, which shews none of its
ºść inherent beauties until the skill of the polisher
fetches out the colours, makes the surface shine,
and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein that
runs through the body of it. Education, after the same
manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to
view every latent virtue and perfection, which without such
helps are never able to make their appearance.
If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so
soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to
illustrate the force of education which Aristotle has brought
to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells
us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble; and that the
art of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter,
and removes the rubbish. The figure is in stone, the
sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of
marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher,
the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man,
very often lie hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a
proper education might have disinterred, and have brought
to light. I am, therefore, much delighted with reading the


7o JWisdom, JJ’if, and A//gory.
accounts of savage nations, and with contemplating those
virtues which are wild and uncultivated ; to see courage
exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wis-
dom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair.
Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different
kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified
and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes who
upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their
service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it fre-
quently happens in our American plantations, who can for-
bear admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so
dreadful a manner? What might not that savage greatness
of soul which appears in these poor wretches on many
occasions be raised to, were it rightly cultivated And
what colour of excuse can there be for the contempt with
which we treat this part of our species? that we should not
put them upon the common foot of humanity; that we
should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who
murders them ; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies,
cut them off from the prospect of happiness in another
world as well as in this, and deny them that which we look
upon as the proper means for attaining it?
Since I am engaged on this subject, I cannot forbear
mentioning a story which I have lately heard, and which is
so well attested that I have no manner of reason to suspect
the truth of it. I may call it a kind of wild tragedy that
passed about twelve years ago at St Christopher's, one of
our British Leeward islands. The negroes who were the
persons concerned in it were all of them the slaves of a
gentleman who is now in England.
This gentleman, among his negroes, had a young woman,
who was looked upon as a most extraordinary beauty by


The Influence of Education. 7 I
those of her own complexion. He had at the same time
two young fellows, who were likewise negroes and slaves,
remarkable for the comeliness of their persons, and for the
friendship which they bore to one another. It unfortunately
happened that both of them fell in love with the female
negro above mentioned, who would have been very glad to
have taken either of them for her husband, provided they
would agree between themselves which should be the man.
But they were both so passionately in love with her that
neither of them would think of giving her up to his rival; and
at the same time were so true to one another, that neither
of them would think of gaining her without his friend's
consent. The torments of these two lovers were the dis-
course of the family to which they belonged, who could
not forbear observing the strange complication of passions
which perplexed the hearts of the poor negroes, that often
dropped expressions of the uneasiness they underwent, and
how impossible it was for either of them ever to be happy.
After a long struggle between love and friendship, truth
and jealousy, they one day took a walk together into a
wood, carrying their mistress along with them ; where, after
abundance of lamentations, they stabbed her to the heart,
of which she immediately died. A slave who was at his
work not far from the place where this astonishing piece
of cruelty was committed, hearing the shrieks of the dying
person, ran to see what was the occasion of them. He
there discovered the woman lying dead upon the ground,
with the two negroes on each side of her, kissing the dead
corpse, weeping over it, and beating their breasts in the
utmost agonies of grief and despair. He immediately ran
to the English family with the news of what he had seen ;
who, upon coming to the place, saw the woman dead, and


The Influence of Education. 73
my design is laudable, whatever the execution may be. I
must confess I am not a little encouraged in it by many
letters which I receive from unknown hands, in approbation
of my endeavours; and must take this opportunity of re-
turning my thanks to those who write them, and excusing
myself for not inserting several of them in my papers, which
I am sensible would be a very great ornament to them.
Should I publish the praises which are so well penned, they
would do honour to the persons who write them; but my
publishing of them would, I fear, be a sufficient instance
to the world that I did not deserve them.


ON GRATITUDE TO GOD,
“No weak, no common wing shall bear
My rising body through the air.”
CREECII's HoRACE.
fºLIERE is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind
§ º than gratitude. It is accompanied with such an
$4.4% inward satisfaction that the duty is sufficiently
rewarded by the performance. It is not like the
practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but
attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive
command which enjoined it, nor any recompence laid up
for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it, for the
natural gratification that accompanies it.
If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more
from man to his Maker? The Supreme Being does not only
confer upon us those bounties, which proceed more imme-
diately from His hand, but even those benefits which are
conveyed to us by others. Every blessing we enjoy, by
what means soever it may be derived upon us, is the gift
of Him who is the great Author of good, and Father of
mercies.
If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, naturally
produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a grateful
man, it exalts the soul into rapture when it is employed on
this great object of gratitude—on this beneficent Being who


On Gratitude to God. 75
has given us everything we already possess, and from whom
we expect everything we yet hope for.
Most of the works of the pagan poets were either direct
hymns to their deities, or tended indirectly to the celebra-
tion of their respective attributes and perfections. Those
who are acquainted with the works of the Greek and Latin
poets which are still extant will, upon reflection, find this
observation so true, that I shall not enlarge upon it. One
would wonder that more of our Christian poets have not
turned their thoughts this way, especially if we consider that
our idea of the Supreme Being is not only infinitely more
great and noble than what could possibly enter into the
heart of a heathen, but filled with everything that can raise
the imagination, and give an opportunity for the sublimest
thoughts and conceptions.
Plutarch tells us of a heathen who was singing a hymn to
Diana, in which he celebrated her for her delight in human
sacrifices, and other instances of cruelty and revenge; upon
which a poet who was present at this piece of devotion, and
seems to have had a truer idea of the Divine nature, told
the votary, by way of reproof, that, in recompence for his
hymn, he heartily wished he might have a daughter with
the same temper with the goddess he celebrated. It was,
indeed, impossible to write the praises of one of those false
deities, according to the pagan creed, without a mixture of
impertinence and absurdity. -
The Jews, who, before the time of Christianity, were the
only people who had any knowledge of the true God, have
set the Christian world an example how they ought to em-
ploy this divine talent of which I am speaking. As that
nation produced men of great genius, without considering
them as inspired writers, they have transmitted to us many


76 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
hymns and divine odes, which excel those that are delivered
down to us by the ancient Greeks and Romans, in the
poetry, as much as in the subject to which it was conse-
crated. This, I think, might easily be shewn if there were
occasion for it.
When all thy mercies, O my God!
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
Oh, how shall words, with equal warmth,
The gratitude declare
That glows within my ravish'd heart!
But Thou canst read it there.
Thy Providence my life sustain'd,
And all my wants redrest,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.
Unnumber'd comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow'd,
Before my infant heart conceived
From whom these comforts flow'd.
When in the slipp'ry paths of youth
With heedless steps Iran;
Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe,
And led me up to man.
Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths,
It gently clear'd my way;
And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear'd than they.


On Gratitude to God. 77
When worn with sickness, oft has Thou
With health renew'd my face;
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss .
Has made my cup run o'er;
And, in a kind and faithful friend,
Hath doubled all my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes these gifts with joy.
Through every period of my life
Thy goodness I’ll pursue;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide Thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity to Thee
A joyful song I’ll raise;
For, oh! eternity’s too short
To utter all Thy praise.


THE PARADISE OF FOOLS: AN ALLEGORY.
UR defects and follies are too often unknown to us;
nay, they are so far from being known to us, that
they pass for demonstrations of our worth. This
makes us easy in the midst of them, fond to shew
them, fond to improve them, and to be esteemed for them.
Then it is that a thousand unaccountable conceits, gay in,
ventions, and extravagant actions must afford us pleasure,
and display us to others in the colours which we ourselves
take a fancy to glory in. Indeed, there is something so
amusing for the time in the state of vanity and ill-grounded
satisfaction, that even the wiser world has chosen an exalted
word to describe its enchantments, and called it “The
Paradise of Fools.”
Perhaps the latter part of this reflection may seem a false
thought to some, and bear another turn than what I have
given; but it is at present none of my business to look after
it, who am going to confess that I have been lately amongst
them in a vision.
Methought I was transported to a hill, green, flowery, and
of an easy ascent. Upon the broad top of it resided squint-
eyed Error, and Popular Opinion with many heads; two that
dwelt in sorcery, and were famous for bewitching people with
the love of themselves. To these repaired a multitude from
every side, by two different paths which lead towards each
of them. Some who had the most assuming air went directly


The Paradise of Fools: an Allegory. 79
of themselves to Error, without expecting a conductor; others
of a softer nature went first to Popular Opinion, from whence,
as she influenced and engaged them with their own praises,
she delivered them over to his government.
When we had ascended to an open part of the summit
where Opinion abode, we found her entertaining several who
had arrived before us. Her voice was pleasing: she breathed
odours as she spoke. She seemed to have a tongue for
every one; every one thought he heard of something that
was valuable in himself, and expected a paradise which she
promised as the reward of his merit. Thus were we drawn
to follow her, till she should bring us where it was to be
bestowed; and it was observable, that all the way we went,
the company was either praising themselves for their quali-
fications, or one another for those qualifications which they
took to be conspicuous in their own characters, or disprais-
ing others for wanting theirs or vying in the degrees of
them.
At last we approached a bower, at the entrance of which
Error was seated. The trees were thick woven, and the
place where he sat artfully contrived to darken him a little.
He was disguised in a whitish robe, which he had put on,
that he might appear to us with a nearer resemblance to
Truth; and as she has a light whereby she manifests the
beauties of nature to the eyes of her adorers, so he had
provided himself with a magical wand, that he might do
something in imitation of it, and please with delusions.
This he lifted solemnly, and, muttering to himself, bid
the glories which he kept under enchantment to appear
before us. Immediately we cast our eyes on that part of
the sky to which he pointed, and observed a thin blue
prospect, which cleared as mountains in a summer morning


8O Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
when the mist goes off, and the palace of Vanity appeared
to sight.
The foundation seemed hardly a foundation, but a set of
curling clouds, which it stood upon by magical contrivance.
The way by which we ascended was painted like a rainbow:
and as we went, the breeze that played about us bewitched
the senses. The walks were gilded all for show; the lowest
set of pillars were of the slight fine Corinthian order, and
the top of the building being rounded, bore so far the resem-
blance of a bubble.
At the gate the travellers neither met with a porter, nor
waited till one should appear; every one thought his merits
a sufficient passport, and pressed forward. In the hall we
met with several phantoms, that roved among us, and ranged
the company according to their sentiments. There was
decreasing Honour, that had nothing to show, but an old
coat, of his ancestor's achievements. There was Ostenta,
tion, that made himself his own constant subject, and Gal.
lantry strutting upon his tiptoes. At the upper end of the
hall stood a throne, whose canopy glittered with all the riches
that gaiety could contrive to lavish on it; and between the
gilded arms sat Vanity, decked in the peacock's feathers,
and acknowledged for another Venus by her votaries. The
boy who stood beside her for a Cupid, and who made the
world to bow before her, was called Self-Conceit. His eyes
had every now and then a cast inwards, to the neglect of all
objects about him ; and the arms which he made use of for
conquest were borrowed from those against whom he had a
design. The arrow which he shot at the soldier was fledged
from his own plume of feathers; the dart he directed against
the man of wit was winged from the quills he writ with ; and
that which he sent against those who presumed upon their


The Paradise of Fools: an Allegory. 81
riches, was headed with gold out of their treasuries. He
made nets for statesmen from their own contrivances: he
took fire from the eyes of ladies, with which he melted their
hearts; and lightning from the tongues of the eloquent, to
inflame them with their own glories. At the foot of the
throne sat three false Graces: Flattery with a shell of paint,
Affectation with a mirror to practise at, and Fashion ever
changing the posture of her clothes. These applied them-
selves to secure the conquests which Self-Conceit had gotten,
and had each of them their particular polities. Flattery gave
new colours and complexions to all things; Affectation new
airs and appearances, which, as she said, were not vulgar;
and Fashion both concealed some home defects, and added
some foreign external beauties.
As I was reflecting upon what I saw, I heard a voice in
the crowd bemoaning the condition of mankind, which is
thus managed by the breath of Opinion, deluded by Error,
fired by Self-Conceit, and given up to be trained in all the
courses of Vanity, till Scorn or Poverty come upon us.
These expressions were no sooner handed about, but I im-
mediately saw a general disorder, till at last there was a
parting in one place, and a grave old man, decent and reso-
lute, was led forward to be punished for the words he had
uttered. He appeared inclined to have spoken in his own
defence, but I could not observe that any one was willing
to hear him. Vanity cast a scornful smile at him; Self-
Conceit was angry; Flattery, who knew him for Plain-
Dealing, put on a vizard, and turned away; Affectation
tossed her fan, made mouths, and called him Envy or Slan-
der; and Fashion would have it, that at least he must be
Ill-Manners. Thus slighted and despised by all, he was
driven out for abusing people of merit and figure; and I
F


82 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
heard it firmly resolved, that he should be used no better
wherever they met with him hereafter.
I had already seen the meaning of most part of that warn-
ing which he had given, and was considering how the latter
words should be fulfilled, when a mighty noise was heard
without, and the door was blackened by a numerous train
of harpies crowding in upon us. Folly and Broken-Credit
were seen in the house before they entered. Trouble,
Shame, Infamy, Scorn, and Poverty brought up the rear.
Vanity, with her Cupid and Graces, disappeared ; her sub-
jects ran into holes and corners; but many of them were
found and carried off (as I was told by one who stood near
me) either to prisons or cellars, solitude or little company,
the mean arts or the viler crafts of life. “But these,” added
he, with a disdainful air, “are such who would fondly live
here, when their merits neither matched the lustre of the
place, nor their riches its expenses. We have seen such
scenes as these before now ; the glory you saw will all return
when the hurry is over.” I thanked him for his information;
and, believing him so incorrigible as that he would stay till
it was his turn to be taken, I made off to the door, and over-
took some few who, though they would not hearken to Plain-
Dealing, were now terrified to good purpose by the example
of others. But when they had touched the threshold, it was
a strange shock to them to find that the delusion of Error
was gone, and they plainly discerned the building to hang a
little up in the air without any real foundation. At first we
saw nothing but a desperate leap remained for us, and I a
thousand times blamed my unmeaning curiosity that had
brought me into so much danger. But as they began to
sink, lower in their own minds, methought the place sunk
along with us, till they were arrived at the due point of


The Paradise of Fools: an Allegory. 83
esteem which they ought to have for themselves: then the
part of the building in which they stood touched the earth,
and we departing out, it retired from our eyes. Now, whether
they who stayed in the palace were sensible of this descent,
I cannot tell; it was then my opinion that they were not.
However it be, my dream broke up at it, and has given me
occasion all my life to reflect upon the fatal consequences of
following the suggestions of Vanity.


THE IMPORTANCE OF METHOD.
“Method gives light.”—HoRACE.
|MONG my daily papers, which I bestow on the
public, there are some which are written with
regularity and method, and others that run out
into the wildness of those compositions which go
by the name of essays. As for the first, I have the whole
scheme of the discourse in my mind before I set pen to
paper. In the other kind of writing, it is sufficient that I
have several thoughts on a subject, without troubling myself
to range them in such order that they may seem to grow
out of one another, and be disposed under the proper
heads. Seneca and Montaigne are patterns for writing in
this last kind, as Tully and Aristotle excel in the other.
When I read an author of genius who writes without
method, I fancy myself in a wood that abounds with a
great many noble objects, rising among one another in the
greatest confusion and disorder. When I read a methodi-
cal discourse I am in a regular plantation, and can place
myself in its several centres, so as to take a view of all the .
lines and walks that are struck from them. You may
ramble in the one a whole day together, and every moment
discover something or other that is new to you; but when
you have done, you will have but a confused, imperfect
notion of the place; in the other your eye commands the


The Importance of Method. 85
whole prospect, and gives you such an idea of it as is not
easily worn out of the memory.
Irregularity and want of method are only supportable in
men of great learning or genius, who are often too full to
be exact, and therefore choose to throw down their pearls
in heaps before the reader rather than be at the pains of
stringing them.
Method is of advantage to a work, both in respect to the
writer and the reader. In regard to the first, it is a great
help to his invention. When a man has planned his dis-
course, he finds a great many thoughts rising out of every
head, that do not offer themselves upon the general survey
of a subject. His thoughts are at the same time more
intelligible, and better discover their drift and meaning,
when they are placed in their proper lights, and follow one
another in a regular series, than when they are thrown to-
gether without order and connexion. There is always an
obscurity in confusion; and the same sentence that would
have enlightened the reader in one part of a discourse per-
plexes him in another. For the same reason, likewise,
every thought in a methodical discourse shews itself in its
greatest beauty, as the several figures in a piece of painting
receive new grace from their disposition in the picture.
The advantages of a reader from a methodical discourse are
correspondent with those of the writer. He comprehends
everything easily, takes it in with pleasure, and retains it long.
Method is not less requisite in ordinary conversation
than in writing, provided a man would talk to make himself
understood. I, who hear a thousand debates every day,
am very sensible of this want of method in the thoughts of
my honest countrymen. There is not one dispute in ten
where, after the three first sentences, the question is not


86 II.7sdom, Wit, and Allegory.
entirely lost. Our disputants put me in mind of the scuttle-
fish, that when he is unable to extricate himself, blackens
all the water about him until he becomes invisible. The
man who does not know how to methodise his thoughts
has always, to borrow a phrase from the “Dispensary,” “a
barren superfluity of words;” the fruit is lost amidst the
exuberance of leaves.
Tom Puzzle is one of the most eminent immethodical
disputants of any that has fallen under my observation.
Tom has read enough to make him very impertinent: his
knowledge is sufficient to raise doubts, but not to clear
them. It is a pity that he has so much learning, or that he
has not a great deal more. With these qualifications, Tom
sets up for a politician, and finds a great many things to
blame in the constitution of his country. He has got
about half a dozen commonplace topics, into which he
never fails to turn the conversation, whatever was the occa-
sion of it. This makes Mr Puzzle the admiration of all
those who have less sense than himself, and the contempt
of all those who have more. There is none in town whom
Tom dreads so much as my friend Will Dry. Will, who is
acquainted with Tom's logic, when he finds him running off
the question, cuts him short with a “What then? We
allow all this to be true; but what is it to our present
purpose 2" I have known Tom eloquent half an hour
together, and triumphing, as he thought, in the superi-
ority of the argument, when he has been nonplussed on a
sudden by Mr Dry's desiring him to tell the company what
it was that he endeavoured to prove. In short, Dry is a
man of a clear, methodical head, but few words, and gains
the same advantages over Puzzle that a small body of regular
troops would gain over a numberless undisciplined militia.


- PATIENCE: AN ALLEGORY.
“'Tis hard : but when we needs must bear,
Enduring patience makes the burden light.”
CREECH's HoRACE.
NOW are we tortured with the absence of what we
covet to possess, when it appears to be lost to us!
What excursions does the soul make in imagina-
tion after it ! and how does it turn into itself again,
more foolishly fond and dejected at the disappointment!
Our grief, instead of having recourse to reason, which might
restrain it, searches to find a further nourishment. It calls
upon memory to relate the several passages and circum-
stances of satisfaction which we formerly enjoyed; the plea-
sures we purchased by those riches that are taken from us;
or the power and splendour of our departed honours, or the
voice, the words, the looks, the temper, and affections, of
our friends that are deceased. It needs must happen from
hence that the passion should often swell to such a size as
to burst the heart which contains it, if time did not make
these circumstances less strong and lively, so that reason
should become a more equal match for the passion, or if
another desire which becomes more present did not over-
power them with a livelier representation. These are
thoughts which I had when I fell into a kind of vision upon
this subject, and may therefore stand for a proper introduc-
tion to a relation of it.


88 Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
I found myself upon a naked shore, with company whose
afflicted countenances witnessed their conditions. Before
us flowed a water, deep, silent, and called the River of
Tears, which, issuing from two fountains on an upper ground,
encompassed an island that lay before us. The boat which
plied in it was old and shattered, having been sometimes
overset by the impatience and haste of single passengers to
arrive at the other side. This immediately was brought to
us by Misfortune who steers it, and we were all preparing
to take our places, when there appeared a woman of a mild
and composed behaviour, who began to deter us from it, by
representing the dangers which would attend our voyage.
Hereupon some who knew her for Patience, and some of
those, too, who until then cried the loudest, were persuaded
by her, and returned back. The rest of us went in, and
she (whose good-nature would not suffer her to forsake per-
sons in trouble) desired leave to accompany us, that she
might at least administer some small comfort or advice
while we sailed. We were no sooner embarked but the
boat was pushed off, the sheet was spread; and being filled
with sighs, which are the winds of that country, we made a
passage to the further bank through several difficulties, of
which the most of us seemed utterly regardless.
When we landed, we perceived the island to be strangely
overcast with fogs, which no brightness could pierce, so that
a kind of gloomy horror sat always brooding over it. This
had something in it very shocking to easy tempers, inso-
much that some others, whom Patience had by this time
gained over, left us here, and privily conveyed themselves
round the verge of the island, to find a ford by which she
told them they might escape.
For my part, I still went along with those who were for


Patience: an Allegory. 89
piercing into the centre of the place; and joining ourselves
to others whom we found upon the same journey, we
marched solemnly as at a funeral, through bordering hedges
of rosemary, and through a grove of yew trees, which love
to overshadow tombs and flourish in churchyards. Here
we heard on every side the wailings and complaints of
several of the inhabitants, who had cast themselves discon-
solately at the feet of trees; and as we chanced to approach
any of these, we might perceive them wringing their hands,
beating their breasts, tearing their hair, or after some other
manner visibly agitated with vexation. Our sorrows were
heightened by the influence of what we heard and saw, and
one of our number was wrought up to such a pitch of wild-
ness, as to talk of hanging himself upon a bough which shot
temptingly across the path we travelled in; but he was
restrained from it by the kind endeavours of our above-
mentioned companion.
We had now gotten into the most dusky, silent part of
the island, and by the redoubled sounds of sighs, which
made a doleful whistling in the branches, the thickness of the
air, which occasioned faintish respiration, and the violent
throbbings of heart, which more and more affected us, we
found that we approached the Grotto of Grief. It was a
wide, hollow, and melancholy cave, sunk deep in a dale,
and watered by rivulets that had a colour between red and
black. These crept slow and half congealed amongst its
windings, and mixed their heavy murmurs with the echo of
groans that rolled through all the passages. In the most
retired parts of it sat the doleful being herself; the path to
her was strewed with goads, stings, and thorns; and her
throne on which she sat was broken into a rock, with
ragged pieces pointing upwards for her to lean upon. A


90 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
heavy mist hung above her: her head oppressed with it
reclined upon her arm. Thus did she reign over her dis-
consolate subjects, full of herself to stupidity, in eternal
pensiveness, and the profoundest silence. On one side of
her stood Dejection, just dropping into a swoon, and Pale-
ness wasting to a skeleton; on the other side were Care,
inwardly tormented with imaginations, and Anguish suffer-
ing outward troubles to suck the blood from her heart in
the shape of vultures. The whole vault had a genuine dis-
malness in it, which a few scattered lamps, whose bluish
flames arose and sunk in their urns, discovered to our eyes
with increase. Some of us fell down, overcome and spent
with what they suffered in the way, and were given over to
those tormentors that stood on either hand of the pre-
sence; others, galled and mortified with pain, recovered the
entrance, where Patience, whom we had left behind, was
still waiting to receive us.
With her (whose company was now become more grate-
ful to us by the want we had found of her) we winded round
the grotto, and ascended at the back of it, out of the
mournful dale in whose bottom it lay. On this eminence
we halted by her advice, to pant for breath; and lifting our
eyes, which until then were fixed downwards, felt a sullen
sort of satisfaction, in observing through the shades what
numbers had entered the island. This satisfaction, which
appears to have ill-nature in it, was excusable, because it
happened at a time when we were too much taken up with
our own concern, to have respect to that of others; and
therefore we did not consider them as suffering, but our-
selves as not suffering in the most forlorn estate. It had
also the groundwork of humanity and compassion in it,
though the mind was too dark and too deeply engaged to


Patience: an Allegory. 9 I
perceive it; but as we proceeded onwards, it began to
discover itself, and, from observing that others were un-
happy, we came to question one another, when it was that
we met, and what were the sad occasions that brought us
together. Then we heard our stories, we compared them,
we mutually gave and received pity, and so by degrees
became tolerable company.
A considerable part of the troublesome road was thus
deceived; at length the openings among the trees grew
larger, the air seemed thinner, it lay with less oppression
upon us, and we could now and then discern tracks in it of
a lighter grayness, like the breakings of day, short in dura-
tion, much enlivening, and called in that country gleams of
amusement. Within a short while, these gleams began to
appear more frequent, and then brighter and of a longer
continuance: the sighs that hitherto filled the air with so
much dolefulness, altered to the sound of common breezes,
and in general the horrors of the island were abated.
When we had arrived at last at the ford by which we
were to pass out, we met with those fashionable mourners
who had been ferried over along with us, and who being
unwilling to go as far as we, had coasted by the shore to
find the place where they waited our coming; that by shew-
ing themselves to the world only at the time when we did,
they might seem also to have been among the troubles of
the grotto. Here the waters that rolled on the other side
so deep and silent, were much dried up, and it was an
easier matter for us to wade over.
The river being crossed, we were received upon the
further bank by our friends and acquaintance, whom Com-
fort had brought out to congratulate our appearance in the
world again. Some of these blamed us for staying so long


92 JVisdom, Iſiſ, and Allegory.
away from them, others advised us against all temptations
of going back again; every one was cautious not to renew
our trouble, by asking any particulars of the journey; and
all concluded that, in a case of so much melancholy and
affliction, we could not have made choice of a fitter com-
panion than Patience. Here Patience, appearing serene at
her praises, delivered us over to Comfort. Comfort smiled
at his receiving the charge; immediately the sky purpled
on that side to which he turned, and double day at once
broke in upon me.


AMBITION: ITS USE AND ABUSE.
“Fame is an ill you may with ease obtain,
A sad oppression, to be borne with pain.”
HESIOD.
&HE soul, considered abstractedly from its passions,
is of a remiss and sedentary nature, slow in its
resolves, and languishing in its executions. The
use, therefore, of the passions is to stir it up, and
to put it upon action, to awaken the understanding, to
enforce the will, and to make the whole man more vigorous
and attentive in the prosecution of his designs. As this is
the end of the passions in general, so it is particularly of
ambition, which pushes the soul to such actions as are apt
to procure honour and reputation to the actor. But if we
carry our reflections higher, we may discover further ends
of Providence in implanting this passion in mankind.
It was necessary for the world, that arts should be in-
vented and improved, books written and transmitted to
posterity, nations conquered and civilised. Now, since the
proper and genuine motives to these, and the like great
actions, would only influence virtuous minds, there would
be but small improvements in the world were there not
some common principle of action working equally with all
men ; and such a principle is ambition, or a desire of fame,
by which great endowments are not suffered to lie idle and
useless to the public, and many vicious men are over-


Amöition : its Use and Affuse. 95
them. But, the more to enforce this consideration, we
may observe that those are generally most unsuccessful in
their pursuit after fame who are most desirous of obtaining
it. It was Sallust's remark upon Cato, that the less he
coveted glory the more he acquired it.
Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing our inclina-
tions, and disappointing us in what our hearts are most set
upon. When, therefore, they have discovered the passionate
desire of fame in the ambitious man—as no temper of mind
is more apt to shew itself—they become sparing and re-
served in their commendations, they envy him the satisfac-
tion of an applause, and look on their praises rather as a
kindness done to his person, than as a tribute paid to his
merit. Others, who are free from this natural perverseness
of temper, grow wary in their praises of one who sets too
great a value on them, lest they should raise him too high
in his own imagination, and, by consequence, remove him
to a greater distance from themselves.
But, further, this desire of fame naturally betrays the
ambitious man into such indecencies as are lessening to his
reputation. He is still afraid lest any of his actions should
be thrown away in private, lest his deserts should be con-
cealed from the notice of the world, or receive any dis.
advantage from the reports which others make of them.
This often sets him on empty boasts and ostentations of
himself, and betrays him into vain, fantastical recitals of his
own performances. His discourse generally leans one way,
and, whatever is the subject of it, tends obliquely either to
the detracting from others, or to the extolling of himself.
Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambitious man, which
exposes him to the secret scorn and derision of those he
converses with, and ruins the character he is so industrious


96 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
to advance by it. For though his actions are never so
glorious, they lose their lustre when they are drawn at large,
and set to show by his own hand; and as the world is more
apt to find fault than to commend, the boast will probably
be censured when the great action that occasioned it is
forgotten.
Besides, this very desire of ſame is looked on as a
meanness and imperfection in the greatest character. A
solid and substantial greatness of soul looks down with a
generous neglect on the censures and applauses of the multi-
tude, and places a man beyond the little noise and strife of
tongues. Accordingly, we find in ourselves a secret awe
and veneration for the character of one who moves above
us in a regular and illustrious course of virtue, without any
regard to our good or ill opinions of him, to our reproaches
or commendations. As, on the contrary, it is usual for us,
when we would take off from the fame and reputation of
an action, to ascribe it to vain-glory and a desire of fame
in the actor. Nor is this common judgment and opinion
of mankind ill founded ; for certainly it denotes no great
bravery of mind to be worked up to any noble action by
so selfish a motive, and to do that out of a desire of fame,
which we could not be prompted to by a disinterested
love to mankind, or by a generous passion for the glory of
Him who made us.
Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by all, but
particularly by those who thirst after it, since most men
have so much either of ill-nature, or of wariness, as not to
gratify or soothe the vanity of the ambitious man; and
since this very thirst after fame naturally betrays him into
such indecencies as are a lessening to his reputation, and is
itself looked upon as a weakness in the greatest characters.


98 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
found a flaw in what the generality of mankind admire.
Others there are who proclaim the errors and infirmities of
a great man with an inward satisfaction and complacency,
if they discover none of the like errors and infirmities in
themselves; for while they are exposing another's weak-
nesses, they are tacitly aiming at their own commendations,
who are not subject to the like infirmities, and are apt to be
transported with a secret kind of vanity, to see themselves
superior, in some respects, to one of a sublime and cele-
brated reputation. Nay, it very often happens, that none
are more industrious in publishing the blemishes of an
extraordinary reputation, than such as lie open to the same
censures in their own characters, as either hoping to excuse
their own defects by the authority of so high an example,
or to raise an imaginary applause to themselves, for resem-
bling a person of an exalted reputation, though in the blame-
able parts of his character. If all these secret springs of
detraction fail, yet very often a vain ostentation of wit sets
a man on attacking an established name, and sacrificing it
to the mirth and laughter of those about him. A satire or
a libel on one of the common stamp, never meets with that
reception and approbation among its readers, as what is
aimed at a person whose merit places him upon an emi-
nence, and gives him a more conspicuous figure among men.
Whether it be, that we think it shews greater art to expose
and turn to ridicule a man whose character seems so im-
proper a subject for it, or that we are pleased, by some
implicit kind of revenge, to see him taken down and
humbled in his reputation, and in some measure reduced to
our own rank, who had so far raised himself above us, in
the reports and opinions of mankind. -
Thus we see how many dark and intricate motives there


Ambition: its Use and Aduse. 99
are to detraction and defamation, and how many malicious
spies are searching into the actions of a great man, who is
not always the best prepared for so narrow an inspection.
For we may generally observe, that our admiration of a
famous man lessons upon our nearer acquaintance with
him : and that we seldom hear the description of a cele-
brated person, without a catalogue of some notorious weak-
nesses and infirmities. The reason may be, because any
little slip is more conspicuous and observable in his conduct
than in another's, as it is not of a piece with the rest of his
character; or because it is impossible for a man at the same
time to be attentive to the more important part of his life,
and to keep a watchful eye over all the inconsiderable cir-
cumstances of his behaviour and conversation; or because,
as we have before observed, the same temper of mind which
inclines us to a desire of fame, naturally betrays us into
such slips and unwarinesses as are not incident to men of a
contrary disposition.
After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and trium-
phant merit often breaks through and dissipates these little
spots and Sullies on its reputation ; but if, by a mistaken
pursuit after fame, or through human infirmity, any false
step be made in the more momentous concerns of life, the
whole scheme of ambitious designs is broken and disap-
pointed. The smaller stains and blemishes may die away,
and disappear amidst the brightness that surrounds them :
but a blot of a deeper nature casts a shade on all the other
beauties, and darkens the whole character. How difficult,
therefore, is it to preserve a great name, when he that has
acquired it is so obnoxious to such little weaknesses and
infirmities as are no small diminution to it when discovered:
>
especially when they are so industriously proclaimed, and


IOO JWisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
aggravated by such as were once his superiors or equals,
by such as would set to show their judgment or their wit,
and by such as are guilty or innocent of the same slips or
misconducts in their own behaviour.
But were there none of these dispositions in others to
censure a famous man, nor any such miscarriages in him-
self, yet would he meet with no small trouble in keeping up
his reputation, in all its height and splendour. There must
be always a noble train of actions to preserve his fame in
life and motion. For when it is once at a stand, it natur-
ally flags and languishes. Admiration is a very short-lived
passion, that immediately decays upon growing familiar with
its object, unless it be still fed with fresh discoveries, and
kept alive by a new perpetual succession of miracles rising
up to its view. And even the greatest actions of a cele-
brated person labour under this disadvantage, that, however
surprising and extraordinary they may be, they are no more
than what are expected from him ; but, on the contrary, if
they fall anything below the opinion that is conceived of
him, though they might raise the reputation of another, they
are a diminution to his.
One would think there should be something wonderfully
pleasing in the possession of fame, that, notwithstanding all
these mortifying considerations, can engage a man in so
desperate a pursuit. And yet, if we consider the little hap-
piness that attends a great character, and the multitude of
disquietudes to which the desire of it subjects an ambitious
mind, one would be still the more surprised to see so many
restless candidates for glory. -
Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul; it inflames
the mind, and puts it into a violent hurry of thought. It is
still reaching after an empty, imaginary good, that has not


Amöition : it's CWse and A&use. I O I
in it the power to abate or satisfy it. Most other things we
long for can allay the cravings of their proper sense, and
for a while set the appetite at rest; but fame is a good so
wholly foreign to our natures, that we have no faculty in the
soul adapted to it, nor any organ in the body to relish it—
an object of desire, placed out of the possibility of fruition.
It may, indeed, fill the mind for a while with a giddy kind of
pleasure, but it is such a pleasure as makes a man restless
and uneasy under it, and which does not much satisfy the
present thirst, as it excites fresh desires, and sets the soul on
new enterprises. For how few ambitious men are there who
have got as much fame as they desired, and whose thirst
after it has not been as eager in the very height of their re-
putation, as it was before they became known and eminent
among men . There is not any circumstance in Caesar's
character which gives me a greater idea of him than a say-
ing which Cicero tells us he frequently made use of in pri-
vate conversation,-" That he was satisfied with his share of
life and fame.” Many, indeed, have given over their pur-
suits after fame; but that has proceeded either from the dis-
appointments they have met in it, or from their experience
of the little pleasure which attends it, or from the better in-
formations or natural coldness of old age ; but seldom from
a full satisfaction and acquiescence in their present enjoy-
ments of it.
Nor is fame only unsatisfying in itself, but the desire of it
lays us open to many accidental troubles which those are
free from who have no such a tender regard for it. How
often is the ambitious man cast down and disappointed, if
he receives no praise where he expected it! Nay, how
often is he mortified with the very praises he receives, if
they do not rise so high as he thinks they ought; which


I O2 Wisdom, Wiz, and Al/gory.
they seldom do unless increased by flattery, since few men
have so good an opinion of us as we have of ourselves |
But if the ambitious man can be so much grieved even with
praise itself, how will he be able to bear up under scandal
and defamation ? for the same temper of mind which makes
him desire fame makes him hate reproach. If he can be
transported with the extraordinary praises of men, he will
be as much dejected by their censures. How little, there-
fore, is the happiness of an ambitious man, who gives every
one a dominion over it, who thus subjects himself to the
good or ill speeches of others, and puts it in the power of
every malicious tongue to throw him into a fit of melan-
choly, and destroy his natural rest and repose of mind;
especially when we consider that the world is more apt to
censure than applaud, and himself fuller of imperfections
than virtues.
We may further observe, that such a man will be more
grieved for the loss of fame, than he could have been
pleased with the enjoyment of it. For though the presence
of this imaginary good cannot make us happy, the absence
of it may make us miserable: because in the enjoyment of
an object we only find that share of pleasure which it is:
capable of giving us, but in the loss of it we do not propor-
tion our grief to the real value it bears, but to the value our
fancies and imaginations set upon it.
So inconsiderable is the satisfaction that fame brings
along with it, and so great the disquietudes to which it
makes us liable. The desire of it stirs up very uneasy
motions in the mind, and is rather inflamed than satisfied
by the presence of the thing desired. The enjoyment of it
brings but very little pleasure, though the loss or want of it
be very sensible and afflicting; and even this little happi-


Amöition : its Ose and Affalse. IO3
ness is so very precarious, that it wholly depends upon the
will of others. We are not only tortured by the reproaches
which are offered us, but are disappointed by the silence of
men when it is unexpected; and humbled even by their
praises.
That I might not lose myself upon a subject of so great
extent as that of fame, I have treated it in a particular
order and method. I have, first of all, considered the
reasons why Providence may have implanted in our mind
such a principle of action. I have, in the next place, shewn
from many considerations, first, that fame is a thing diffi-
cult to be obtained, and easily to be lost; secondly, that it
brings the ambitious man very little happiness, but subjects
him to much uneasiness and dissatisfaction. I shall, in the
last place, shew that it hinders us from obtaining an end
which we have abilities to acquire, and which is accom-
panied by fulness of satisfaction. I need not tell my reader,
that I mean by this end, that happiness which is reserved
for us in another world, which every one has abilities to
procure, and which will bring along with it “fulness of joy,
and pleasures for evermore.” -
How the pursuit after fame may hinder us in the attain-
ment of this great end, I shall leave the reader to collect
from the three following considerations:—
First, Because the strong desire of fame breeds several
vicious habits in the mind.
Secondly, Because many of those actions, which are apt
to procure fame, are not in their nature conducive to this
our ultimate happiness.
Thirdly, Because if we should allow the same actions to
be the proper instruments, both of acquiring fame and of
procuring this happiness, they would nevertheless fail in the


IO4 Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
attainment of this last end, if they proceeded from a desire
of the first.
These three propositions are self-evident to those who
are versed in speculations of morality. For which reason I
shall not enlarge upon them, but proceed to a point of the
same nature, which may open to us a more uncommon
field of speculation. -
From what has been already observed, I think we may
make a natural conclusion, that it is the greatest folly to
seek the praise or approbation of any being, except the
Supreme, and that for these two reasons: because no other
being can make a right judgment of us, and esteem us
according to our merits; and because we can procure no
considerable benefit or advantage from the esteem and ap-
probation of any other being.
In the first place, no other being can make a right judg-
ment of us, and esteem us according to our merits. Created
beings see nothing but our outside, and can therefore only
frame a judgment of us from our exterior actions and be-
haviour; but how unfit these are to give us a right notion
of each other's perfections, may appear from several con-
siderations. There are many virtues which, in their own
nature, are incapable of any outward representation; many
silent perfections in the soul of a good man, which are great
ornaments to human nature, but not able to discover them-
selves to the knowledge of others: they are transacted in
private without noise or show, and are only visible to the
great Searcher of hearts. What actions can express the
entire purity of thought which refines and sanctifies a
virtuous man? That secret rest and contentedness of mind,
which gives him a perfect enjoyment of his present condi-
tion ? That inward pleasure and complacency which he


Ambation : its C/se and A &ºtse. IO5
feels in doing good? That delight and satisfaction which
he takes in the prosperity and happiness of another? These
and the like virtues are the hidden beauties of a soul, the
secret graces which cannot be discovered by a mortal eye,
but make the soul lovely and precious in His sight from
whom no secrets are concealed. Again, there are many
virtues which want an opportunity of exerting and shewing
themselves in actions. Every virtue requires time and
place, a proper object, and a fit conjuncture of circum-
stances for the due exercise of it. A state of poverty
obscures all the virtues of liberality and munificence. The
patience and fortitude of a martyr and confessor lie con-
cealed in the flourishing times of Christianity. Some
virtues are only seen in affliction, and some in prosperity;
some in a private, and others in a public capacity. But the
great Sovereign of the world beholds every perfection in its
obscurity, and not only sees what we do, but what we would
do. He views our behaviour in every concurrence of
affairs, and sees us engaged in all the possibilities of action.
He discovers the martyr and confessor without the trial of
flames and tortures, and will hereafter entitle many to the
reward of actions which they had never the opportunity of
performing. Another reason why men cannot form a right
judgment of us is, because the same actions may be aimed
at different ends, and arise from quite contrary principles.
Actions are of so mixed a nature, and so full of circum-
stances, that as men pry into them more or less, or observe
some parts more than others, they take different hints, and
put contrary interpretations on them, so that the same
actions may represent a man as hypocritical and designing
to one, which make him appear a saint or hero to another.
He, therefore, who looks upon the soul through its outward


IO6 JWisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
actions, often sees it through a deceitful medium, which is
apt to discolour and pervert the object; so that, on this
account also, He is the only proper judge of our perfections,
who does not guess at the sincerity of our intentions from
the goodness of our actions, but weighs the goodness of our
actions by the sincerity of our intentions.
But, further, it is impossible for outward actions to repre-
sent the perfections of the soul, because they can never
shew the strength of those principles from whence they pro-
ceed. They are not adequate expressions of our virtues,
and can only shew us what habits are in the soul, without
discovering the degree and perfection of such habits. They
are at best but weak resemblances of our intentions, faint and
imperfect, that may acquaint us with the general design, but
never can express the beauty and life of the original. But the
great Judge of all the earth knows every different state and
degree of human improvement, from those weak stirrings
and tendencies of the will which have not yet formed them-
selves into regular purposes and designs, to the last entire
finishing and consummation of a good habit. He beholds
the first imperfect rudiments of a virtue in the soul, and
keeps a watchful eye over it in all its progress, until it has
received every grace it is capable of, and appears in its full
beauty and perfection. Thus we see, that none but the
Supreme Being can esteem us according to our proper
merits, since all others must judge of us from our outward
actions, which can never give them a just estimate of us,
since there are many perfections of a man which are not
capable of appearing in actions; many which, allowing no
natural incapacity of shewing themselves, want an oppor-
tunity of doing it; or should they all meet with an oppor-
tunity of appearing by actions, yet those actions may be


Amöition : it's Ose and A Čuse. IO7
misinterpreted, and applied to wrong principles: or, though
they plainly discovered the principles from whence they
proceeded, they could never shew the degree, strength, and
perfection of those principles.
And as the Supreme Being is the only proper judge of
our perfections, so He is the only fit rewarder of them.
This is a consideration that comes home to our interest, as
the other adapts itself to our ambition. And what could
the most aspiring, or the most selfish man desire more,
were he to form the notion of a Being to whom he would
recommend himself, than such a knowledge as can discover
the least appearance of perfection in him, and such a good-
ness as will proportion a reward to it?
Let the ambitious man, therefore, turn all his desire of
fame this way; and, that he may propose to himself a fame
worthy of his ambition, let him consider, that if he employs
his abilities to the best advantage, the time will come when
the Supreme Governor of the world, the great Judge of
mankind, who sees every degree of perfection in others,
and possesses all possible perfection in Himself, shall pro-
claim his worth before men and angels, and pronounce to
him in the presence of the whole creation that best and
most significant of applause, “Well done, thou good and
faithful servant, enter thou into thy Master's joy.”


CHEERFULNESS.
“Be calm, my Dellius, and serene,
However fortune change the scene;
In thy most dejected state,
Sink not underneath the weight;
Nor yet, when happy days begin,
And the full tide comes rolling in,
Let a fierce, unruly joy
The settled quiet of thy mind destroy.”
ANON.
HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth.
| |\S/ The latter I consider as an act, the former as a
&% habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient,
cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are
often raised into the greatest transports of mirth who are
subject to the greatest depressions of melancholy. On the
contrary, cheerfulness, though it does not give the mind
such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling into any
depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that
breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment;
cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and
fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.
Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton
and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a
certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent
with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest
dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the


Cheer/u/ness. IO9
Sacred Person who was the great pattern of perfection was
never seen to laugh.
Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these excep-
tions; it is of a serious and composed nature; it does not
throw the mind into a condition improper for the present
state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the characters
of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers
among the heathens, as well as among those who have been
deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Chris-
tians.
If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to
ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author
of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of
these accounts. The man who is possessed of this excel-
lent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a
perfect master of all the powers and faculties of his soul.
His imagination is always clear, and his judgment undis-
turbed ; his temper is even and unruffled, whether in action
or in solitude. He comes with relish to all those goods
which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures
of the creation which are poured about him, and does not
feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may
befall him.
If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he
converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will
towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be
affable and obliging; but raises the same good humour in
those who come within its influence. A man finds himself
pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his
Companion. It is like a sudden sunshine that awakens a
secret delight in the mind, without her attending to it. The
heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows out into


I IO JWisdom, Wiſ, and A//gory.
friendship and benevolence towards the person who has so
kindly an effect upon it.
When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third
relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual
gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheer-
fulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence
under all its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in
the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of
the Divine Will in His conduct towards man.
There are but two things which, in my opinion, can rea-
sonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first
of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of
vice and impenitence can have no title to that evenness and
tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul, and the
natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an
ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us
with, and is many degrees beyond what we commonly call
folly or madness.
Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being,
and consequently of a future state, under whatsoever titles
it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man
of this cheerfulness of temper. There is something so par-
ticularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in the pro-
spect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder, with many
excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the
expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a
God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only
truth we are sure of; and such a truth as we meet with in
every object, in every occurrence, and in every thought. If
we look into the characters of this tribe of infidels, we gene-
rally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It
is, indeed, no wonder that men who are uneasy to themselves .


Cheer/u/ness. I I I
should be so to the rest of the world ; and how is it possible
for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in
danger every moment of losing his entire existence, and
dropping into nothing?
The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence
to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably should
they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any one to live
in good-humour, and enjoy his present existence, who is
apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation ; of being
miserable, or of not being at all.
After having mentioned these two great principles, which
are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well
as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to
banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and
sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age, nay,
death itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and
the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the
name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with
fortitude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of heart.
The tossing of a tempest does not discompose him, which
he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.
A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to
the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two perpetual
sources of cheerfulness, in the consideration of his own
nature, and of that Being on whom he has a dependence.
If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that
existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which,
after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its be-
ginning. How many self-congratulations naturally arise in
the mind, when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity,
when it takes a view of those improvable faculties, which in
a few years, and even at its first setting out, have made so


II.4 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
Those several living creatures which are made for our
service or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods
with their music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing
ideas in us by the delightfulness of their appearance. Foun-
tains, lakes, and rivers, are as refreshing to the imagination
as to the soil through which they pass.
There are writers of great distinction who have made it
an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is covered
with green rather than with any other colour, as being such
a right mixture of light and shade, that it comforts and
strengthens the eye, instead of weakening or grieving it.
For this reason several painters have a green cloth hanging
near them, to ease the eye upon, after too great an applica-
tion to their colouring. A famous philosopher” accounts
for it in the following manner. All colours that are more
luminous overpower and dissipate the animal spirits which
are employed in sight; on the contrary, those that are more
obscure do not give the animal spirits a sufficient exercise;
whereas the rays that produce in us the idea of green, fall
upon the eye in such a due proportion, that they give the
animal spirits their proper play, and, by keeping up the
struggle in a just balance, excite a very pleasing and agree-
able sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect is
certain ; for which reason the poets ascribe to this particular
colour the epithet of cheerful. -
To consider, further, this double end in the works of
nature, and how they are at the same time both useful and
entertaining, we find that the most important parts in the
vegetable world are those which are the most beautiful.
These are the seeds by which the several races of plants are
propagated and continued, and which are always lodged in
* Sir Isaac Newton.


Cheerfulness. II 5
flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal
design, and to be industrious in making the earth gay and
delightful, while she is carrying on her great work, and in-
tent upon her own preservation. The husbandman, after
the same manner, is employed in laying out the whole
Country into a kind of garden or landscape, and making
everything smile about him, whilst in reality he thinks of
nothing but of the harvest, and the increase which is to
arise from it.
We may further observe how Providence has taken care
to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having
formed it after such a manner as to make it capable of con-
ceiving delight from several objects which seem to have
very little use in them; as from the wildness of rocks and
deserts, and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those who
are versed in philosophy may still carry this consideration
higher, by observing, that if matter had appeared to us
endowed only with those real qualities which it actually
possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and
uncomfortable figure. And why has Providence given it a
power of producing in us such imaginary qualities, as tastes
and colours, sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that man,
while he is conversant in the lower stations of nature, might
have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensa-
tions? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre,
filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amuse-
ment, or admiration.
The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the vicissi-
tude of day and night, the change of seasons, with all that
variety of scenes which diversify the face of nature, and fill
the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleas-
ing images.


II 6 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
I shall not here mention the several entertainments of
art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation,
and other accidental diversions of life, because I would only
take notice of such incitements to a cheerful temper as offer
themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, and which
may sufficiently shew us that Providence did not design
this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or
that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and
melancholy.
I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it is
a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to be more
deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a kind of
demon that haunts our island, and often conveys herself to
us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French novelist, in
opposition to those who begin their romances with the
flowery season of the year, enters on his story thus:–“In
the gloomy month of November, when the people of Eng-
land hang and drown themselves, a disconsolate lover
walked out into the fields,” &c.
Every one ought to fence against the temper of his cli-
mate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself
those considerations which may give him a serenity of mind,
and enable him to bear up cheerfully against those little
evils and misfortunes which are common to human nature,
and which, by a right improvement of them, will produce a
Satiety of joy, and an uninterrupted happiness.
At the same time that I would engage my reader to con-
sider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must own
there are many evils which naturally spring up amidst the
entertainments that are provided for us; but these, if rightly
considered, should be far from overcasting the mind with
sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper which I


Cheerfulness. II 7
have been recommending. This interspersion of evil with
good, and pain with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very
truly ascribed by Mr Locke, in his Essay on Human Un-
derstanding, to a moral reason, in the following words:–
“Beyond all this we may find another reason why God
hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure
and pain, in all the things that environ and affect us, and
blended them together, in almost all that our thoughts and
senses have to do with ; that we, finding imperfection, dis-
satisfaction, and want of complete happiness, in all the en-
joyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to
seek it in the enjoyment of Him ‘with whom there is full-
ness of joy, and at whose right hand are pleasures for ever-
more.’”


THE INFLUENCE OF CUSTOM.
“Long exercise, my friend, inures the mind:
And what we once disliked we pleasing find.”
ANoN.
*HERE is not a common saying which has a better
turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the
mouths of the vulgar, that “custom is a second
nature.” It is, indeed, able to form the man
anew, and to give him inclinations and capacities altogether
different from those he was born with. A writer on the His-
tory of Staffordshire, tells us of an idiot, that chancing to
live within the sound of a clock, and always amusing him-
self with counting the hour of the day whenever the clock
struck, the clock being spoiled by some accident, the idiot
continued to strike and count the hour without the help of it,
in the same manner as he had done when it was entire.
Though I dare not vouch for the truth of this story, it is very
certain that custom has a mechanical effect upon the body,
at the same time that it has a very extraordinary influence
upon the mind.
I shall in this paper consider one very remarkable effect
which custom has upon human nature, and which, if rightly
observed, may lead us into very useful rules of life. What
I shall here take notice of in custom, is its wonderful efficacy
in making everything pleasant to us. A person who is ad-
dicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight
in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination


The Influence of Custom. I IQ
towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it
seems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or
a busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conver-
sant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for
relishing that to which he has been for some time disused.
Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is
unable to pass away his time without it; not to mention
how our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises
and improves, in proportion to the application which we
bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, be-
comes at length an entertainment Our employments are
changed into our diversions. The mind grows fond of those
actions she is accustomed to, and is drawn with reluctancy
from those paths in which she has been used to walk.
Not only such actions as were at first indifferent to us,
but even such as were painful, will by custom and practice
become pleasant. Sir Francis Bacon observes in his Natural
Philosophy, that our taste is never pleased better than with
those things which at first created a disgust in it. He gives
particular instances, of claret, coffee, and other liquors,
which the palate seldom approves upon the first taste, but,
when it has once got a relish of them, generally retains it
for life. The mind is constituted after the same manner,
and after having habituated herself to any particular exer-
cise or employment, not only loses her first aversion towards
it, but conceives a certain fondness and affection for it. I
once heard an eminent scholar who had been trained up in
all the polite studies of antiquity, assure me, upon his being
obliged to search into several rolls and records, that not-
withstanding such an employment was at first very dry and
irksome to him, he at last took an incredible pleasure in it,
and preferred it even to the reading of Virgil or Cicero.


I 2C) Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
The reader will observe, that I have not here considered
custom as it makes things easy, but as it renders them
delightful; and though others have often made the same
reflections, it is possible they may not have drawn those
uses from it with which I intend to fill the remaining part of
this paper.
If we consider attentively this property of human nature,
it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place,
I would have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or
series of action, in which the choice of others, or his own
necessities, may have engaged him. It may, perhaps, be
very disagreeable to him at first ; but use and application
will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing
and satisfactory.
In the second place, I would recommend to every one
that admirable precept which Pythagoras is said to have
given to his disciples, and which that philosopher must
have drawn from the observation I have enlarged upon.
“Fix upon that course of life which is the most excellent,
and custom will render it the most delightful.” Men whose
circumstances will permit them to choose their own way of
life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their
judgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice of
reason is more to be regarded than the bent of any present
inclination, since, by the rule above mentioned, inclination
will at length come over to reason, though we can never
force reason to comply with inclination.
In the third place, this observation may teach the most
sensual and irreligious man to overlook those hardships and
difficulties which are apt to discourage him from the prose-
cution of a virtuous life. “The gods,” said Hesiod, “have
placed labour before virtue; the way to her is at first rough


The Inſluence of Custom. I 2 I
and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the further
you advance in it.” The man who proceeds in it with
steadiness and resolution, will in a little time find that “her
ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are
peace.” -
To enforce this consideration, we may further observe,
that the practice of religion will not only be attended with
that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to
which we are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys
of heart that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure,
from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason,
and from the prospect of a happy immortality.
In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation
which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular
care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life,
how we too frequently indulge ourselves in any of the most
innocent diversions and entertainments; since the mind
may insensibly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions,
and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in
the performance of its duty, for delights of a much more
inferior and unprofitable nature.
The last use which I shall make of this remarkable pro-
perty in human nature, of being delighted with those actions
to which it is accustomed, is to shew how absolutely neces-
sary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we
would enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss
we call heaven will not be capable of affecting those minds
which are not thus qualified for it; we must, in this world,
gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste
that knowledge and perfection which are to make us happy
in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures
which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity,


I 2.2 Wisdom, Wit, and 4//gory.
must be planted in her during this her present state of pro-
bation. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as
the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life.
On the other hand, those evil spirits, who, by long custom,
have contracted in the body habits of lust and sensuality,
malice and revenge, and aversion to everything that is good,
just, or laudable, are naturally seasoned and prepared for
pain and misery. Their torments have already taken root
in them ; they cannot be happy when divested of the body,
unless we may suppose that Providence will in a manner
create them anew, and work a miracle in the rectification of
their faculties. They may, indeed, taste a kind of malignant
pleasure in those actions to which they are accustomed,
whilst in this life; but when they are removed from all
those objects which are here apt to gratify them, they will
naturally become their own tormentors, and cherish in them-
selves those painful habits of mind which are called, in
Scripture phrase, “the worm which never dies.” This
notion of heaven and hell is so very conformable to the
light of nature, that it was discovered by several of the
most exalted heathens. It has been finely improved by
many eminent divines of the last age, as in particular by
Archbishop Tillotson and Dr Sherlock: but there is none
who has raised such noble speculations upon it as Dr Scott,
in the first book of his Christian Life, which is one of the
finest and most rational schemes of divinity that is written
in our tongue, or in any other. That excellent author has
shewn how every particular custom and habit of virtue will,
in its own nature, produce the heaven, or a state of happi-
ness, in him who shall hereafter practise it; as, on the con-
trary, how every custom or habit of vice will be the natural
hell of him in whom it subsists.


THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
“The wise with hope support the pains of life.”
ſº time present seldom affords sufficient employ.
§ ment to the mind of man. Objects of pain or plea-
$º sure, love or admiration, do not lie thick enough
together in life to keep the soul in constant action,
and supply an immediate exercise to its faculties. In order,
therefore, to remedy this defect, that the mind may not
want business, but always have materials for thinking, she
is endowed with certain powers, that can recall what is
passed, and anticipate what is to come.
That wonderful faculty, which we call the memory, is
perpetually looking back when we have nothing present to
entertain us. It is like those repositories in several animals
that are filled with stores of their former food, on which
they may ruminate when their present pasture fails.
As the memory relieves the mind in her vacant moments,
and prevents any chasms of thought by ideas of what is
passed, we have other faculties that agitate and employ her
for what is to come. These are the passions of hope and
fear.
By these two passions we reach forward into futurity, and
bring up to our present thoughts objects that lie hid in the
remotest depths of time. We suffer misery and enjoy happi-
ness before they are in being ; we can set the sun and stars


I 24 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
forward, or lose sight of them by wandering into those re-
tired parts of eternity, when the heavens and earth shall be
no more.
By the way, who can imagine that the existence of a
creature is to be circumscribed by time, whose thoughts are
not! But I shall, in this paper, confine myself to that par-
ticular passion which goes by the name of hope.
Our actual enjoyments are so few and transient, that
man would be a very miserable being were he not endowed
with this passion, which gives him a taste of those good
things that may possibly come into his possession, “We
should hope for everything that is good,” says the old poet
Linus, “because there is nothing which may not be hoped
for, and nothing but what the gods are able to give us.”
Hope quickens all the still parts of life, and keeps the mind
awake in her most remiss and indolent hours. It gives
habitual serenity and good humour. It is a kind of vital
heat in the soul, that cheers and gladdens her when she
does not attend to it. It makes pain easy and labour
pleasant.
Besides these several advantages which rise from hope,
there is another which is none of the least, and that is its
great efficacy in preserving us from setting too high a value
on present enjoyments. The saying of Caesar is very well
known. When he had given away all his estate in gra-
tuities among his friends, one of them asked what he had
left for himself; to which that great man replied, “Hope.”
His natural magnanimity hindered him from prizing what
he was certainly possessed of, and turned all his thoughts
upon something more valuable that he had in view. I
question not but every reader will draw a moral from this
story, and apply it to himself without my direction.


The Pleasures of Hope. I 25
The old story of Pandora's box (which many of the
learned believe was formed among the heathens upon the
tradition of the fall of man) shews us how deplorable a state
they thought the present life without hope. To set forth
the utmost condition of misery, they tell us that our fore-
father, according to the pagan theology, had a great vessel
presented him by Pandora. Upon his lifting up the lid of
it, says the fable, there flew out all the calamities and dis-
tempers incident to men, from which, till that time, they
had been altogether exempt. Hope, who had been en-
closed in the cup with so much bad company, instead of
flying of with the rest, stuck so close to the lid of it that it
was shut down upon her.
I shall make but two reflections upon what I have
hitherto said. First, that no kind of life is so happy as
that which is full of hope, especially when the hope is well
grounded, and when the object of it is of an exalted kind,
and in its nature proper to make the person happy who
enjoys it. This proposition must be very evident to those
who consider how few are the present enjoyments of the
most happy man, and how insufficient to give him an entire
satisfaction and acquiescence in them.
My next observation is this, that a religious life is that
which most abounds in a well-grounded hope, and such a
one as is fixed on objects that are capable of making us
entirely happy. This hope in a religious man is much more
sure and certain than the hope of any temporal blessing, as
it is strengthened not only by reason, but by faith. It has,
at the same time, its eye perpetually fixed on that state,
which implies in the very notion of it the most full and the
most complete happiness.
I have before shewn how the influence of hope in general


I 26 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
sweetens life, and makes our present condition supportable,
if not pleasing; but a religious hope has still greater ad-
vantages. It does not only bear up the mind under her
sufferings, but makes her rejoice in them, as they may be
the instruments of procuring her the great and ultimate end
of all her hope.
Religious hope has likewise this advantage above any
other kind of hope, that it is able to revive the dying man,
and to fill his mind not only with secret comfort and re-
freshment, but sometimes with rapture and transport. He
triumphs in his agonies, whilst the soul springs forward with
delight to the great object which she has always had in
view, and leaves the body with an expectation of being re-
united to her in a glorious and joyful resurrection.
I shall conclude this essay with those emphatical ex-
pressions of a lively hope, which the psalmist made use of
in the midst of those dangers and adversities which sur-
rounded him; for the following passage had its present and
personal, as well as its future and prophetic sense. “I
have set the Lord always before me: because he is at my
right hand, I shall not be moved. Therefore my heart is
glad, and my glory rejoiceth: my flesh also shall rest in
hope. For thou wilt not leave my soul in hell; neither
wilt thou suffer thine Holy One to see corruption. Thou
wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness
of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.”
I shall now briefly consider that vain and foolish hope
which is misemployed on temporal objects, and produces
many sorrows and calamities in human life.
It is a precept several times inculcated by Horace, that
we should not entertain a hope of anything in life which
lies at a great distance from us. The shortness and uncer-


The Pleasures of Hope. I 27
tainty of our time here makes such a kind of hope unrea-
sonable and absurd. The grave lies unseen between us and
the object which we reach after. Where one man lives to
enjoy the good he has in view, ten thousand are cut off in
the pursuit of it.
It happens likewise, unluckily, that one hope no sooner
dies in us but another rises up in its stead. We are apt to
fancy that we shall be happy and satisfied if we possess our-
selves of such and such particular enjoyments; but either
by reason of their emptiness, or the natural inquietude of
the mind, we have no sooner gained one point, but we
extend our hopes to another. We still find new inviting
scenes and landscapes lying behind those which at a dis-
tance terminated our view.
The natural consequences of such reflections are these :
that we should take care not to let our hopes run out into
too great a length ; that we should sufficiently weigh the
objects of our hope, whether they be such as we may rea-
sonably expect from them what we propose in their fruition,
and whether they are such as we are pretty sure of attaining,
in case our life extend itself so far. If we hope for things
which are at too great a distance from us, it is possible that
we may be intercepted by death in our progress towards
them. If we hope for things of which we have not thoroughly
considered the value of, our disappointment will be greater
than our pleasure in the fruition of them. If we hope for
what we are not likely to possess, we act and think in vain,
and make life a greater dream and shadow than it really is.
Many of the miseries and misfortunes of life proceed from
our want of consideration in one or all of these particulars.
They are the rocks on which the sanguine tribe of lovers
split, and on which the bankrupt, the politician, the alchy-


I 28 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
mist, and projector are cast away in every age. Men of
warm imaginations and towering thoughts are apt to over-
look the goods of fortune which are near them, for some-
thing that glitters in the sight at a distance; to neglect solid
and substantial happiness for what is showy and superficial;
and to contemn that good which lies within their reach for
that which they are not capable of attaining. Hope calcu-
lates its schemes for a long and durable life; presses for-
ward to imaginary points of bliss ; grasps at impossibilities;
and consequently very often ensnares men into beggary,
ruin, and dishonour.
What I have here said may serve as a model to a certain
Arabian fable. The fable has in it such a wild but natural
simplicity, that I question not but my reader will be as much
pleased with it as I have been, and that he will consider
himself, if he reflects on the several amusements of hope
which have sometimes passed in his mind, as a near relation
to the Persian glassman.
Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow that
never would set his hand to any business during his father's
life. When his father died he left him to the value of a
hundred drachmas in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order
to make the best of it, laid it out in glasses, bottles, and
the finest earthenware. These he piled up in a large open
basket, and, having made choice of a very little shop,
placed the basket at his feet, and leaned his back upon the
wall in expectation of customers. As he sat in this posture,
with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing
train of thought, and was overheard by one of his neigh-
bours, as he talked to himself in the following manner:-
“This basket,” says he, “cost me at the wholesale mer.
chant's a hundred drachmas, which is all I have in the


I 30 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
“When I have brought the princess to my house, I shall
take particular care to breed in her a due respect for me
before I give the reins to love and dalliance. To this end,
I shall confine her to her own apartment, make her a short
visit, and talk but little to her. Her women will represent
to me that she is inconsolable by reason of my unkindness,
and beg me with tears to caress her, and let her sit down
by me; but I shall still remain inexorable, and will turn my
back upon her all the first night. Her mother will then
come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated upon
my sofa. The daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling
herself at my feet, and beg of me to receive her into my
favour. Then will I, to imprint in her a thorough venera-
tion for my person, draw up my legs and spurn her from me
with my foot, in such a manner that she shall fall down
several paces from the sofa.”
Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chimerical
vision, and could not forbear acting with his foot what he
had in his thoughts; so that unluckily striking his basket of
brittle ware, which was the foundation of all his grandeur,
he kicked his glasses to a great distance from him into the
street, and broke them into a thousand pieces.


ON GIVING ADVICE.
‘Mixing together profit and delight.”—HoRACE.
§§§HERE is nothing which we receive with so much
º º reluctance as advice. We look upon the man who
% gives it us as offering an affront to our understand-
ing, and treating us like children or idiots. We
consider the instruction as an implicit censure, and the zeal
which any one shews for our good on such an occasion as a
piece of presumption or impertinence. The truth of it is,
the person who pretends to advise, does, in that particular,
exercise a superiority over us, and can have no other reason
for it, but that, in comparing us with himself, he thinks us
defective either in our conduct or our understanding. For
these reasons, there is nothing so difficult as the art of
making advice agreeable; and, indeed, all the writers, both
ancient and modern, have distinguished themselves among
one another, according to the perfection at which they have
arrived in this art. How many devices have been made
use of to render this bitter portion palatable | Some con-
vey their instructions to us in the best chosen words, others
in the most harmonious numbers; some in points of wit,
and others in short proverbs.
But, among all the different ways of giving counsel, I
think the finest, and that which pleases the most univer-
sally, is fable, in whatsoever shape it appears. If we con-


I 34 1Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
that he rebuilt the towns and villages which had been de-
stroyed, and from that time forward consulted the good of
his people.
Before concluding, I shall add a most ridiculous piece of
natural magic, which was taught by no less a philosopher
than Democritus, namely, that if the blood of certain birds,
which he mentioned, were mixed together, it would produce
a serpent of such a wonderful virtue, that whoever did eat
it should be skilled in the language of birds, and understand
everything they said to one another. Whether the dervise
above mentioned might not have eaten such a serpent, I
shall leave to the determination of the learned.


THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES:
AN AI.LEGORY.
“Whence is't, Maecenas, that so few approve
The state they’re placed in, and incline to rove;
Whether against their will by fate imposed,
Or by consent and prudent choice espoused?
“Happy the merchant l’ the old soldier cries,
Broke with fatigues and warlike enterprise.
The merchant, when the dreaded hurricane
Tosses his wealthy cargo on the main,
Applauds the wars and toils of a campaign:
There an engagement soon decides your doom,
Bravely to die, or come victorious home.
The lawyer vows the farmer's life is best,
When at the dawn the clients break his rest.
The farmer, having put in bail tº appear,
And forced to town, cries they are happiest there:
With thousands more of this inconstant race,
Would tire e'en Fabius to relate each case.
Not to detain you longer, pray, attend,
The issue of all this: Should Jove descend,
And grant to every man his rash demand,
To run his lengths with a neglectful hand;
First, grant the harass'd warrior a release,
Bid him to trade, and try the faithless seas,
To purchase treasure and declining ease:
Next, call the pleader from his learned strife,
To the calm blessings of a country life:
And with these separate demands dismiss
Each suppliant to enjoy the promised bliss:


I 36 Wisdom, Wit, and A //egory.
Don't you believe they'd run ? Not one will move,
Though proffer'd to be happy from above.”—HORNECK.
3|T is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the
misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public
stock, in order to be equally distributed among
the whole species, those who now think them-
selves the most unhappy would prefer the share they are
already possessed of before that which would fall to them
by such a division. Horace has carried this thought a great
deal further in the motto of my paper, which implies, that
the hardships or misfortunes we lie under are more easy to
us than those of any other person would be, in case we
could change conditions with him.
As I was ruminating upon these two remarks, and seated
in my elbow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep; when on a sud-
den methought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter,
that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calami-
ties, and throw them together in a heap. There was a
large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my stand
in the centre of it, and saw with a great deal of pleasure
the whole human species marching one after another, and
throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew
up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above
the clouds.
There was a certain lady of a thin, airy shape, who was
very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying
glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose flow-
ing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and
spectres, that discovered themselves in a thousand chimeri-
cal shapes as her garment hovered in the wind. There
was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name
was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place,


138 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people;
this was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised
me was a remark I made, that there was not a single vice
or folly thrown into the whole heap; at which I was very
much astonished, having concluded within myself that every
one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his pas-
sions, prejudices, and frailties.
I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who
I did not question came laden with his crimes: but upon
searching into his bundle I found that, instead of throwing
his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He
was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away
his modesty instead of his ignorance.
When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their
burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this
occasion, seeing me an idle Spectator of what passed,
approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence,
when of a sudden she held her magnifying-glass full before
my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but was startled
at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its
utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the fea-
tures made me very much out of humour with my own
countenance, upon which I threw it from me like a mask.
It happened very luckily that one who stood by me had just
before thrown down his visage, which it seems was too long
for him. It was indeed extended to a most shameful length;
I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as
my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of
mending ourselves; and all the contributions being now
brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his mis-
fortunes for those of another person.
I saw with unspeakable pleasure the whole species thus


The Mountain of Miseries. I 39
delivered from its sorrows; though at the same time, as we
stood round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of
which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal in this
vast multitude who did not discover what he thought plea-
sures and blessings of life, and wondered how the owners
of them ever came to look upon them as burdens and
grievances.
As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of
miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second
proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to ex-
change his affliction, and to return to his habitation with
any such other bundle as should be delivered to him.
Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, par-
celling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recom-
mended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and
confusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some
observations which I made upon the occasion I shall com-
municate to the public. A venerable gray-headed man, who
had laid down the cholic, and who, I found, wanted an
heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son that had
been thrown into the heap by his angry father. The grace-
less youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old
gentleman by the beard, and had liked to have knocked his
brains out; so that, meeting the true father, who came
towards him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take
his son again, and give him back his cholic; but they were
incapable, either of them, to recede from the choice they
had made. A poor galley-slave, who had thrown down his
chains, took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry
faces, that one might easily perceive he was no great
gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough to see the
several exchanges that were made, for sickness against
º


I4O Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and care against
pain.
The female world were very busy among themselves in
bartering for features; one was trucking a lock of gray
hairs for a carbuncle, another was making over a short
waist for a pair of round shoulders, and a third cheapening
a bad face for a lost reputation: but on all these occasions
there was not one of them who did not think the new
blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession, much
more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same
observation on every other misfortune or calamity which
every one in the assembly brought upon himself in lieu
of what he had parted with : whether it be that all the evils
which befall us are in some measure suited and propor
tioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes more
supportable by our being accustomed to it, I shall not
determine.
I could not from my heart forbear pitying the poor
hump-backed gentleman mentioned before, who went off a
very well-shaped person with a stone in his bladder; nor
the fine gentleman who had struck up this bargain with
him, that limped through a whole assembly of ladies, who
used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping over
his head.
I must not omit my own particular adventure. My
friend with a long visage had no sooner taken upon him my
short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that
as I looked upon him I could not forbear laughing at
myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of coun-
tenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the
ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done;
on the other side, I found that I myself had no great


The Mountain of Miseries. I4 I
reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I
missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper
lip. Besides, as my nose was exceeding prominent, I gave
it two or three unlucky knocks as I was playing my hand
about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw
two other gentlemen by me who were in the same ridiculous
circumstances. These had made a foolish swop between
a couple of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks that
had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man
walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above
his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it,
while the other made such awkward circles, as he attempted
to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon
his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind
of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I
would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not march up to
it on a line that I drew from him in a quarter of an hour.
The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes,
who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and
down under the pressure of their several burdens. The
whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans
and lamentations. Jupiter, at length taking compassion on
the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down
their loads, with a design to give every one his own again.
They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure:
after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross
delusions was commanded to disappear. There was sent
in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure; her
motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious,
but cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes
towards heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter: her name
was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the


I42 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the
whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a
third part so big as it was before. She afterward returned
every man his own proper calamity, and teaching him how
to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off
with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not
been left to his own choice as to the kind of evils which fell
to his lot.
Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of
this vision, I learnt from it never to repine at my own mis-
fortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is im-
possible for any man to form a right judgment of his
neighbour's sufferings; for which reason also I have deter-
mined never to think too lightly of another's complaints,
but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with senti-
ments of humanity and compassion.


ON HUMAN VANITY.
§§§HERE are but few men who are not ambitious of
º | ſº distinguishing themselves in the nation or country
where they live, and of growing considerable
among those with whom they converse. There
is a kind of grandeur and respect which the meanest and
most insignificant part of mankind endeavour to procure in
the little circle of their friends and acquaintance. The
poorest mechanic, nay, the man who lives upon common
alms, gets him his set of admirers, and delights in that
superiority which he enjoys over those who are in some
respects beneath him. This ambition, which is natural to
the soul of man, might, methinks, receive a very happy
turn; and, if it were rightly directed, contribute as much to
a person's advantage, as it generally does to his uneasiness
and disquiet.
I shall therefore put together some thoughts on this sub-
‘ject, which I have not met with in other writers; and shall
set them down as they have occurred to me, without being
at the pains to connect or methodise them.
All superiority and pre-eminence that one man can have
over another may be reduced to the notion of quality,
which, considered at large, is either that of fortune, body,
or mind. The first is that which consists in birth, title, or
riches: it is the most foreign to our natures, and what we
can the least call our own of any of the three kinds of
§º


I44. Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
quality. In relation to the body, quality arises from-health,
strength, or beauty; which are nearer to us, and more a
part of ourselves than the former. Quality, as it regards
the mind, has its rise from knowledge or virtue; and is that
which is more essential to us, and more intimately united
with us than either of the other two.
The quality of fortune, though a man has less reason to
value himself upon it than on that of the body or mind, is,
however, the kind of quality which makes the most shining
figure in the eye of the world.
As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine source of
honour, we generally find in titles an intimation of some
particular merit that should recommend men to the high
stations which they possess. Holiness is ascribed to the
Pope ; majesty to kings; serenity or mildness of temper to
princes; excellence or perfection to ambassadors; grace to
archbishops; honour to peers; worship or venerable be-
haviour to magistrates; and reverence, which is of the same
import as the former, to the inferior clergy.
In the founders of great families, such attributes of
honour are generally correspondent with the virtues of the
person to whom they are applied ; but in the descendants,
they are too often the marks rather of grandeur than of
merit. The stamp and denomination still continues, but
the intrinsic value is frequently lost.
The deathbed shews the emptiness of titles in a true
light. A poor dispirited sinner lies trembling under the
apprehensions of the state he is entering on ; and is asked
by a grave attendant how his holiness does Another
hears himself addressed under the title of highness or
excellency, who lies under such mean circumstances of
mortality as are the disgrace of human nature. Titles at


On Human P.anzáy. I45
such a time look rather like insults and mockery than
respect.
The truth of it is, honours are in this world under no
regulation; true quality is neglected, virtue is oppressed,
and vice triumphant. The last day will rectify this disorder,
and assign to every one a station suitable to the dignity of
his character. Ranks will be then adjusted, and precedency
set right.
Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to advance
ourselves in another world, at least to preserve our post in
it, and outshine our inferiors in virtue here, that they may
not be put above us in a state which is to settle the dis-
tinction for eternity.
Men in Scripture are called strangers and sojourners
upon earth, and life a pilgrimage. Several heathen, as well
as Christian authors, under the same kind of metaphor,
have represented the world as an inn, which was only de-
signed to furnish us with accommodations in this our pas-
sage. It is therefore very absurd to think of setting up our
rest before we come to our journey's end, and not rather to
take care of the reception we shall there meet with, than to
fix our thoughts on the little conveniences and advantages
which we enjoy, one above another, in the way to it.
Epictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, which is
very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to incline us to be
satisfied with the post in which Providence has placed us.
We are here, says he, as in a theatre, where every one has
a part allotted to him. The great duty which lies upon a
man is to act his part in perfection. We may, indeed, say
that our part does not suit us, and that we could act
another better. But this, says the philosopher, is not our
business. All that we are concerned in is to excel in the
K


I46 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
part which is given us. If it be an improper one, the fault
is not in us, but in Him who has cast our several parts, and
is the great disposer of the drama.
The part that was acted by this philosopher himself was
but a very indifferent one, for he lived and died a slave.
His motive to contentment, in this particular, receives a
very great enforcement from the above-mentioned con-
sideration, if we remember that our parts in the other world
will be new cast, and that mankind will be there ranged in
different stations of superiority and pre-eminence, in pro-
portion as they have here excelled one another in virtue,
and performed in their several posts of life the duties which
belong to them.
There are many beautiful passages in the little apocryphal
book, entitled, “The Wisdom of Solomon,” to set forth the
'ſanity of honour, and the like temporal blessings which are
in so great repute among men, and to comfort those who
have not the possession of them. It represents in very
warm and noble terms this advancement of a good man in
the other world, and the great surprise which it will produce
among those who are his superiors in this. “Then shall
the righteous man stand in great boldness before the face of
such as have afflicted him, and made no account of his
labours. When they see it they shall be troubled with
terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his
salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for. And they,
repenting and groaning for anguish of spirit, shall say within
themselves, This was he whom we had some time in
derision, and a proverb of reproach. We fools accounted
his life madness, and his end to be without honour. How
is he numbered among the children of God, and his lot
among the saints l’


On Human Vanity. I47
If the reader would see the description of a life that is
passed away in vanity, and among the shadows of pomp
and greatness, he may see it very finely drawn in the same
book. In the meantime, since it is necessary, in the pre-
sent constitution of things, that order and distinction should
be kept up in the world, we should be happy if those who
enjoy the upper stations in it would endeavour to surpass
others in virtue as much as in rank, and by their humanity
and condescension make their superiority easy and ac-
ceptable to those who are beneath them ; and if, on the
contrary, those who are in meaner posts of life would con-
sider how they may better their condition hereafter, and by
a just deference and submission to their superiors, make
them happy in those blessings with which Providence has
thought fit to distinguish them.


THE VALUE OF DISCRETION.
“Prudence supplies the want of every good.”—Juvenal.
º /
|& (s; º
HAVE often thought if the minds of men were
laid open we should see but little difference be-
tween that of the wise man and that of the fool.
There are infinite reveries, numberless extrava-
gances, and a perpetual train of vanities which pass through
both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to
pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing
some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets
them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discre-
tion, however, has no place in private conversation between
intimate friends. On such occasions the wisest men very
often talk like the weakest ; for, indeed, the talking with a
friend is nothing else but thinking aloud.
Tully has, therefore, very justly exposed a precept de-
livered by some ancient writers, that a man should live with
his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to
become his friend ; and with his friend in such a manner,
that if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power
to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our
behaviour towards an enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable,
as well as very prudential ; but the latter part of it, which
regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of
cunning than of discretion, and would cut a man off from


The Value of Discretion. I49
the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of
conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a
friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to
accuse the perfidiousnes of the friend rather than the indis-
cretion of the person who confided in him.
Discretion does not only shew itself in words, but in all
the circumstances of action, and is like an under agent of
Providence to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns
of life.
There are many more shining qualities in the mind of
man, but there is none so useful as discretion ; it is this,
indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them
at work in their proper times and places, and turns them to
the advantage of the person who is possessed of them.
Without it learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence;
virtue itself looks like weakness: the best parts only qualify
a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own
prejudice.
Nor does discretion only make a man the master of his
own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out
the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to
apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into
particular communities and divisions of men, we may ob-
serve that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the
learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and
gives measures to the society. A man with great talents,
but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable,
strong and blind, endued with an irresistible force, which,
for want of sight, is of no use to him.
Though a man has all other perfections, and wants dis-
cretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world;
but if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a com-


I 50 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
mon share of others, he may do what he pleases in his par
ticular station of life.
At the same time that I think discretion the most useful
talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be
the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds.
Discretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues
the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them.
Cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at no-
thing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large
and extended views, and, like a well-formed eye, commands
a whole horizon. Cunning is a kind of short-sightedness,
that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand,
but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion,
the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the
person who possesses it. Cunning, when it is once de-
tected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bring-
ing about even those events which he might have done,
had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the
perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of
life: cunning is a kind of instinct that only looks out after
our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion is only
found in men of strong sense and good understanding:
cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, and
in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In
short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion, and may
pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is
often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.
The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man
makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what
will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what
it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness
which are reserved for him in another world lose nothing of


Z%e Value of Discretion. I5 I
their reality by being at so great a distance from him. The
objects do not appear little to him because they are remote.
He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie hid
in eternity approach nearer to him every moment, and will
be present with him in their full weight and measure as
much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this
very instant. For this reason he is careful to secure to
himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature,
and the ultimate design of his being. He carries his
thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the
most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it.
He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage
which offers itself here if he does not find it consistent with
his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of
immortality, his schemes are large and glorious, and his
conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and
how to pursue it by proper methods.
I have in this essay upon discretion considered it both
as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and have, therefore,
descibed it in its full extent; not only as it is conversant
about worldly affairs, but as it regards our whole existence;
not only as it is the guide of a mortal creature, but as it is
in general the director of a reasonable being. It is in this
light that discretion is represented by the wise man, who
sometimes mentions it under the name of discretion, and
sometimes under that of wisdom. It is, indeed, the greatest
wisdom, but, at the same time, in the power of every one to
attain. Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition easy.
In the words of an apocryphal writer, “Wisdom is glorious,
and never fadeth away; yet she is easily seen of them that
love her, and found of such as seek her. She preventeth
them that desire her in making herself first known unto them.


I52 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
He that seeketh her early shall have no great travel; for
he shall find her sitting at his doors. To think, therefore,
upon her is the perfection of wisdom, and whoso watcheth
for her shall quickly be without care. For she goeth about
seeking such as are worthy of her, sheweth herself favour-
ably unto them in the ways, and meeteth them in every
thought.”


FALSE WIT : A HISTORY.
“Poems like pictures are.”
stood, as wit. No author that I know of has writ-
ten professedly upon it, and as for those who make
any mention of it, they only treat on the subject as
it has accidentally fallen in their way, and that too in little
short reflections, or in general exclamatory flourishes, with-
out entering into the bottom of the matter. I hope, there-
fore, I shall perform an acceptable work to my countrymen,
if I treat at large upon the subject; which I shall endeavour
to do in a manner suitable to it, that I may not incur the
censure which a famous critic bestows upon one who had
written a treatise on “the sublime,” in a low grovelling style.
I intend to lay aside a whole week for this undertaking,
that the scheme of my thoughts may not be broken and
interrupted; and I dare promise myself, if my readers will
give me a week's attention, that this great city will be very
much changed for the better by next Saturday night. I
shall endeavour to make what I say intelligible to ordinary
capacities; but if my readers meet with any paper that in
some parts of it may be a little out of their reach, I would
not have them discouraged, for they may assure themselves
the next shall be much clearer.
As the great and only end of these my speculations is to


I 54 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
banish vice and ignorance out of the territories of Great
Britain, I shall endeavour as much as possible to establish
among us a taste of polite writing. It is with this view that
ſ have endeavoured to set my readers right in several points
relating to operas and tragedies; and shall from time to
time impart my notions of comedy, as I think they may tend
to its refinement and perfection. I find, by my bookseller,
that these papers of criticism, with that upon humour, have
met with a more kind reception than indeed I could have
hoped for from such subjects; for which reason I shall enter
upon my present undertaking with greater cheerfulness.
In this, and one or two following papers, I shall trace
out the history of false wit, and distinguish the several kinds
of it as they have prevailed in different ages of the world.
This I think the more necessary at present, because I
observed there were attempts on foot last winter to revive
some of those antiquated modes of wit that have been long
exploded out of the commonwealth of letters. There were
several satires and panegyrics handed about in acrostic, by
which means some of the most arrant undisputed block-
heads about the town began to entertain ambitious thoughts,
and to set up for polite authors. I shall therefore describe
at length those many arts of false wit, in which a writer does
not shew himself a man of a beautiful genius, but of great
industry.
The first species of false wit which I have met with is
venerable for its antiquity, and has produced several pieces
which have lived very near as long as the Iliad itself: I
mean those short poems printed among the minor Greek
poets, which resemble the figure of an egg, a pair of wings,
an axe, a shepherd's pipe, and an altar.
As for the first, it is a little oval poem, and may not im-


False Wit: a History. I 55
properly be called a scholar's egg. I would endeavour to
hatch it, or, in more intelligible language, to translate it into
English, did not I find the interpretation of it very difficult;
for the author seems to have been more intent upon the
figure of his poem than upon the sense of it.
The pair of wings consists of twelve verses, or rather
feathers, every verse decreasing gradually in its measure
according to its situation in the wing. The subject of it (as
in the rest of the poems which follow) bears some remote
affinity with the figure, for it describes a god of love, who is
always painted with wings.
The axe, methinks, would have been a good figure for a
lampoon, had the edge of it consisted of the most satirical
parts of the work; but as it is in the original, I take it to
have been nothing else but the posy of an axe which was
consecrated to Minerva, and was thought to have been the
same that Epeus made use of in the building of the Trojan
horse; which is a hint I shall leave to the consideration of
the critics. I am apt to think that the posy was written
originally upon the axe, like those which our modern cutlers
inscribe upon their knives; and that therefore the posy still
remains in its original shape, though the axe itself is lost.
The shepherd's pipe may be said to be full of music,
for it is composed of nine different kinds of verses, which
by their several lengths resemble the nine stops of the old
musical instrument, that is likewise the subject of the poem.
The altar is inscribed with the epitaph of Troilus, the son
of Hecuba; which, by the way, makes me believe that these
false pieces of wit are much more ancient than the authors to
whom they are generally ascribed: at least I will never be
persuaded that so fine a writer as Theocritus could have
been the author of any such simple works.


156 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
It was impossible for a man to succeed in these perfor-
mances who was not a kind of painter, or at least a de-
signer. He was first of all to draw the outline of the subject
which he intended to write upon, and afterward conform the
description to the figure of his subject. The poetry was to
contract or dilate itself according to the mould in which it
was cast. In a word, the verses were to be cramped or
extended to the dimensions of the frame that was prepared
for them, and to undergo the fate of those persons whom
the tyrant Procrustes used to lodge in his iron bed—if they
were too short, he stretched them on a rack; and if they
were too long, chopped off a part of their legs, till they fitted
the couch which he had prepared for them.
Mr Dryden hints at this obsolete kind of wit in one of
the following verses in his “Mac Flecno;” which an English
reader cannot understand, who does not know that there
are those little poems above mentioned in the shape of
wings and altars.
-: Choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in acrostic land;
There may'st thou wings display, and altars raise,
And torture one poor word a thousand ways.”
This fashion of false wit was revived by several poets of
the last age, and in particular may be met with among Mr
Herbert's poems; and, if I am not mistaken, in the transla-
tion of Du Bartas. I do not remember any other kind of
work among the moderns which more resembles the perfor-
mances I have mentioned, than that famous picture of King
Charles the First, which has the whole Book of Psalms
written in the lines of the face and the hair of the head.
When I was last at Oxford I perused one of the whiskers,
and was reading the other, but could not go so far in it as I


False Wiz: a //istory. I 57
would have done by reason of the impatience of my friends
and fellow-travellers, who all of them pressed to see such a
piece of curiosity. I have since heard that there is now an
eminent writing-master in town who has transcribed all the
whole Testament in a full-bottomed periwig: and if the
fashion would introduce the thick kind of wigs which were
in vogue some few years ago, he promises to add two or
three supernumerary locks that should contain all the Apo-
crypha. He designed this wig originally for King William,
having disposed of the two books of Kings in the two forks
of the foretop; but that glorious monarch dying before the
wig was finished, there is a space left in it for the face of
any one that has a mind to purchase it. . . . . It is
very hard for the mind to disengage itself from a subject
on which it has been long employed. The thoughts will be
rising of themselves from time to time, though we give them
no encouragement; as the tossings and fluctuations of the
sea continue several hours after the winds are laid.
It is to this that I impute my last night's dream or vision,
which formed into one continued allegory the several schemes
of wit, whether false, mixed, or true, that have been the sub-
ject of my late papers.
Methought I was transported into a country that was
filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed by the
goddess of Falsehood, and entitled the Region of False
Wit. There was nothing in the fields, the woods, and the
rivers, that appeared natural. Several of the trees blos-
somed in leaf gold, some of them produced bone-lace, and
some of them precious stones. The fountains bubbled in
an opera tune, and were filled with stags, wild boars, and
mermaids that lived among the waters; at the same time
that dolphins and several kinds of fish played upon the


158 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
banks, or took their pastime in the meadows. The birds
had many of them golden beaks and human voices. The
flowers perfumed the air with smells of incense and amber-
gris, and were so interwoven with one another that they
grew up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were filled
with sighs and messages of distant lovers. As I was walk-
ing to and fro in this enchanted wilderness, I could not for-
bear breaking out into soliloquies upon the several wonders
which lay before me, when, to my great surprise, I found
there were artificial echoes in every walk that, by repetitions
of certain words which I spoke, agreed with me, or contra-
dicted me, in everything I said. In the midst of my con-
versation with these invisible companions, I discovered, in
the centre of a very dark grove, a monstrous fabric built
after the Gothic manner, and covered with innumerable de-
vices in that barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately
went up to it, and found it to be a kind of heathen temple
consecrated to the god of Dulness. Upon my entrance I
saw the deity of the place dressed in the habit of a monk,
with a book in one hand and a rattle in the other. Upon
his right hand was Industry, with a lamp burning before
her; and on his left, Caprice, with a monkey sitting on her
shoulder. Before his feet there stood an altar of a very
odd make, which, as I afterwards found, was shaped in that
manner to comply with the inscription that surrounded it.
Upon the altar there lay several offerings of axes, wings, and
eggs, cut in paper, and inscribed with verses. The temple
was filled with votaries, who applied themselves to different
diversions, as their fancies directed them. In one part of
it I saw a regiment of anagrams, who were continually in
motion, turning to the right or to the left, facing about,
doubling their ranks, shifting their stations, and throwing


False Wit: a History. I 59
themselves into all the figures and counter-marches of the
most changeable and perplexed exercise.
Not far from these was the body of acrostics, made up of
very disproportioned persons. It was disposed into three
columns, the officers planting themselves in a line on the
left hand of each column. The officers were all of them
at least six feet high, and made three rows of very proper
men; but the common soldiers, who filled up the spaces
between the officers, were such dwarfs, cripples, and scare-
crows, that one could hardly look upon them without laugh-
.ing. There were behind the acrostics two or three files of
chronograms, which differed only from the former, as their
officers were equipped (like the figure of Time) with an hour-
glass in one hand and a scythe in the other, and took their
posts promiscuously among the private men whom they
commanded.
In the body of the temple, and before the very face of the
deity, methought I saw the phantom of Tryphiodorus, the
lipogrammatist, engaged in a ball with four-and-twenty per-
sons, who pursued him by turns through all the intricacies
and labyrinths of a country dance, without being able to
overtake him.
Observing several to be very busy at the western end of
the temple, I inquired into what they were doing, and found
there was in that quarter the great magazine of rebusses.
These were several things of the most different natures tied
up in bundles, and thrown upon one another in heaps like
faggots. You might behold an anchor, a night-rail, and a
hobby-horse, bound up together. One of the workmen, see-
ing me very much surprised, told me there was an infinite
deal of wit in several of those bundles, and that he would
explain them to me if I pleased. I thanked him for his


False Wit: a History. I61
temple, who were now drawn up in array, and prepared to
give their foes a warm reception. As the march of the
enemy was very slow, it gave time to the several inhabitants
who bordered upon the regions of Falsehood to draw their
forces into a body, with a design to stand upon their guard
as neuters, and attend the issue of the combat.
I must here inform my reader that the frontiers of the
enchanted region which I have before described were in-
habited by a species of Mixed Wit, who made a very odd
appearance when they were mustered together in an army.
There were men whose bodies were stuck full of darts, and
women whose eyes were burning-glasses: men that had
hearts of fire, and women that had breasts of snow. It
would be endless to describe several monsters of the like
nature that composed this great army, which immediately
fell asunder, and divided itself into two parts, the one-half
throwing themselves behind the banners of Truth, and the
other behind those of Falsehood.
The goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic stature, and
advanced some paces before the front of her army; but as
the dazzling light which flowed from Truth began to shine
upon her, she faded insensibly; insomuch that in a little
space she looked rather like a huge phantom than a real
substance. At length, as the goddess of Truth approached
still nearer to her, she fell away entirely, and vanished
amidst the brightness of her presence; so that there did
not remain the least trace or impression of her figure in the
place where she had been seen.
As at the rising of the sun the constellations grow thin,
and the stars go out one after another, till the whole hemi-
sphere is extinguished, such was the vanishing of the goddess:
and not only of the goddess herself, but of the whole army
L


I62 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
that attended her, which sympathised with their leader, and
shrank into nothing, in proportion as the goddess disap-
peared. At the same time the whole temple sank, the fish
betook themselves to the streams and the wild beasts to the
woods, the fountains recovered their murmurs, the birds
their voices, the trees their leaves, the flowers their scents,
and the whole face of nature its true and genuine appearance.
Though I still continued asleep, I fancied myself, as it were,
awakened out of a dream, when I saw this region of pro-
digies restored to woods and rivers, fields and meadows.
Upon the removal of that wild scene of wonders, which
had very much disturbed my imagination, I took a full sur-
vey of the persons of Wit and Truth; for indeed it was im-
possible to look upon the first without seeing the other at
the same time. There was behind them a strong compact
body of figures. The genius of Heroic Poetry appeared
with a sword in her hand, and a laurel on her head. Tra-
gedy was crowned with cypress, and covered with robes
dipped in blood. Satire had smiles in her look, and a
dagger under her garment. Rhetoric was known by her
thunderbolt, and Comedy by her mask. After several other
figures, Epigram marched up in the rear, who had been
posted there at the beginning of the expedition, that he
might not revolt to the enemy, whom he was suspected to -
favour in his heart. I was very much awed and delighted
with the appearance of the god of Wit; there was some-
thing so amiable and yet so piercing in his looks, as inspired
me at once with love and terror. As I was gazing on him,
to my unspeakable joy he took a quiver of arrows from his
shoulder, in order to make me a present of it; but as I
was reaching out my hand to receive it of him, I knocked it
against a chair, and by that means awaked.


THE PLEASURES OF CONTENT.
“Believe not those that lands possess,
And shining heaps of useless ore,
The only lords of happiness;
But rather those that know
For what kind fates bestow,
And have the heart to use the store
That have the generous skill to bear
The hated weight of poverty.”
CREECH's HORACE.
sº ONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all
those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes
to what he calls the philosopher's stone; and if
it does not bring riches, it does the same thing,
by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the
disquietudes arising out of a man's mind, body, or fortune,
it makes him easy under them. It has, indeed, a kindly
influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to
whom he stands related. It extinguishes all murmur, re-
pining, and ingratitude, towards that Being who has allotted
him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate
ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard
to the community wherein he is placed. It gives sweet-
ness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his
thoughts.
Among the many methods which might be made use of
for the acquiring of this virtue, I shall only mention the two


I64 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
following. First of all, a man should always consider how
much he has more than he wants: and, secondly, how much
more unhappy he might be than he really is.
First of all, a man should always consider how much he
has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with
the reply which Aristippus made to one who condoled him
upon the loss of a farm. “Why,” said he, “I have three
farms still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather to
be afflicted for you than you for me.” On the contrary,
foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost
than what they possess, and to fix their eyes upon those who
are richer than themselves, rather than on those who are under
greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniences
of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is the humour of
mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after
one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour.
For this reason, as there are none can be properly called
rich who have not more than they want, there are few rich
men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle
sort of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes,
and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Per-
sons of a higher rank live. in a kind of splendid poverty,
and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing
in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvie one
another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have
at all times beheld, with a great deal of mirth, this silly
game that is playing over their heads, and, by contracting
their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others
are always in quest of The truth is, this ridiculous chase
after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as
it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a
nation. Let a man's estate be what it will, he is a poor man


The Pleasures of Content. 167
end in the removal of them; it makes him easy here, be-
cause it can make him happy hereafter.
Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest blessing
a man can enjoy in this world; and if in the present life his
happiness arises from the subduing of his desires, it will
arise in the next from the gratification of them.


EWII, SPEAKING.
“He that shall rail against his absent friends,
Or hears them scandalised, and not defends,
Sports with their fame, and speaks whate'er he can,
And only to be thought a witty man;
Tells tales, and brings his friends to disesteem;
That man's a knave;—be sure beware of him.
CREECH's HoRACE.
šº ERE all the vexations of life put together, we should
yº. find that a great part of them proceed from those
§§§ calumnies and reproaches which we spread abroad
concerning one another.
There is scarce a man living, who is not, in some degree,
guilty of this offence; though at the same time, however we
treat one another, it must be confessed that we all consent
in speaking ill of the persons who are notorious for this
practice. It generally takes its rise either from an ill-will
to mankind, a private inclination to make ourselves esteemed,
an ostentation of wit, and vanity of being thought in the
secrets of the world; or from a desire of gratifying any of
these dispositions of mind in those persons with whom we
COnverSe.
The publisher of scandal is more or less odious to man-
kind, and criminal in himself, as he is influenced by any one
or more of the foregoing motives. But, whatever may be


17o Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
osity, which is perpetually heightened and inflamed by lis-
tening to such stories as tend to the disreputation of others.
In the second place, a man should consult his own heart
whether he be not apt to believe such little blackening
accounts, and more inclined to be credulous on the un-
charitable than on the good-natured side.
Such a credulity is very vicious in itself, and generally
arises from a man's consciousness of his own secret corrup-
tions. It is a pretty saying of Thales, “Falsehood is just
as far distant from truth as the ears are from the eyes.” By
which he would intimate, that a wise man should not easily
give credit to the reports of actions which he has not seen.
I shall, under this head, mention two or three remarkable
rules to be observed by the members of the celebrated
Abbey de la Trappe.
The fathers are there ordered never to give an ear to any
accounts of base or criminal actions: to turn off all such
discourse if possible; but, in case they hear anything of
this nature, so well attested that they cannot disbelieve it,
they are then to suppose that the criminal action may have
proceeded from a good intention in him who is guilty of it.
This is, perhaps, carrying charity to an extravagance; but
it is certainly much more laudable than to suppose, as the
ill-natured part of the world does, that indifferent and even
good actions proceed from bad principles and wrong in-
tentions.
In the third place, a man should examine his heart, whether
he does not find in it a secret inclination to propagate such
reports as tend to the disreputation of another.
When the disease of the mind, which I have hitherto
been speaking of, arises to this degree of malignity, it dis-
covers itself in its worst symptom, and is in danger of be-


Evil Speaking. 171
coming incurable. I need not, therefore, insist upon the
guilt in this last particular, which every one cannot but
disapprove, who is not void of humanity, or even common
discretion. I shall only add, that whatever pleasure any
man may take in spreading whispers of this nature, he will
find an infinitely greater satisfaction in conquering the temp-
tation he is under, by letting the secret die within his own
breast.


ON FEAR.
“Who spend their treasure freely, as 'twas given
By the large bounty of indulgent Heaven:
Who in a fix’d unalterable state
Smile at the doubtful tide of fate,
And scorn alike her friendship and her hate:
Who poison less than falsehood fear,
Loath to purchase life so dear;
But kindly for their friend embrace cold death,
And seal their country's love with their departing breath.”
STEPNEY.
§T must be owned that fear is a very powerful pas.
§ ſº - - - - - -
º3|| § sion, since it is esteemed one of the greatest of vir.
§§ tues to subdue it. It being implanted in us for our
preservation, it is no wonder that it sticks close to
us as long as we have anything we are willing to preserve.
But as life, and all its enjoyments, would be scarce worth
the keeping if we were under a perpetual dread of losing
them, it is the business of religion and philosophy to free us
from all unnecessary anxieties, and direct our fear to its
proper object. -
If we consider the painfulness of this passion, and the
violent effects it produces, we shall see how dangerous it is
to give way to it upon slight occasions. Some have fright-
ened themselves into madness, others have given up their
lives to these apprehensions. The story of a man who


On Fear. I 73
grew gray in the space of one night's anxiety is very
famous.
“A tedious night indeed, that makes a young man old.”
These apprehensions, if they proceed from a conscious-
tless of guilt, are the sad warnings of reason; and may excite
our pity, but admit of no remedy. When the hand of the
Almighty is visibly lifted against the impious, the heart of
mortal man cannot withstand Him. We have this passion
sublimely represented in the punishment of the Egyptians,
tormented with the plague of darkness, in the apocryphal
book of Wisdom, ascribed to Solomon.
“For when unrighteous men thought to oppress the holy
nation; they being shut up in their houses, the prisoners of
darkness, and fettered with the bonds of a long night, lay
there exiled from the eternal Providence. For while they
supposed to lie hid in their secret sins, they we scattered
under a dark veil of forgetfulness, being horribly astonished
and troubled with strange apparitions.—For wickedness,
condemned by her own witness, is very timorous, and,
being oppressed with conscience, always forecasteth griev-
ous things. For fear is nothing else but a betraying of
the succours which reason offereth.-For the whole world
shined with clear light, and none were hindered in their
labour. Over them only was spread a heavy night, an
image of that darkness which should afterwards receive
them; but yet were they unto themselves more grievous
than the darkness.”
To fear so justly grounded no remedy can be proposed ;
but a man (who hath no great guilt hanging upon his mind,
who walks in the plain path of justice and integrity, and yet,
either by natural complexion, or confirmed prejudices, or
neglect of serious reflection, suffers himself to be moved by


I 74 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
this abject and unmanly passion) would do well to consider
that there is nothing which deserves his fear, but that benefi-
cent Being who is his Friend, his Protector, his Father. Were
this one thought strongly fixed in the mind, what calamity
would be dreadful? What load can infamy lay upon us
when we are sure of the approbation of Him who will repay
the disgrace of a moment with the glory of eternity? What
sharpness is there in pain and diseases, when they only hasten
us on to the pleasures that will never fade 7 What sting is
in death, when we are assured that it is only the beginning
of life?—A man who lives so as not to fear to die, is incon-
sistent with himself if he delivers himself up to any incidental
anxiety.
The intrepidity of a just good man is so nobly set forth
by Horace, that it cannot be too often repeated:—
“The man resolved, and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,
May the rude rabble's insolence despise,
Their senseless clamours and tumultuous cries;
The tyrant's fierceness he beguiles,
And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.
Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms
Adria's black gulf, and vexes it with storms,
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move ;
Not the red arm of angry Jove,
That flings the thunder from the sky,
And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly.
Should the whole frame of nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurl’d,
He, unconcern'd, would hear the mighty crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.”
The vanity of fear may yet be further illustrated if we .
reflect,


Ozz Fear. I 75
First, What we fear may not come to pass. No human
scheme can be so accurately projected but some little cir-
cumstance intervening may spoil it. He who directs the
heart of man at His pleasure, and understands the thoughts
long before, may, by ten thousand accidents, or an imme-
diate change in the inclinations of men, disconcert the
most subtle project, and turn it to the benefit of His own
ServantS.
In the next place we should consider, though the evil we
imagine should come to pass, it may be much more support-
able than it appeared to be. As there is no prosperous state
of life without its calamities, so there is no adversity without
its benefits. Ask the great and powerful, if they do not feel
the pangs of envy and ambition. Inquire of the poor and
needy, if they have not tasted the sweets of quiet and con-
tentment. Even under the pains of body, the infidelity of
friends, or the misconstructions put upon our laudable ac-
tions; our minds, when for some time accustomed to these
pressures, are sensible of secret flowings of comfort, the
present reward of a pious resignation. The evils of this
life. appear like rocks and precipices, rugged and barren at
a distance; but at our nearer approach we find little fruit-
ful spots, and refreshing springs, mixed with the harshness
and deformities of nature.
In the last place we may comfort ourselves with this
consideration, that, as the thing feared may not reach us, so
we may not reach what we fear. Our lives may not extend
to that dreadful point which we have in view. He who
knows all our failings, and will not suffer us to be tempted
beyond our strength, is often pleased, in His tender severity,
to separate the soul from its body and miseries together.
If we look forward to Him for help, we shall never be in


178 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
“I know,” said a gentleman, “a way to be greater than any
man. If he has worth in him, I can rejoice in his superi-
ority to me; and that satisfaction is a greater act of the soul
in me, than any in him which can possibly appear to me.”
This thought could proceed but from a candid and generous
spirit; and the approbation of such minds is what may be
esteemed true praise: for with the common race of men
there is nothing commendable but what they themselves
may hope to be partakers of, and arrive at. But the motive
truly glorious is, when the mind is set rather to do things
laudable, than to purchase reputation. Where there is that
sincerity as the foundation of a good name, the kind opinion
of virtuous men will be an unsought, but a necessary conse-
quence. The Lacedaemonians, though a plain people, and
no pretenders to politeness, had a certain delicacy in their
sense of glory, and sacrificed to the Muses when they entered
upon any great enterprise. They would have the com-
memoration of their actions transmitted by the purest and
most untainted memorialists. The din which attends vic-
tories and public triumphs, is by far less eligible than the
recital of the actions of great men by honest and wise histo-
rians. It is a frivolous pleasure to be the admiration of
gaping crowds; but to have the approbation of a good man
in the cool reflections of his closet, is a gratification worthy
a heroic spirit. The applause of the crowd makes the head
giddy, but the attestation of a reasonable man makes the
heart glad.
What makes the love of popular or general praise still
more ridiculous, is, that it is usually given for circumstances
which are foreign to the persons admired. Thus they are
the ordinary attendants on power and riches, which may be
taken out of one man's hands and put into another's. The


Love of Praise. I 79
application only, and not the possession, makes those out-
ward things honourable. The vulgar and men of sense
agree in admiring men for having what they themselves
would rather be possessed of. The wise man applauds him
whom he thinks most virtuous; the rest of the world him
who is most wealthy.
When a man is in this way of thinking, I do not know
what can occur to one more monstrous, than to see persons
of ingenuity address their services and performances to men
no way addicted to liberal arts. In these cases, the praise
on one hand, and the patronage on the other, are equally
the objects of ridicule. Dedications to ignorant men are
absurd. Such an address one is apt to translate into other
words; and when the different parties are thoroughly con-
sidered, the panegyric generally implies no more than
if the author should say to the patron, “My very good
lord, you and I can never understand one another; there-
fore I humbly desire we may be intimate friends for the
future.”
The rich may as well ask to borrow of the poor, as the
man of virtue or merit hope for addition to his character
from any but such as himself. He that commends another
engages so much of his own reputation as he gives to that
person commended; and he that has nothing laudable in
himself is not of ability to be such a surety. The wise
Phocion was so sensible how dangerous it was to be touched
with what the multitude approved, that upon a general ac-
clamation made when he was making an oration, he turned,
to an intelligent friend who stood near him, and asked in a
surprised manner, “What slip have I made!”


The Picture Gallery: a Dream. I 8 I
which had one side covered with pieces of all the famous
painters who are now living, and the other with the works
of the greatest masters that are dead.
On the side of the living I saw several persons busy in
drawing, colouring, and designing. On the side of the dead
painters I could not discover more than one person at work,
who was exceedingly slow in his motions, and wonderfully
nice in his touches.
I was resolved to examine the several artists that stood
before me, and accordingly applied myself to the side of
the living. The first I observed at work at this part of the
gallery was Vanity, with his hair tied behind him in a riband,
and dressed like a Frenchman. All the faces he drew were
very remarkable for their smiles, and a certain smirking air
which he bestowed indifferently on every age and degree of
either sex. The toujours gai appeared even in his judges,
bishops, and privy councillors. In a word, all his men were
petits maitres, and all his women coquettes. The drapery of
his figures was extremely well suited to his faces, and was
made up of all the glaring colours that could be mixed to-
gether. Every part of the dress was in a flutter, and endea-
voured to distinguish itself above the rest.
On the left hand of Vanity stood a laborious workman,
who I found was his humble admirer, and copied after him.
He was dressed like a German, and had a very hard name,
that sounded something like Stupidity.
The third artist that I looked over was Fantasque, dressed
like a Venetian scaramouch. He had an excellent hand at
chimera, and dealt very much in distortions and grimaces.
He would sometimes affright himself with the phantoms
that flowed from his pencil. In short, the most elaborate
of his pieces was at best but a terrifying dream ; and one


I 82 JWisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
could say nothing more of his finest figures, than that they
were agreeable monsters.
The fourth person I examined was very remarkable for
his hasty hand, which left his pictures so unfinished that the
beauty in the picture (which was designed to continue as a
monument of it to posterity) faded sooner than in the per-
son after whom it was drawn. He made so much haste to
despatch his business, that he neither gave himself time to
clean his pencils, nor mix his colours. The name of this
expeditious workman was Avarice.
Not far from this artist I saw another of a quite different
nature, who was dressed in the habit of a Dutchman, and
known by the name of Industry. His figures were wonder-
fully laboured. If he drew the portraiture of a man, he did
not omit a single hair in his face; if the figure of a ship,
there was not a rope among the tackle that escaped him.
He had likewise hung a great part of the wall with night-
pieces, that seemed to shew themselves by the candles
which were lighted up in several parts of them; and were
so inflamed by the sunshine which accidentally fell upon
them, that at first sight I could scarce forbear crying out,
“Fire l’’
The five foregoing artists were the most considerable on
this side the gallery. There were, indeed, several others
whom I had not time to look into. One of them, however,
I could not forbear observing, who was very busy in re-
touching the finest pieces, though he produced no originals
of his own. His pencil aggravated every feature that was
before overcharged, loaded every defect, and poisoned every
colour it touched. Though this workman did so much mis-
chief on the side of the living, he never turned his eye to-
wards that of the dead. His name was Envy.


The Picture Gallery: a Dream. 183
Having taken a cursory view of one side of the gallery,
I turned myself to that which was ſilled by the works of
those great masters that were dead; when immediately I
fancied myself standing before a multitude of spectators,
and thousands of eyes looking upon me at once; for all
before me appeared so like men and women, that I almost
forgot they were pictures. Raphael's figures stood in one
row, Titian's in another, Guido Rheni’s in a third. One
part of the wall was peopled by Hannibal Carracce, another
by Correggio, and another by Rubens. To be short, there
was not a great master among the dead who had not con:
tributed to the embellishment of this side of the gallery.
The persons that owed their being to these several masters,
appeared all of them to be real and alive, and differed
among one another only in the variety of their shapes, com-
plexions, and clothes; so that they looked like different
nations of the same species.
Observing an old man (who was the same person I be-
fore mentioned, as the only artist that was at work on this
side of the gallery) creeping up and down from one picture
to another, and re-touching all the fine pieces that stood
before me, I could not but be very attentive to all his mo-
tions. I found his pencil was so very light that it worked
imperceptibly, and, after a thousand touches, scarce pro-
duced any' visible effect in the picture on which he was
employed. However, as he busied himself incessantly, and
repeated touch after touch without rest or intermission, he
wore off insensibly every little disagreeable gloss that hung
upon a figure. He also added such a beautiful brown to
the shades, and mellowness to the colours, that he made
every picture appear more perfect than when it came fresh
from the master's pencil. I could not forbear looking upon


184 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
the face of this ancient workman, and immediately by the
long lock of hair upon his forehead, discovered him to be
Time. º -
Whether it were because the thread of my dream was at
an end I cannot tell; but upon my taking a survey of this
imaginary old man, my sleep left me.


I 86 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
way of life than any other cast or texture of them would
have been.
The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust and
hunger. The first is a perpetual call upon them to pro-
pagate their kind; the latter to preserve themselves.
It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of care
that descend from the parent to the young, so far as it is
absolutely necessary for the leaving a posterity. Some
creatures cast their eggs as chance directs them, and think
of them no further—as insects, and several kinds of fish.
Others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds to deposit
them in, and there leave them—as the serpent, the croco-
dile, and ostrich. Others hatch their eggs and tend the
birth until it is liable to shift for itself.
What can we call the principle which directs every
different kind of bird to observe a particular plan in the
structure of its nest, and directs all the same species to
work after the same model? It cannot be imitation; for
though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never let it see
any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be
the same, to the laying of a stick, with all the other nests
of the same species. It cannot be reason; for were animals
endued with it to as great a degree as man, their buildings
would be as different as ours, according to the different
conveniences that they would propose to themselves.
Is it not remarkable that the same temper of weather
which raises this genial warmth in animals, should cover
the trees with leaves, and the fields with grass, for their
security and concealment, and produce such infinite swarms
of insects for the support and sustenance of their respective
broods?
Is it not wonderful that the love of the parent should be


Animal Instinct. 187
so violent while it lasts, and that it should last no longer
than is necessary for the preservation of the young?
But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is much
more violent and intense than in rational creatures, Pro-
vidence has taken care that it should be no longer trouble-
some to the parent than it is useful to the young; for so
soon as the wants of the latter cease, the mother withdraws
her fondness, and leaves them to provide for themselves;
and what is a very remarkable circumstance in this part
of instinct, we find that the love of the parent may be
lengthened out beyond its usual time, if the preservation
of the species requires it; as we may see in birds that
drive away their young as soon as they are able to get their
livelihood, but continue to feed them if they are tied to the
nest, or confined within a cage, or by any other means
appear to be out of a condition of supplying their own ne-
cessities.
This natural love is not observed in animals to ascend
from the young to the parent, which is not at all necessary
for the continuance of the species; nor indeed in reason-
able creatures does it rise in any proportion as it spreads
itself downward; for in all family affection we find protec-
tion granted and favours bestowed are greater motives to
love and tenderness than safety, benefits, or life received.
One would wonder to hear sceptical men disputing for
the reason of animals, and telling us it is only our pride
and prejudices that will not allow them the use of that
faculty.
Reason shews itself in all occurrences of life; whereas the
brute makes no discovery of such a talent, but in what im-
mediately regards his own preservation, or the continuance
of his species. Animals in their generation are wiser than


I 88 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
the sons of men ; but their wisdom is confined to a few
particulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. Take a
brute out of his instinct, and you find him wholly deprived
of understanding. To use an instance that comes often
under observation :
With what caution does the hen provide herself a nest in
places unfrequented, and free from noise and disturbanceſ
When she has laid her eggs in such a manner that she can
cover them, what care does she take in turning them fre-
quently, that all parts may partake of the vital warmth !
When she leaves them, to provide for her necessary sus-
tenance, how punctually does she return before they have
time to cool, and become incapable of producing an animal
In the summer you see her giving herself greater freedoms,
and quitting her care for above two hours together; but in
winter, when the rigour of the season would chill the prin-
ciples of life, and destroy the young one, she grows more
assiduous in her attendance, and stays away but half the
time. When the birth approaches, with how much nicety
and attention does she help the chick to break its prison
not to take notice of her covering it from the injuries of the
weather, providing it proper nourishment, and teaching it
to help itself; not to mention her forsaking the nest if,
after the usual time of reckoning, the young one does not
make its appearance. A chemical operation could not be
followed with greater art or diligence than is seen in the
hatching of a chick; though there are many birds that
shew an infinitely greater sagacity in all the forementioned
particulars.
But at the same time the hen, that has all this seeming
ingenuity, considered in other respects, is without the least
glimmering of thought or common sense. She mistakes a


Anima/ /ns/inct. I89
piece of chalk for an egg, and sits upon it in the same
manner. She is insensible of any increase or diminu-
tion in the number of those she lays. She does not dis.
tinguish between her own and those of another species;
and when the birth appears, of never so different a bird,
will cherish it for her own. In all these circumstances,
which do not carry an immediate regard to the subsistence
of herself or her species, she is a very idiot.
There is not, in my opinion, anything more mysterious
in nature than this instinct in animals, which thus rises
above reason, and falls infinitely short of it. It cannot be
accounted for by any properties in matter, and at the same
time works after so odd a manner, that one cannot think it
the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own part, I
look upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in bodies,
which is not to be explained by any known qualities in-
herent in the bodies themselves, nor from the laws of me-
chanism, but, according to the best notions of the greatest
philosophers, is an immediate impression from the first
Mover, and the Divine energy acting in the creatures.
As I was walking one morning in the great yard that
belongs to my friend's country house, I was wonderfully
pleased to see the different workings of instinct in a hen,
followed by a brood of ducks. The young upon the sight
of a pond immediately ran into it; while the step-mother,
with all imaginary anxiety, hovered about the borders
of it, to call them out of an element that appeared to
her so dangerous and destructive. As the different prin-
ciple which acted in these different animals cannot be
termed reason, so when we call it instinct, we mean some-
thing we have no knowledge of To me it seems the im-
mediate direction of Providence, and such an operation of


I90 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
the Supreme Being as that which determines all the portions
of matter to their proper centres. A modern philosopher,
quoted by Monsieur Bayle in his learned dissertation on the
“Souls of Brutes,” delivers the same opinion, though in a
bolder form of words, where he says, “God himself is the
soul of brutes.” Who can tell what to call that seeming
sagacity in animals, which directs them to such food as is
proper for them, and makes them naturally avoid whatever
is noxious or unwholesome 1 Tully has observed, that a
lamb no sooner falls from its mother, but immediately, and
of its own accord, it applies itself to the teat. Dampier, in
his “Travels,” tells us, that when seamen are thrown upon
any of the unknown coasts of America, they never venture
upon the fruit of any tree, how tempting soever it may
appear, unless they observe that it is marked with the peck-
ing of birds; but fall on without any fear or apprehension
where the birds have been before them.
But notwithstanding animals have nothing like the use of
reason, we find in them all the lower parts of our nature—
the passions and senses—in their greatest strength and per-
fection. And here it is worth our observation, that all
beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully subject to anger,
malice, revenge, and all the other violent passions that may
animate them in search of their proper food; as those that
are incapable of defending themselves, or annoying others,
or whose safety lies chiefly in their flight, are suspicious,
fearful, and apprehensive of everything they see or hear;
whilst others, that are of assistance and use to man, have
their natures softened with something mild and tractable,
and by that means are qualified for a domestic life. In
this case the passions generally correspond with the make
of the body. We do not find the fury of a lion in so weak


Animal /nstinct. I9 I
and defenceless an animal as a lamb; nor the meekness of
a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and assault as the
lion. In the same manner, we find that particular animals
have a more or less exquisite sharpness and sagacity in those
particular senses which most turn to their advantage, and
in which their safety and welfare is the most concerned.
Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms with
which nature has differently fortified the bodies of several
kinds of animals—such as claws, hoofs, horns, teeth, and
tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, or a proboscis. It is likewise
observed by naturalists, that it must be some hidden prin-
ciple, distinct from what we call reason, which instructs
animals in the use of these their arms, and teaches them to
manage them to the best advantage ; because they natur-
ally defend themselves with that part in which their strength
lies, before the weapon be formed in it; as is remarkable in
lambs, which, though they are bred within doors, and never
saw the actions of their own species, push at those who
approach them with their foreheads before the first budding
of a horn appears.
I shall add to these general observations an instance,
which Locke has given us, of Providence even in the im-
perfections of a creature which seems the meanest and most
despicable in the whole animal word. “We may,” says he,
“from the make of an oyster or cockle conclude that it
has not so many nor so quick senses as a man, or several
other animals; nor if it had, would it, in that state and
incapacity of transferring itself from one place to another,
be bettered by them. What good would sight and hearing
do to a creature that cannot move itself to or from the
object wherein at a distance it perceives good or evil?
And would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience


I 92 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
to an animal that must be still where chance has once
placed it, and there receive the afflux of colder or warmer,
clean or foul water, as it happens to come to it!”
I shall add to this instance out of Locke another out of
the learned Dr More, who cites it from Cardan, in relation
to another animal which Providence has left defective, but,
at the same time, has shewn its wisdom in the formation of
that organ in which it seems chiefly to have failed. “What
is more obvious and ordinary than a mole! and yet what
more palpable argument of Providence than she the mem-
bers of her body are so exactly fitted to her nature and
manner of life: for her dwelling being under ground, where
nothing is to be seen, nature has so obscurely fitted her
with eyes, that naturalists can scarce agree whether she have
any sight at all, or no. But for amends, what she is capable
of for her defence and warning of danger, she has very
eminently conferred upon her; for she is exceeding quick
of hearing. And then her short tail and short legs, but
broad fore-feet armed with short claws; we see by the
event to what purpose they are, she so swiftly working her-
self under ground, and making her way so fast in the earth
as they that behold it cannot but admire it. Her legs,
therefore, are short, that she need dig no more than will
serve the mere thickness of her body; and her fore-feet
are broad, that she may scoop away much earth at a time;
and little or no tail she has, because she courses it not on
the ground, like the rat or mouse, of whose kindred she is;
but lives under the earth, and is ſain to dig herself a dwell-
ing there. And she making her way through so thick an
element, which will not yield easily, as the air or the water,
it had been dangerous to have drawn so long a train be-
hind her; for her enemy might fall upon her rear, and fetch


I94 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
could do mankind, and not a little redound to the glory of
the all-wise Contriver.
It is true, such a natural history, after all the disquisitions
of the learned, would be infinitely short and defective.
Seas and deserts hide millions of animals from our observa-
tion. Innumerable artifices and stratagems are acted in
the “howling wilderness,” and in the “great deep,” that
can never come to our knowledge. Besides that, there are
infinitely more species of creatures which are not to be seen
without, nor indeed with, the help of the finest glasses, than
of such as are bulky enough for the naked eye to take hold
of However, from the consideration of such animals as
lie within the compass of our knowledge we might easily
form a conclusion of the rest, that the same variety of
wisdom and goodness runs through the whole creation, and
puts every creature in a condition to provide for its safety
and subsistence in its proper station.
sº


WISDOM AND RICHES: A VISION.
“In sleep, when fancy is let loose to play,
Our dreams repeat the wishes of the day,
Though further toil his tired limbs refuse,
The dreaming hunter still the chase pursues.
The judge abed dispenses still the laws,
And sleeps again o'er the unfinish'd cause,
The dozing racer hears his chariot roll,
Smacks the vain whip, and shuns the fancied goal.
Me too the Muses, in the silent night,
With wonted chimes of jingling verse delight.”
ANON.
§ ſº ONCE entertained myself with comparing Homer's
º balance, in which Jupiter is represented as weigh-
&#1 ing the fates of Hector and Achilles, with a pas-
sage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced as
weighing the fates of Turnus and AEneas. I then con-
sidered how the same way of thinking prevailed in the east-
ern parts of the world, as in those noble passages of Scrip-
ture, wherein we are told, that the great king of Babylon, the
day before his death, had been “weighed in the balance,
and been found wanting.” In other places of the holy
writings, the Almighty is described as weighing the moun-
tains in scales, making the weight for the winds, knowing
the balancings of the clouds; and in others as weighing
the actions of men, and laying their calamities together
in a balance. Milton had an eye to several of these


196 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
foregoing instances in that beautiful description, wherein he
represents the archangel and the evil spirit as addressing
themselves for the combat, but parted by the balance which
appeared in the heavens, and weighed the consequences of
such a battle.
“The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign;
Wherein all things created first he weigh'd,
The pendulous round earth, with balanced air,
In counterpoise, now ponders all events,
Battles and realms; in these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight,
The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam;
Which Gabriel spying, thus bespoke the fiend:
“Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine;
Neither our own, but given. What folly then
To boast what arms can do, since thine no more
Than Heaven permits; nor mine, though doubled now
To trample thee as mire! For proof look up,
And read thy lot in yon celestial sign,
Where thou art weigh'd, and shewn how light, how weak,
If thou resist.’ The fiend look’d up, and knew
His mounted scale aloft; nor more; but fled
Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night.”
These several amusing thoughts having taken possession
of my mind some time before I went to sleep, and mingling
themselves with my ordinary ideas, raised in my imagination
a very odd kind of vision. I was, methought, replaced in
my study, and seated in my elbow-chair, where I had in-
dulged the foregoing speculations with my lamp burning by
me as usual. Whilst I was here meditating on several sub-
jects of morality, and considering the nature of many virtues
and vices, as materials for those discourses with which I
daily entertain the public, I saw, methought, a pair of


Wisdom and Ric/es: a Vision. I97
golden scales hanging by a chain of the same metal, over
the table that stood before me; when, on a sudden, there
were great heaps of weights thrown down on each side of
them. I found, upon examining these weights, they shewed
the value of everything that is in esteem among men. I
made an essay of them, by putting the weight of wisdom in
one scale, and that of riches in another: upon which, the
latter, to shew its comparative lightness, immediately flew
up and kicked the beam.
But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, that
these weights did not exert their natural gravity till they
were laid in the golden balance, insomuch that I could not
guess which was light or heavy whilst I held them in my
hand. This I found by several instances: for upon my
laying a weight in one of the scales, which was inscribed
with the word “Eternity,” though I threw in that of Time,
Prosperity, Affliction, Wealth, Poverty, Interest, Success,
with many other weights which in my hand seemed very
ponderous, they were not able to stir the opposite balance;
nor could they have prevailed, though assisted with the
weight of the Sun, the Stars, and the Earth.
Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and
honours, with Pomps, Triumphs, and many weights of the
like nature, in one of them; and seeing a little glittering
weight lie by me, I threw it accidentally into the other scale,
when, to my great surprise, it proved so exact a counter-
poise, that it kept the balance in an equilibrium. This
little glittering weight was inscribed upon the edges of it
with the word “Vanity.” I found there were several other
weights which were equally heavy, and exact counterpoises
to one another: a few of them I tried, as Avarice and
Poverty, Riches and Content, with some others.


198 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
There were likewise several weights that were of the same
figure, and seemed to correspond with each other, but were
entirely different when thrown into the scales; as Religion
and Hypocrisy, Pedantry and Learning, Wit and Vivacity,
Superstition and Devotion, Gravity and Wisdom, with many
others.
I observed one particular weight lettered on both sides:
and, upon applying myself to the reading of it, I found on
one side written, “In the dialect of men,” and underneath
it, “Calamities:” on the other side was written, “In the
language of the gods,” and underneath, “Blessings.” I
found the intrinsic value of this weight to be much greater
than I imagined, for it overpowered Health, Wealth, Good-
fortune, and many other weights, which were much more
ponderous in my hand than the other.
There is a saying among the Scotch, that an ounce of
mother-wit is worth a pound of clergy: I was sensible of
the truth of this saying, when I saw the difference between
the weight of Natural Parts, and that of Learning. The
observations which I made upon these two weights opened
to me a new field of discoveries; for, notwithstanding the
weight of the Natural Parts was much heavier than that of
Learning, I observed that it weighed a hundred times
heavier than it did before, when I put Learning into the
same scale with it. I made the same observation upon
Faith and Morality; for, notwithstanding the latter out-
weighed the former separately, it received a thousand times
more additional weight from its conjunction with the former,
than what it had by itself. This odd phenomenon shewed
itself in other particulars, as in Wit and Judgment, Philo-
sophy and Religion, Justice and Humanity, Zeal and
Charity, depth of Sense and perspicuity of Style, with in-


Wisdom and A'iches: a Vision. I99
numerable other particulars too long to be mentioned in
this paper. f
As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with im-
pertinence, mirth with gravity, methought I made several
other experiments of a more ludicrous nature, by one of
which I found that an English octavo was very often
heavier than a French folio; and, by another, that an old
Greek or Latin author weighed down a whole library of
moderns. Seeing one of the Spectators lying by me, I had
it into one of the scales, and flung a twopenny piece into
the other. The reader will not inquire into the event, if he
remembers the first trial which I have recorded in this
paper. I afterwards threw both the sexes into the balance:
but, as it is not for my interest to disoblige either of them, I
shall desire to be excused from telling the result of this ex-
periment. Having an opportunity of this nature in my
hands, I could not forbear throwing into one scale the prin-
ciples of a Tory, and into the other those of a Whig ; but,
as I have all along declared this to be a neutral paper, I
shall likewise desire to be silent under this head also ;
though, upon examining one of the weights, I saw the word
“TEKEL’’ engraven on it in capital letters.
I made many other experiments; but I shall only add,
that, upon my awaking, I was sorry to find my golden
scales vanished; but I also resolved for the future to learn
this lesson from them, not to despise or value any things for
their appearances, but to regulate my esteem and passions
towards them according to their real and intrinsic value.
& Cº-Cº


POWERTY PERSUS WEALTH.
“The golden mean, as she's too nice to dwell
Among the ruins of a filthy cell,
So is her modesty withal as great,
To baulk the envy of a princely seat.”
NORRIS.
AM wonderfully pleased when I meet with any
passage in an old Greek and Latin author, that
is not blown upon, and which I have never met
with in a quotation. Of this kind is a beautiful
saying in Theognis: “Vice is covered by wealth, and vir-
tue by poverty;” or, to give it in the verbal translation,
“Among men there are some who have their vices con-
cealed by wealth, and others who have their virtues con-
cealed by poverty.” Every man's observation will supply
him with instances of rich men, who have several faults and
defects that are overlooked, if not entirely hidden, by means
of their riches; and, I think, we cannot find a more natural
description of a poor man, whose merits are lost in his
poverty, than that in the words of the wise man: “There
was a little city, and few men within it, and there came a
great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bul-
warks against it. Now there was found in it a poor wise
man, and he, by his wisdom, delivered the city; yet no
man remembered that same poor man. Then said I, wis-
dom is better than strength; nevertheless, the poor man's
wisdom is despised, and his words are not heard.”


2O2 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
comedian. It seems originally designed as a satire upon
the rich, though, in some parts of it, it is, like the forego-
ing discourse, a kind of comparison between wealth and
poverty.
Chremylus, who was an old and a good man, and withal
exceeding poor, being desirous to leave some riches to his
son, consults the oracle of Apollo upon the subject. The
oracle bids him follow the first man he should see upon
his going out of the temple. The person he chanced to see
was to appearance an old blind sordid man, but, upon his
following him from place to place, he at last found, by his
own confession, that he was Plutus the god of riches, and
that he was just come out of the house of a miser. Plutus
further told him, that when he was a boy, he used to declare,
that as soon as he came to age he would distribute wealth
to no one but virtuous and just men; upon which Jupiter,
considering the pernicious consequences of such a resolution,
took his sight away from him, and left him to stroll about
the world in the blind condition wherein Chremylus beheld
him. With much ado Chremylus prevailed upon him to go
to his house, where he met an old woman in a tattered
raiment, who had been his guest for many years, and whose
name was Poverty. The old woman refusing to turn out
so easily as he would have her, he threatened to banish her
not only from his own house, but out of all Greece, if she
made any more words upon the matter. Poverty on this
occasion pleads her cause very notably, and represents to
her old landlord, that, should she be driven out of the
country, all their trades, arts, and sciences would be driven
out with her; and that, if every one was rich, they would
never be supplied with those pomps, ornaments, and con-
veniences of life, which made riches desirable. She likewise


Poverſy versus Wealth. 2O3
represented to him the several advantages which she be-
stowed upon her votaries in regard to their shape, their
health, and their activity, by preserving them from gouts,
dropsies, unwieldiness, and intemperance. But whatever
she had to say for herself, she was at last forced to troop
off. Chremylus immediately considered how he might re-
store Plutus to his sight; and, in order to it, conveyed him
to the temple of AEsculapius, who was famous for cures and
miracles of this nature. By this means, the deity recovered
his eyes, and began to make a right use of them, by enrich-
ing every one that was distinguished by piety towards the
gods, and justice towards men; and at the same time by
taking away his gifts from the impious and undeserving.
This produces several merry incidents, till in the last act
Mercury descends with great complaints from the gods,
that since the good men were grown rich, they had received
no sacrifices; which is confirmed by a priest of Jupiter,
who enters with a remonstrance, that since this late innova-
tion he was reduced to a starving condition, and could not
live upon his office. Chremylus, who in the beginning of
the play was religious in his poverty, concludes it with a pro-
posal, which was relished by all the good men who were now
grown rich as well as himself, that they should carry Plutus
in a solemn procession to the temple, and install him in the
place of Jupiter. This allegory instructed the Athenians in
two points; first, as it vindicated the conduct of Providence
in its ordinary distributions of wealth ; and, in the next
place, as it shewed the great tendency of riches to corrupt
the morals of those who possessed them.
— e.g.:3-###$3*-a-


ON JUDGING THE FAULTS OF OTHERS.
“Never presume to make a god appear,
But for a business worthy of a god.”
ROSCOMMON.
ºB cannot be guilty of a greater act of uncharitable-
ness than to interpret the afflictions which befall
our neighbours as punishments and judgments.
It aggravates the evil to him who suffers, when he
looks upon himself as the mark of Divine vengeance, and
abates the compassion of those towards him who regard him
in so dreadful a light. This humour of turning every mis-
fortune into a judgment proceeds from wrong notions of
religion, which in its own nature produces good-will towards
men, and puts the mildest construction upon every accident
that befalls them. In this case, therefore, it is not religion
that sours a man's temper, but it is his temper that sours his
religion. People of gloomy, uncheerful imaginations, or of
envious, malignant tempers, whatever kind of life they are
engaged in, will discover their natural tincture of mind in
all their thoughts, words, and actions. As the finest wines
have often the taste of the soil, so even the most religious
thoughts often draw something that is particular from the
constitution of the mind in which they arise. When folly
or superstition strike in with this natural depravity of tem-
per, it is not in the power even of religion itself to preserve


On Judging the Faults of Others. 205
the character of the person who is possessed with it from
appearing highly absurd and ridiculous,
An old maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall conceal under
the name of Nemesis, is the greatest discoverer of judgments
that I have met with. She can tell you what sin it was that
set such a man's house on fire, or blew down his barns.
Talk to her of an unfortunate young lady that lost her
beauty by the small-pox, she fetches a deep sigh, and tells
you, that when she had a fine face she was always looking
on it in her glass. Tell her of a piece of good fortune that
has befallen one of her acquaintance, and she wishes it may
prosper with her, but her mother used one of her nieces very
barbarously. Her usual remarks turn upon people who had
great estates, but never enjoyed them by reason of some
flaw in their own or their father's behaviour. She can give
you the reason why such a one was cut off in the flower of
his youth ; why such a one was unhappy in her marriage;
why one broke his leg on such a particular spot of ground;
and why another was killed with a back sword, rather than
with any other kind of weapon. She has a crime for every
misfortune that can befall any of her acquaintance; and when
she hears of a robbery that has been made, or a murder that
has been committed, enlarges more on the guilt of the suf-
fering person than on that of the thief or the assassin. In
short, she is so good a Christian, that whatever happens to
herself is a trial, and whatever happens to her neighbours is
a judgment.
The very description of this folly, in ordinary life, is suffi-
cient to expose it; but when it appears in a pomp and dig-
nity of style, it is very apt to amuse and terrify the mind of
the reader. Herodotus and Plutarch very often apply their
judgments as impertinently as the old woman I have before


On 7 udging the Faults of Oſhers. 207
dence in this life, will be rectified and made amends for in
another. We are not, therefore, to expect that fire should
fall from heaven in the ordinary course of Providence; nor,
when we see triumphant guilt or depressed virtue in parti-
cular persons, that Omnipotence will make bare His holy
arm in the defence of the one, or punishment of the other.
It is sufficient that there is a day set apart for the hearing
and requiting of both, according to their respective merits.
The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to any par-
ticular crimes may appear from several considerations. I
shall only mention two. First, that, generally speaking,
there is no calamity or affliction, which is supposed to have
happened as a judgment to a vicious man, which does not
sometimes happen to men of approved religion and virtue.
When Diagoras the atheist was on board one of the Athenian
ships, there arose a very violent tempest; upon which, the
mariners told him that it was a just judgment upon them for
having taken so impious a man on board. Diagoras begged
them to look upon the rest of the ships that were in the
same distress, and asked them whether or no Diagoras was
on board every vessel in the fleet. We are all involved
in the same calamities, and subject to the same accidents;
and, when we see any one of the species under any parti-
cular oppression, we should look upon it as arising from
the common lot of human nature, rather than from the guilt
of the person who suffers.
Another consideration, that may check our presumption
in putting such a construction upon a misfortune, is this,
that it is impossible for us to know what are calamities and
what are blessings. How many accidents have passed for
misfortunes, which have turned to the welfare and prosperity
of the persons to whose lot they have fallen How many


THE MAJESTY OF THE OCEAN.
“The mighty force of ocean's troubled flood.”
F all objects that I have ever seen, there is none
| which affects my imagination so much as the sea,
or ocean. I cannot see the heavings of this pro-
digious bulk of waters, even in a calm, without a
very pleasing astonishment; but when it is worked up in a
tempest, so that the horizon on every side is nothing but
foaming billows and floating mountains, it is impossible to
describe the agreeable horror that rises from such a pros-
pect. A troubled ocean, to a man who sails upon it, is,
I think, the biggest object that he can see in motion, and
consequently gives his imagination one of the highest kinds
of pleasure that can arise from greatness. I must confess
it is impossible for me to survey this world of fluid matter,
without thinking on the hand that first poured it out, and
made a proper channel for its reception. Such an object
naturally raises in my thoughts the idea of an Almighty
Being, and convinces me of His existence as much as a
metaphysical demonstration. The imagination prompts the
understanding, and, by the greatness of the sensible object,
produces in it the idea of a Being who is neither circum-
scribed by time nor space.
As I have made several voyages upon the sea, I have
often been tossed in storms, and on that occasion have fre-
O


2 IO Wisdom, Wit, and A//cgory.
quently reflected on the descriptions of them in ancient
poets. I remember Longinus highly recommends one in
Homer, because the poet has not amused himself with little
fancies upon the occasion, as authors of an inferior genius,
whom he mentions, had done, but because he has gathered
together those circumstances which are the most apt to ter-
rify the imagination, and which really happen in the raging
of a tempest. It is for the same reason that I prefer the
following description of a ship in a storm, which the psalmist
has made, before any other I have ever met with: “They
that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great
waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders
in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy
wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to
the heaven, they go down again to the depths : their soul is
melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger
like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end. Then they
cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them
out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so
that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad be-
cause they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired
haven.”*
How much more rational is this system of the psalmist,
than the pagan scheme in Virgil and other poets, where one
deity is represented as raising a storm, and another as lay-
ing it! Were we only to consider the sublime in this piece
of poetry, what can be nobler than the idea it gives us of
the Supreme Being thus raising a tumult among the elements,
and recovering them out of their confusion; thus troubling
and becalming nature?—
* Ps. cwii. 23, et seq.


The Majesty of the Ocean. 2 II
How are Thy servants blest, O Lord
How sure is their defence!
Eternal Wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.
In foreign realms and lands remote,
Supported by Thy care,
Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,
And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil,
Made every region please:
The hoary Alpine hills it warm’d,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.
Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw'st the wide extended deep
In all its horrors rise!
Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart,
When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs,
O'ercame the pilot's art.
Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free,
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on Thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,
I knew Thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.
The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to Thy will;
The sea that roar'd at Thy command,
At Thy command was still.


2 I 2
Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore,
And praise Thee for Thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.
My life, if Thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be:
And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to Thee.


THE BEAUTY OF VIRTUE.
“You see, my son Marcus, virtue as if it were embodied, which if it
could be made the object of sight, would (as Plato says) excite in
us a wonderful love of wisdom.”
TULLY.
DO not remember to have read any discourse
written expressly upon the beauty and loveliness
of virtue, without considering it as a duty, and
as the means of making us happy both now and
hereafter. I design therefore this speculation as an essay
upon that subject, in which I shall consider virtue no fur-
ther than as it is in itself of an amiable nature, after I have
premised, that I understand by the word virtue such a
general notion as is affixed to it by the writers of morality,
and which by devout men generally goes under the name
of religion, and by men of the world under the name of
honour.
Hypocrisy itself does great honour, or rather justice, to
religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an ornament to
human nature. The hypocrite would not be at so much
pains to put on the appearance of virtue, if he did not
know it was the most proper and effectual means to gain
the love and esteem of mankind. -
We learn from Hierocles, it was a common saying
among the heathens, that the wise man hates nobody, but
only loves the virtuous.


2I4. Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to shew
how amiable virtue is. “We love a virtuous man,” says
he, “who lives in the remotest parts of the earth, though
we are altogether out of the reach of his virtue, and can
receive from it no manner of benefit.” Nay, one who died
several ages ago, raises a secret fondness and benevolence
for him in our minds, when we read his story. Nay, what
is still more, one who has been the enemy of our country,
provided his wars were regulated by justice and humanity,
as in the instance of Pyrrhus, whom Tully mentions on this
occasion in opposition to Hannibal. Such is the natural
beauty and loveliness of virtue.
Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, ascribes all
good qualifications of what kind soever to the virtuous
man. Accordingly, Cato, in the character Tully has left of
him, carried matters so far, that he would not allow any
one but a virtuous man to be handsome. This, indeed,
looks more like a philosophical rant than the real opinion
of a wise man; yet this was what Cato very seriously main-
tained. In short, the stoics thought they could not suffi-
ciently represent the excellence of virtue, if they did not
comprehend in the notion of it all possible perfections;
and therefore did not only suppose that it was transcend-
ently beautiful in itself, but that it made the very body
amiable, and banished every kind of deformity from the
person in whom it resided.
It is a common observation, that the most abandoned to
all sense of goodness are apt to wish those who are related
to them of a different character: and it is very observable,
that none are more struck with the charms of virtue in the
fair sex, than those who by their very admiration of it are
carried to a desire of ruining it.


The Beauty of Virtue. 2 I 5
A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine picture in
a good light, and therefore it is no wonder that it makes
the beautiful sex all over charms.
As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely nature,
there are some particular kinds of it which are more so
than others, and these are such as dispose us to do good to
mankind. Temperance and abstinence, faith and devotion,
are in themselves perhaps as laudable as any other virtues;
but those which make a man popular and beloved, are
justice, charity, munificence, and, in short, all the good
qualities which render us beneficial to each other. For
this reason even an extravagant man, who has nothing else
to recommend him but a false generosity, is often more
beloved and esteemed than a person of a much more finished
character, who is defective in this particular.
The two great ornaments of virtue, which shew her in the
most advantageous views, and make her altogether lovely,
are cheerfulness and good nature. These generally go
together, as a man cannot be agreeable to others who is
not easy within himself. They are both very requisite in a
virtuous mind, to keep out melancholy from the many
serious thoughts it is engaged in, and to hinder its natural
hatred of vice from souring into severity and censorious.
neSS.
If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we think of
those who cam look upon it with an eye of hatred and ill.
will, or can suffer their aversion for a party to blot out all
the merit of the person who is engaged in it? A man must
be excessively stupid, as well as uncharitable, who believes
that there is no virtue but on his own side, and that there
are not men as honest as himself who may differ from him
in political principles. Men may oppose one another in


2 I 6 JWisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
some particulars, but ought not to carry their hatred to
those qualities which are of so amiable a nature in them-
selves, and have nothing to do with the points in dispute.
Men of virtue, though of different interests, ought to con-
sider themselves as more nearly united with one another,
than with the vicious part of mankind, who embark with
them in the same civil concerns. We should bear the
same love towards a man of honour who is a living anta-
gonist, which Tully tells us in the fore-mentioned passage,
every one naturally does to an enemy that is dead. In
short, we should esteem virtue though in a foe, and abhor
vice though in a friend. -
I speak this with an eye to those cruel treatments which
men of all sides are apt to give the characters of those who
do not agree with them. How many persons of undoubted
probity and exemplary virtue, on either side, are blackened
and defamed ! How many men of honour exposed to
public obloquy and reproach! Those, therefore, who are
either the instruments or abettors in such infernal dealings,
ought to be looked upon as persons who make use of reli.
gion to promote their cause, not of their cause to promote
religion.


2 I 8 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
or when we reflect on any past absurdities of our own. This
seems to hold in most cases, and we may observe that
the vainest part of mankind are the most addicted to this
passion.
I have read a sermon of a conventual in the Church of
Rome, on those words of the wise man, “I said of laughter,
It is mad : and of mirth, What doeth it?” Upon which he
laid it down as a point of doctrine, that laughter was the
effect of original sin, and that Adam could not laugh before
the fall.
Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces the mind,
weakens the faculties, and causes a kind of remissness and
dissolution in all the powers of the soul; and thus far it
may be looked upon as a weakness in the composition of
human nature. But if we consider the frequent reliefs we
receive from it, and how often it breaks the gloom which is
apt to depress the mind and damp our spirits, with transient
unexpected gleams of joy, one would take care not to grow
too wise for so great a pleasure of life.
The talent of turning men into ridicule, and exposing to
laughter those one converses with, is the qualification of
little ungenerous tempers. A young man with this cast of
mind cuts himself off from all manner of improvement.
Every one has his flaws and weaknesses; nay, the greatest
blemishes are often found in the most shining characters; but
what an absurd thing it is to pass over all the valuable parts
of a man, and fix our attention on his infirmities, to observe
his imperfections more than his virtues, and to make use
of him for the sport of others, rather than for our own im-
provement.
We therefore very often find, that persons the most ac-
complished in ridicule are those that are very shrewd at


Zaughter and A'idicule. 2 I 9
hitting a blot, without exerting anything masterly in them-
selves. As there are many eminent critics who never wrote
a good line, there are many admirable buffoons that animad-
vert upon every single defect in another, without ever dis-
covering the least beauty of their own. By this means, these
unlucky little wits often gain reputation in the esteem of
vulgar minds, and raise themselves above persons of much
more laudable characters.
If the talent of ridicule were employed to laugh men out
of vice and folly, it might be of some use to the world:
but instead of this, we find that it is generally made use of
to laugh men out of virtue and good sense, by attacking
everything that is solemn and serious, decent and praise-
worthy in human life. -
We may observe that, in the first ages of the world, when
the great souls and masterpieces of human nature were pro-
duced, men shined by a noble simplicity of behaviour, and
were strangers to those little embellishments which are so
fashionable in our present conversation. And it is very re-
markable that, notwithstanding we fall short at present of
the ancients in poetry, painting, oratory, history, architec-
ture, and all the noble arts and sciences which depend more
upon genius than experience, we exceed them as much in
doggerel humour, burlesque, and all the trivial arts of ridi-
cule. We meet with more raillery among the moderns, but
more good sense among the ancients.
The two great branches of ridicule in writing are comedy
and burlesque. The first ridicules persons by drawing them
in their proper characters; the other by drawing them quite
unlike themselves. Burlesque is therefore of two kinds.
The first represents mean persons in the accoutrements of
heroes ; the other describes great persons acting and speak-


22O Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
ing like the basest among the people. Don Quixote is an
instance of the first, and Lucian's gods of the second. It
is a dispute among the critics, whether burlesque poetry
runs best in heroic verse, like that of “The Dispensary;”
or in doggerel, like that of Hudibras. I think where the low
character is to be raised, the heroic is the proper measure ;
but when a hero is to be pulled down and degraded, it is
done best in doggerel.
If Hudibras had been set out with as much wit and
humour in heroic verse as he is in doggerel, he would have
made a much more agreeable figure than he does; though
the generality of his readers are so wonderfully pleased with
the double rhymes, that I do not expect many will be of my
opinion in this particular.
I shall conclude this essay upon laughter with observing
that the metaphor of laughing, applied to fields and mea-
dows when they are in flower, or to trees when they are in
blossom, runs through all languages; which I have not ob-
served of any other metaphor, excepting that of fire and
burning when they are applied to love. This shews that
we naturally regard laughter as what is in itself both amiable
and beautiful. For this reason, likewise, Venus has gained
the title of Philomydes, “the laughter-loving dame,” as
Waller has translated it, and is represented by Horace as
the goddess who delights in laughter. Milton, in a joyous
assembly of imaginary persons, has given us a very poetical
figure of Laughter. His whole band of mirth is so finely
described, that I shall set down the passage at length:-
“Come, thou goddess fair and free,
In heaven yelep'd Euphrosyne,
And, by men, heart-easing Mirth;
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,


Zazaghter and Ridicule. 22 I
With two sister Graces more,
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a-Maying,
There, on beds of violets blue,
And fresh-blown roses wash’d in dew,
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it, as you go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprověd pleasures, free.”


THE WAYS OF PROVIDENCE.
“They that are dim of sight see truth by halves.”
is very reasonable to believe, that part of the
pleasure which happy minds shall enjoy in a
future state, will arise from an enlarged con-
templation of the Divine wisdom in the govern
ment of the world, and a discovering of the secret and
amazing steps of Providence, from the beginning to the end
of time. Nothing seems to be an entertainment more
adapted to the nature of man, if we consider that curiosity
is one of the strongest and most lasting appetites implanted
in us, and that admiration is one of our most pleasing pas-
sions. And what a perpetual succession of enjoyments will
be afforded to both these, in a scene so large and various
as shall then be laid open to our view in the society of
superior spirits, who perhaps will join with us in so delight-
ful a prospect
It is not impossible, on the contrary, that part of the
punishment of such as are excluded from bliss, may con-
sist not only in their being denied this privilege, but in hav-
ing their appetites at the same time vastly increased without
any satisfaction afforded to them. In these, the vain pur-
suit of knowledge shall, perhaps, add to their infelicity, and
bewilder them into labyrinths of error, darkness, distraction,
and uncertainty of everything but their own evil state.


224 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
life or death conduce to his good. My reader will observe
how agreeable this maxim is to what we find delivered by
greater authority. Seneca has written a discourse purposely
on this subject: in which he takes pains, after the doctrine
of the stoics, to shew that adversity is not in itself an evil;
and mentions a noble saying of Demetrius, that “nothing
would be more unhappy than a man who had never known
affliction.” He compares prosperity to the indulgence of a
fond mother to a child, which often proves his ruin; but
the affection of the Divine Being to that of a wise father,
who would have his sons exercised with labour, disappoint-
ments, and pain, that they may gather strength and improve
their fortitude. On this occasion, the philosopher rises into
that celebrated sentiment, that there is not on earth a spec-
tacle more worthy the regard of a Creator intent on His
works than a brave man superior to his sufferings: to which
he adds, that it must be a pleasure to Jupiter himself to
look down from heaven, and see Cato amidst the ruins of
his country preserving his integrity.
This thought will appear yet more reasonable, if we con-
sider human life as a state of probation, and adversity as
the post of honour in it, assigned often to the best and most
select spirits.
But what I would chiefly insist on here is, that we are
not at present in a proper situation to judge of the councils
by which Providence acts, since but little arrives at our
knowledge, and even that little we discern imperfectly; or
according to the elegant figure in Holy Writ, “we see but in
part, and as in a glass darkly.” It is to be considered that
Providence in its economy regards the whole system of time
and things together, so that we cannot discover the beautiful
connexion between incidents which lie widely separate in


7%e Ways of Providence. 225
time; and by losing so many links of the chain, our reason-
ings become broken and imperfect. Thus those parts of
the moral world which have not an absolute, may yet have
a relative beauty, in respect of some other parts concealed
from us, but open to His eye before whom “past,” “present,”
and “to come,” are set together in one point of view: and
those events, the permission of which seems now to accuse
His goodness, may in the consummation of things both mag-
nify His goodness, and exalt His wisdom. And this is
enough to check our presumption, since it is in vain to
apply our measures of regularity to matters of which we
know neither the antecedents nor the consequents, the
beginning nor the end. º -
I shall relieve my readers from this abstracted thought,
by relating here a Jewish tradition concerning Moses, which
seems to be a kind of parable, illustrating what I have last
mentioned. That great prophet, it is said, was called up by a
voice from heaven to the top of a mountain ; where, in a
conference with the Supreme Being, he was admitted to
propose to Him some questions concerning His adminis-
tration of the universe. In the midst of this divine colloquy
he was commanded to look down on the plain below. At
the foot of the mountain there issued out a clear spring of
water, at which a soldier alighted from his horse to drink.
He was no sooner gone than a little boy came to the same
place, and finding a purse of gold which the soldier had
dropped, took it up and went away with it. Immediately
after this came an infirm old man, weary with age and
travelling, and having quenched his thirst, sat down to rest
himself by the side of the spring. The soldier missing his
purse returns to search for it, and demands it of the old
man, who affirms he had not seen it, and appeals to Heaven
P


226 Wisdom, Wit, and Al/gory.
in witness of his innocence. The soldier, not believing his
protestations, kills him. Moses fell on his face with horror
and amazement, when the Divine voice thus prevented his
expostulation: “Be not surprised, Moses, nor ask why the
Judge of the whole earth has suffered this thing to come to
pass. The child is the occasion that the blood of the old
man is spilt; but know that the old man whom thou sawest
was the murderer of that child's father.”


228 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
evil action all possible blackness and horror, or, in the empha-
tical language of Sacred Writ, makes “sin exceeding sinful.”
If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an in-
different intention, we shall find that it destroys the merit
of a good action ; abates, but never takes away, the malig,
nity of an evil action ; and leaves an indifferent action in
its natural state of indifference.
It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess our
minds with an habitual good intention, and to aim all our
thoughts, words, and actions at some laudable end, whether
it be the glory of our Maker, the good of mankind, or the
benefit of our own souls.
This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral life,
which does not throw away any single action, but makes
every one go as far as it can. It multiplies the means of
salvation, increases the number of our virtues, and diminishes
that of our vices.
There is something very devout, though not so solid, in
Acosta's answer to Limborch, who objects to him, the
multiplicity of ceremonies in the Jewish religion, as wash-
ings, dresses, meats, purgations, and the like. The reply
which the Jew makes upon this occasion, is, to the best
of my remembrance, as follows. “There are not duties
enough,” says he, “in the essential parts of the law, for a
zealous and active obedience. Time, place, and person are
requisite, before you have an opportunity of putting a moral
virtue into practice. We have therefore,” says he, “en-
larged the sphere of our duty, and made many things,
which are in themselves indifferent, a part of our religion,
that we may have more occasions of shewing our love to
God, and in all the circumstances of life, by doing some-
thing to please him.”


23O II’sdom, Wit, and A//gory.
to us by the apostle in that uncommon precept wherein he
directs us to propose to ourselves the glory of our Creator
in all our most indifferent actions, “whether we eat or
drink, or whatsoever we do.”
A person, therefore, who is possessed with such an
habitual good intention as that which I have been here
speaking of, enters upon no single circumstance of life,
without considering it as well-pleasing to the great Author
of his being, conformable to the dictates of reason, suitable
to human nature in general, or to that particular station in
which Providence has placed him. He lives in a perpetual
sense of the Divine Presence, regards himself as acting, in
the whole course of his existence, under the observation and
inspection of that Being, who is privy to all his motions and
all his thoughts, who knows his “down-sitting and his up-
rising, who is about his path, and about his bed, and spieth
out all his ways.” In a word, he remembers that the eye
of his Judge is always upon him, and in every action he re-
flects that he is doing what is commanded or allowed by
Him who will hereafter either reward or punish it. This was
the character of those holy men of old, who, in that beauti-
ful phrase of Scripture, are said to have “walked with
God.”
When I employ myself upon a paper of morality, I
generally consider how I may recommend the particular
virtue which I treat of, by the precepts or examples of the
ancient heathens; by that means, if possible, to shame those
who have greater advantages of knowing their duty, and
therefore greater obligations to perform it, into a better
course of life; besides, that many among us are unreason-
ably disposed to give a fairer hearing to a Pagan philosopher
than to a Christian writer.


On Good /n/en/ions. 231
I shall, therefore, produce an instance of this excellent
frame of mind in a speech of Socrates, which is quoted by
Erasmus. This great philosopher on the day of his execu-
tion, a little before the draught of poison was brought to
him, entertaining his friends with a discourse on the im-
mortality of the soul, has these words: “Whether or no God
will approve of my actions, I know not; but this I am sure
of, that I have at all times made it my endeavour to please
Him, and I have a good hope that this my endeavour will
be accepted by Him.” We find in these words of that great
man the habitual good intention which I would here incul-
cate, and with which that divine philosopher always acted.
I shall only add, that Erasmus, who was an unbigoted
Roman Catholic, was so much transported with this passage
of Socrates, that he could scarce forbear looking upon him
as a saint, and desiring him to pray for him ; or as that in-
genius and learned writer has expressed himself in a much
more lively manner; “When I reflect on such a speech,
pronounced by such a person, I can scarce forbear crying
out, ‘Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis: ’ ‘O holy Socrates, pray
for us.’”


MEDITATIONS ON ANATOMY.
“Similar, though not the same.”—OvID.
ºHOSE who were skilful in anatomy, among the
# ancients, concluded, from the outward and inward
make of a human body, that it was the work of a
Being transcendently wise and powerful. As the
world grew more enlightened in this art, their discoveries gave
them fresh opportunities of admiring the conduct of Provi-
dence in the formation of a human body. Galen was converted
by his dissections, and could not but own a Supreme Being
upon a survey of this His handiwork. There were, indeed,
many parts, of which the old anatomists did not know the
certain use; but, as they saw that most of those which they
examined were adapted with admirable art to their several
functions, they did not question but those, whose uses they
could not determine, were contrived with the same wisdom
for respective ends and purposes. Since the circulation of
the blood has been found out, and many other great dis-
coveries have been made by our modern anatomists, we see
new wonders in the human frame, and discern several im-
portant uses for those parts, which uses the ancients knew
nothing of. In short, the body of man is such a subject as
stands the utmost test of examination. Though it appears
formed with the nicest wisdom, upon the most superficial
survey of it, it still mends upon the search, and produces


Meditations on Anatomy. 233
our surprise and amazement in proportion as we pry into it.
What I have here said of a human body may be applied to
the body of every animal which has been the subject of
anatomical observations.
The body of an animal is an object adequate to our senses.
It is a particular system of Providence that lies in a narrow
compass. The eye is able to command it, and by suc-
cessive inquiries can search into all its parts. Could the
body of the whole earth, or indeed the whole universe, be
thus submitted to the examination of our senses, were it not
too big and disproportioned for our inquiries, too unwieldy
for the management of the eye and hand, there is no ques-
tion but it would appear to us as curious and well-contrived
a frame as that of a human body. We should see the
same concatenation and subserviency, the same necessity
and usefulness, the same beauty and harmony, in all and
every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of
every single animal.
The more extended our reason is, and the more able
to grapple with immense objects, the greater still are those
discoveries which it makes of wisdom and providence in the
works of the creation. A Sir Isaac Newton, who stands up
as the miracle of the present age, can look through a whole
planetary system; consider it in its weight, number, and
measure; and draw from it as many demonstrations of in-
finite power and wisdom as a more confined understanding
is able to deduce from the system of a human body.
But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I shall here
consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of animals in
one particular view: which, in my opinion, shews the hand
of a thinking and all-wise Being in their formation, with the
evidence of a thousand demonstrations. I think we may


234 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
lay this down as an incontested principle, that chance never
acts in a perpetual uniformity and consistence with itself.
If one should always fling the same number with ten thou-
sand dice, or see every throw just five times less, or five
times more in number, than the throw which immediately
preceded it, who would not imagine there is some invisible
power which directs the cast? This is the proceeding which
we find in the operations of nature. Every kind of animal.
is diversified by different magnitudes, each of which give
rise to a different species. Let a man trace the dog or lion
kind, and he will observe how many of the works of nature
are published, if I may use the expression, in a variety
of editions. If we look into the reptile world, or into
those different kinds of animals that fill the element of
water, we meet with the same repetitions among several
species, that differ very little from one another but in size
and bulk. You find the same creature that is drawn at
large copied out in several proportions and ending in minia-
ture. It would be tedious to produce instances of this regu-
lar conduct in Providence, as it would be superfluous to
those who are versed in the natural history of animals. The
magnificent harmony of the universe is such, that we may ob-
serve innumerable divisions running upon the same ground.
I might also extend this speculation to the dead parts of
nature, in which we may find matter disposed into many
similar systems, as well in our survey of stars and planets,
as of stones, vegetables, and other sublunary parts of the
creation. In a word, Providence has shewn the richness of
its goodness and wisdom, not only in the production of
many original species, but in the multiplicity of descants"
which it has made on every original species in particular.
* Meant perhaps for “descents,” i.e., progress downwards.


236 Iſisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
consider how the several species in this whole world of life
resemble one another in very many particulars, so far as is
convenient for their respective states of existence, it is much
more probable that a hundred millions of dice should be
casually thrown a hundred millions of times in the same
number, than that the body of any single animal should be
produced by the fortuitous concourse of matter. And that
the like chance should arise in innumerable instances re-
quires a degree of credulity that is not under the direction
of common sense. We may carry this consideration yet
further, if we reflect on the two sexes in every living species,
with their resemblances to each other, and those particular
distinctions that were necessary for the keeping up of this
great world of life.


TRUE LIBERALITY.
“I esteem a habit of benignity greatly preferable to munificence. The
former is peculiar to great and distinguished persons, the latter
belongs to flatterers of the people, who tickle the levity of the mul-
titude with a kind of pleasure.” TULLY.
HEN we consider the offices of human life, there
§ is, methinks, something in what we ordinarily
call generosity, which, when carefully examined,
seems to flow rather from a loose and unguarded
temper than an honest and liberal mind. For this reason,
it is absolutely necessary that all liberality should have for
its basis and support, frugality. By this means the benefi-
cent spirit works in a man from the convictions of reason,
not from the impulses of passion. The generous man in
the ordinary acceptation, without respect of the demands of
his own family, will soon find upon the foot of his account,
that he has sacrificed to fools, knaves, flatterers, or the de-
servedly unhappy, all the opportunities of affording any
future assistance where it ought to be. Ilet him therefore
reflect, that if to bestow be in itself laudable, should not a
man take care to secure an ability to do things praiseworthy
as long as he lives? Or could there be a more cruel piece
of raillery upon a man who should have reduced his fortune
below the capacity of acting according to his natural temper,
than to say of him, “That gentleman was generous?” - My
beloved author therefore has, in the sentence on the top of
my paper, turned his eye with a certain satiety from be-


238 JWisdom, Wić, and A1//gory.
holding the addresses to the people by largesses and other
entertainments, which he asserts to be in general vicious,
and are always to be regulated according to the circum-
stances of time and a man’s own fortune. A constant be-
nignity in commerce with the rest of the world, which ought
to run through all a man's actions, has effects more useful
to those whom you oblige, and is less ostentatious in your-
self. He turns his recommendation of this virtue on com-
mercial life: and, according to him, a citizen who is frank
in his kindnesses, and abhors severity in his demands; he
who, in buying, selling, lending, doing acts of good neigh-
bourhood, is just and easy; he who appears naturally
averse to disputes, and above the sense of little suffer-
ings, bears a noble character, and does much more good
to mankind than any other man's fortune, without com-
merce, can possibly support. For the citizen, above all
other men, has opportunities of arriving at “that highest
fruit of wealth,” to be liberal without the least expense
of a man's own fortune. It is not to be denied but such
a practice is liable to hazard; but this therefore adds to
the obligation, that, among traders, he who obliges is as
much concerned to keep the favour a secret as he who re-
ceives it. The unhappy distinctions among us in England
are so great, that to celebrate the intercourse of commercial
friendship (with which I am daily made acquainted) would
be to raise the virtuous man so many enemies of the con-
trary party, I am obliged to conceal all I know of “Tom
the Bounteous,” who lends at the ordinary interest, to give
men of less fortune opportunities of making greater advan-
tages. He conceals, under a rough air and distant be-
haviour, a bleeding compassion and womanish tenderness.
This is governed by the most exact circumspection, that


True Zióerality. 239
there is no industry wanting in the person whom he is to
serve, and that he is guilty of no improper expenses. This
I know of Tom ; but who dare say it of so known a Tory!
The same care I was forced to use some time ago, in the
report of another's virtue, and said fifty instead of a hundred,
because the man I pointed at was a Whig. Actions of this
kind are popular, without being invidious: for every man
of ordinary circumstances looks upon a man who has this
known benignity in his nature as a person ready to be his
friend upon such terms as he ought to expect it; and the
wealthy, who may envy such a character, can do no injury
to its interests, but by the imitation of it, in which the good
citizens will rejoice to be rivalled. I know not how to form
to myself a greater idea of human life, than in what is the
practice of some wealthy men whom I could name, that
make no step to the improvement of their own fortunes,
wherein they do not also advance those of other men, who
would languish in poverty without that munificence. In a
nation where there are so many public funds to be supported,
I know not whether he can be called a good subject who
does not embark some part of his fortune with the state, to
whose vigilance he owes the security of the whole. This
certainly is an immediate way of laying an obligation upon
many, and extending your benignity the furthest a man can
possibly who is not engaged in commerce. But he who
trades, besides giving the state Some part of this sort of
credit he gives his banker, may, in all occurrences of life,
have his eye upon removing want from the door of the in-
dustrious, and defending the unhappy upright man from
bankruptcy. Without this benignity, pride or vengeance
will precipitate a man to choose the receipt of half his de-
mands from one whom he has undone, rather than the


24O Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
whole from one to whom he has shewn mercy. This be.
nignity is essential to the character of a fair trader, and any
man who designs to enjoy his wealth with honour and self.
satisfaction: nay, it would not be hard to maintain, that the
practice of supporting good and industrious men would
carry a man further even to his profit than indulging the
propensity of serving and obliging the fortunate. My
author argues on this subject, in order to incline men's
minds to those who want them most, after this manner:
“We must always consider the nature of things, and govern
ourselves accordingly. The wealthy man, when he has re-
paid you, is upon a balance with you; but the person whom
you favoured with a loan, if he be a good man, will think
himself in your debt after he has paid you. The wealthy
and the conspicuous are not obliged by the benefits you do
them; they think they conferred a benefit when they re-
ceived one. Your good offices are always suspected, and
it is with them the same thing to expect their favour as to
receive it. But the man below you, who knows, in the
good you have done him, you respected himself more than
his circumstances, does not act like an obliged man only to
him from whom he has received a benefit, but also to all
who are capable of doing him one. And whatever little
office he can do for you, he is so far from magnifying it,
that he will labour to extenuate it in all his actions and ex-
pressions. Moreover the regard to what you do to a great
man at best is taken notice of no further than by himself or
his family; but what you do to a man of a humble fortune
(provided always that he is a good and a modest man) raises
the affections towards you of all men of that character (of
which there are many) in the whole city.”


ADVANTAGE OF TRUTH.
“If we be made for honesty, either it is solely to be sought, or certainly
to be estimated much more highly than all other things.”
TULLY.
3&RUTH and reality have all the advantages of
appearance, and many more. If the show of
anything be good for anything, I am sure sin-
cerity is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem
to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to
have such a quality as he pretends to?—for to counterfeit
and dissemble is to put on the appearance of some real
excellency. Now, the best way in the world for a man to
seem to be anything, is really to be what he would seem to
be. Besides, that it is many times as troublesome to make
good the pretence of a good quality as to have it; and if a
man have it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to
want it, and then all his pains and labour to seem to have
it is lost. There is something unnatural in painting, which
a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and
complexion.
It is hard to personate and act a part long; for where
truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavour-
ing to return, and will peep out and betray herself one time
or other. Therefore if any man think it convenient to seem
good, let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will
appear to everybody's satisfaction; so that upon all ac-
Q


242 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
counts sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly as to the
affairs of this world, integrity has many advantages over all
the fine and artificial ways of dissimulation and deceit ; it
is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more
secure way of dealing in the world : it has less of trouble
and difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger
and hazard in it; it is the shortest and nearest way to our
end, carrying us thither in a straight line, and will hold out
and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do con-
tinually grow weaker and less effectual and serviceable to
them that use them ; whereas integrity gains strength by
use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the
greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation,
and encouraging those with whom he hath to do to re-
pose the greatest trust and confidence in him, which is
an unspeakable advantage in the business and affairs of
life.
Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing
to help it out; it is always near at hand, and sits upon our
lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas
a lie is troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the
rack, and one trick needs a great many more to make it
good. It is like building upon a false foundation, which
constantly stands in need of props to shore it up, and
proves at last more chargeable than to have raised a sub-
stantial building at first upon a true and solid foundation;
for sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is nothing
hollow and unsound in it, and, because it is plain and
open, fears no discovery, of which the crafty man is always
in danger; and when he thinks he walks in the dark, all
his pretences are so transparent, that he that runs may read
them ; he is the last man that finds himself to be found


Advantage of Truth. 243
out; and whilst he takes it for granted that he makes fools
of others, he renders himself ridiculous.
Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious
wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy des-
patch of business; it creates confidence in those we have to
deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings
things to an issue in few words. It is like travelling in a
plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner to
his journey's end than by-ways, in which men often lose
themselves. In a word, whatsoever convenience may be
thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon
over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it
brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion,
so that he is not believed when he speaks truth, nor
trusted when perhaps he means honestly. When a man
has once forfeited the reputation of his integrity, he is set
fast; and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth
nor falsehood.
And I have often thought that God hath, in His great
wisdom, hid from men of false and dishonest minds the
wonderful advantages of truth and integrity to the prosperity
even of our worldly affairs; these men are so blinded by
their covetousness and ambition, that they cannot look be-
yond a present advantage, nor forbear to seize upon it,
though by ways never so indirect; they cannot see so far as
to the remote consequences of a steady integrity, and the
vast benefit and advantages which it will bring a man at
last. Were but this sort of men wise and clear-sighted
enough to discern this, they would be honest out of very
knavery, not out of any love to honesty and virtue, but
with a crafty design to promote and advance more effectu-
ally their own interests; and therefore the justice of the


244 JPisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
Divine Providence has hid this truest point of wisdom from
their eyes, that bad men might not be on equal terms with
the just and upright, and serve their own wicked designs
by honest and lawful means.
Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a
day, and should never have occasion to converse more
with mankind, never more need their opinion or good word,
it were then no great matter (speaking as to the concern-
ments of this world) if a man spent his reputation all at
once, and ventured it at one throw ; but if he be to con-
tinue in the world, and would have the advantage of con-
versation whilst he is in it, let him make use of truth and
sincerity in all his words and actions; for nothing but this
will last and hold out to the end : all other arts will fail,
but truth and integrity will carry a man through, and bear
him out to the last.


THE REASONABLENESS OF VIRTUE :
AN ALLEGORY.
£ºNE Sunday evening I was led into a serious reflec-
º tion on the reasonableness of virtue, and great
folly of vice, from an excellent sermon I had
heard that afternoon. Among other observations
the preacher shewed us, that the temptations which the
tempter proposed were all on a supposition that we are either
madmen or fools, or with an intention to render us such ;
that in no other affair we would suffer ourselves to be thus
imposed upon, in a case so plainly and clearly against our
visible interest. His illustrations and arguments carried so
much persuasion and conviction with them, that they re-
mained a considerable while fresh, and working in my
memory; until at last the mind, fatigued with thought, gave
way to the forcible oppressions of slumber and sleep; whilst
fancy, unwilling yet to drop the subject, presented me with
the following vision:-
Methought I was just awoke out of a sleep that I could
never remember the beginning of ; the place where I found
myself to be was a wide and spacious plain, full of people
that wandered up and down through several beaten paths,
whereof some few were straight, and in direct lines, but
most of them winding and turning like a labyrinth ; but yet
it appeared to me afterward that these last all met in one
issue, so that many that seemed to steer quite contrary


The Reasonableness of Virtue. 247
in the straight paths, which alone led to that radiant body,
the beholding of which was now grown a gratification to
his nature.
At the issue of the crooked paths there was a great
black tower, out of the centre of which streamed a long
succession of flames, which did rise even above the clouds;
it gave a very great light to the whole plain, which did
sometimes outshine the right, and oppressed the beams, of
the adamantine pillar; though by the observation I made
afterward, it appeared that it was not from any diminution
of light, but that this lay in the travellers, who would some-
times step out of the straight paths, where they lost the full
prospect of the radiant pillar, and saw it but sideways: but
the great light from the black tower, which was somewhat
particularly scorching to them, would generally light and
hasten them to their proper climate again.
Round about the black tower there were, methought,
many thousands of huge misshapen ugly monsters; these
had great nets, which they were perpetually plying and
casting towards the crooked paths, and they would now
and then catch up those that were nearest to them ; these
they took up straight, and whirled over the walls into the
flaming tower, and they were no more seen nor heard of
They would sometimes cast their nets towards the right
paths to catch the stragglers, whose eyes, for want of fre-
quent drinking at the brook that ran by them, grew dim,
whereby they lost their way: these would sometimes very
narrowly miss being catched away, but I could not hear
whether any of these had ever been so unfortunate, that
had been before very hearty in the straight paths.
I considered all these strange sights with great attention,
until at last I was interrupted by a cluster of the travellers


250 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
they hope will serve their turn.” He shewed me many other
kind of fools, which put me quite out of humour with the
place. At last he carried me to the right paths, where I
found true and solid pleasure, which entertained me all the
way, until we came in closer sight of the pillar, where the
satisfaction increased to that measure, that my faculties
were not able to contain it: in the straining of them I was
violently waked, not a little grieved at the vanishing of so
pleasing a dream.


THE IDEA OF A SUPREME BEING.
“Who guides below, and rules above,
The great Disposer, and the mighty King:
Than He none greater, like Him none
That can bc, is, or was ;
Supreme He singly fills the throne.”
CREECH's HoRACE.
Sº IMONIDES being asked by Dionysius the tyrant
º
§ §§§ { what God was, desired a day's time to consider
§ of it before he made his reply. When the day
was expired he desired two days; and afterward,
instead of returning his answer, demanded still double the
time to consider of it. This great poet and philosopher, the
more he contemplated the nature of the Deity, found that
he waded but the more out of his depth; and that he lost
himself in the thought instead of finding an end to it.
If we consider the idea which wise men, by the light of
reason, have framed of the Divine Being, it amounts to
this; that He has in Him all the perfection of a spiritual na-
ture. And, since we have no notion of any kind of spiritual
perfection but what we discover in our own souls, we join
infinitude to each kind of these perfections, and what is a
faculty in a human soul becomes an attribute in God. We
exist in place and time; the Divine Being fills the im-
mensity of space with His presence, and inhabits eternity.
We are possessed of a little power and a little knowledge:


252 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
the Divine Being is almighty and omniscient. In short, by
adding infinity to any kind of perfection we enjoy, and by
joining all these different kinds of perfection in one being,
we form our idea of the great Sovereign of nature.
Though every one who thinks must have made this ob-
servation, I shall produce Mr Locke's authority to the same
purpose, out of his Essay on Human Understanding: “If
we examine the idea we have of the incomprehensible
Supreme Being, we shall find that we come by it the same
way; and that the complex ideas we have both of God and
separate spirits, are made up of the simple ideas we receive
from reflection; v. g. having, from what we experience in
ourselves, got the ideas of existence and duration, of know-
ledge and power, of pleasure and happiness, and of several
other qualities and powers, which it is better to have than
to be without ; when we would frame an idea the most
suitable we can to the Supreme Being, we enlarge every
one of these with our own idea of infinity; and so putting
them together make our complex idea of God.”
It is not impossible that there may be many kinds of
spiritual perfection besides those which are lodged in a
human soul; but it is impossible that we should have ideas
of any kinds of perfection except those of which we have
some small rays and short imperfect strokes in ourselves.
It would therefore be a very high presumption to determine
whether the Supreme Being has not many more attributes
than those which enter into our conceptions of Him. This
is certain, that if there be any kind of spiritual perfection
which is not marked out in the human soul, it belongs in its
fulness to the divine nature.
Several eminent philosophers have imagined that the
soul, in her separate state, may have new faculties springing


254 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
great and glorious, but as infinitely good and just in His
dispensations towards man. But as this is a theory which
falls under every one's consideration, though indeed it can
never be sufficiently considered, I shall here only take
notice of that habitual worship and veneration which we
ought to pay to this Almighty Being. We should often
refresh our minds with the thought of Him, and annihilate
ourselves before Him, in the contemplation of our own
worthlessness, and of His transcendent excellency and per-
fection. This would imprint in our minds such a constant
and uninterrupted awe and veneration as that which I am
here recommending, and which is, in reality, a kind of in-
cessant prayer, and reasonable humiliation of the soul be-
fore Him who made it.
This would effectually kill in us all the little seeds of
pride, vanity, and self-conceit, which are apt to shoot up in
the minds of such whose thoughts turn more on those com-
parative advantages which they enjoy over some of their
fellow-creatures, than on that infinite distance which is
placed between them and the Supreme model of all perfec-
tion. It would likewise quicken our desires and endeavours
of uniting ourselves to Him by all the acts of religion and
virtue.
Such an habitual homage to the Supreme Being would,
in a particular manner, banish from among us that prevail-
ing impiety of using His name on the most trivial occa-
sions.
I find the following passage in an excellent sermon,
preached at the funeral of a gentleman,” who was an hon-
our to his country, and a more diligent as well as successful
* See Bishop Burnett's sermon, preached at the funeral of the Hon-
ourable Robert Boyle.


The Idea of a Supreme Being. 255
inquirer into the works of nature than any other our nation
has ever produced. “He had the profoundest veneration
for the great God of heaven and earth that I have ever
observed in any person. The very name of God was never
mentioned by him without a pause and a visible stop in his
discourse; in which one, that knew him most particularly
above twenty years, has told me that he was so exact, that
he does not remember to have observed him once to fail
in it.”
Every one knows the veneration which was paid by the
Jews to a name so great, wonderful, and holy. They would
not let it enter even into their religious discourses. What
can we then think of those who make use of so tremendous
a name in the ordinary expressions of their anger, mirth,
and most impertinent passions? of those who admit it into
the most familiar questions and assertions, ludicrous phrases,
and works of humour? not to mention those who violate it
by solemn perjuries It would be an affront to reason to
endeavour to set forth the horror and profaneness of such
a practice. The very mention of it exposes it sufficiently
to those in whom the light of nature, not to say religion, is
not utterly extinguished.


THE DIGNITY OF HUMAN NATURE.
3. T has been usual to remind persons of rank, on
great occasions in life, of their race and quality,
and to what expectations they were born ; that
by considering what is worthy of them, they may
be withdrawn from mean pursuits, and encouraged to laud-
able undertakings. This is turning nobility into a principle
of virtue, and making it productive of merit, as it is under-
stood to have been originally a reward of it.
It is for the like reason, I imagine, that you have, in some
of your speculations, asserted to your readers the dignity
of human nature. But you cannot be insensible that this
is a controverted doctrine. There are authors who con-
sider human nature in a very different view, and books of
maxims have been written to shew the falsity of all human
virtues. The reflections which are made on the subject
usually take some tincture from the tempers and characters
of those that make them. Politicians can resolve the most
shining actions among men into artifice and design. Others
who are soured by discontent, repulses, or ill-usage, are apt
to mistake their spleen for philosophy; men of profligate
lives, and such as find themselves incapable of rising to
any distinction among their fellow-creatures, are for pulling
down all appearances of merit which seem to upbraid them;
and satirists describe nothing but deformity. From all
these hands we have such draughts of mankind as are re-


7%e Dignity of Human Maſure. 2 57
presented in those burlesque pictures which the Italians call
caricatures; where the art consists in preserving, amidst
distorted proportions and aggravated features, some distin-
guishing likeness of the person, but in such a manner as to
transform the most agreeable beauty into the most odious
monster. -
It is very disingenuous to level the best of mankind with
the worst, and for the faults of particulars to degrade the
whole species. Such methods tend not only to remove a
man's good opinion of others, but to destroy that reverence
for himself, which is a great guard of innocence, and a spring
of virtue.
It is true, indeed, that there are surprising mixtures of
beauty and deformity, of wisdom and folly, virtue and vice,
in the human make. Such a disparity is found among num,
bers of the same kind; and every individual in some in-
stances, or at some times, is so unequal to himself, that man
seems to be the most wavering and inconsistent being in the
whole creation. So that the question in morality concern-
ing the dignity of our nature may at first sight appear like
some difficult questions in natural philosophy, in which the
arguments on both sides seem to be of equal strength. But,
as I began with considering this point as it relates to action,
I shall here borrow an admirable reflection from Monsieur
Pascal, which I think sets it in its proper light.
“It is of dangerous consequence,” says he, “to represent
to man how near he is to the level of beasts, without shew-
ing him at the same time his greatness. It is likewise dan-
gerous to let him see his greatness without his meanness. It
is more dangerous yet to leave him ignorant of either; but
very beneficial that he should be made sensible of both.”
Whatever imperfections we may have in our nature, it is the
R


26o Wisdom, JP iſ, and Allegory.
have worn out my days in ease and tranquillity, free from
labour, and without emulation ? But, I know not how, my
soul has always raised itself, and looked forward on futurity,
in this view and expectation, that when it shall depart out
of life it shall then live for ever; and if this were not true,
that the mind is immortal, the souls of the most worthy
would not above all others have the strongest impulse to
glory.
“What besides this is the cause that the wisest men die
with the greatest equanimity, the ignorant with the greatest
concern ? Does it not seem that those minds which have
the most extensive views foresee they are removing to a
happier condition, which those of a narrow sight do not
perceive? I, for my part, am transported with the hope of
seeing your ancestors, whom I have honoured and loved;
and am earnestly desirous of meeting not only those excel-
lent persons whom I have known, but those, too, of whom I
have heard and read, and of whom I myself have written ;
nor would I be detained from so pleasing a journey. O
happy day, when I shall escape from this crowd, this heap
of pollution, and be admitted to that divine assembly of
exalted spirits when I shall go not only to those great per-
sons I have named, but to my Cato, my son, than whom a
better man was never born, and whose funeral rites I my-
self performed, whereas he ought rather to have attended
mine. Yet has not his soul deserted me, but, seeming to
cast back a look on me, is gone before to those habitations
to which it was sensible I should follow him. And though
I might appear to have borne my loss with courage, I was
not unaffected with it; but I comforted myself in the assur-
ance that it would not be long before we should meet again,
and be divorced no more.”


THE IMPROVEMENT OF GENIUS,
“New ways I must attempt, my grovelling name
To raise aloft, and wing my flight to fame.”
DRYDEN's VIRG.
T is a remark, made as I remember by a celebrated
French author, that no man ever pushed his capa-
city as far as it was able to extend. I shall not
inquire whether this assertion be strictly true. It
may suffice to say, that men of the greatest application and
acquirements can look back upon many vacant spaces, and
neglected parts of time, which have slipped away from them
unemployed; and there is hardly any one considering per-
son in the world but is apt to fancy with himself, at some
time or other, that if his life were to begin again he could
fill it up better.
The mind is most provoked to cast on itself this in-
genuous reproach, when the examples of such men are
presented to it as have far outshot the generality of their
species in learning, arts, or any valuable improvements.
One of the most extensive and improved geniuses we
have had any instance of in our own nation, or in any
other, was that of Sir Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam. This
great man, by an extraordinary force of nature, compass of
thought, and indefatigable study, had amassed to himself
such stores of knowledge as we cannot look upon without
amazement. His capacity seemed to have grasped all that
§§
KºKº.


The Improvement of Genius. 263
tion, and is the most singular instance of a universal genius
I have ever met with. The person I mean is Leonardo de
Vinci, an Italian painter, descended from a noble family in
Tuscany, about the beginning of the sixteenth century. In
his profession of history-painting he was so great a master,
that some have affirmed he excelled all who went before
him. It is certain that he raised the envy of Michael
Angelo, who was his contemporary, and that from the study
of his works Raphael himself learned his best manner of
designing. He was a master, too, in sculpture and archi-
tecture, and skilful in anatomy, mathematics, and mechanics.
The aqueduct from the river Adda to Milan is mentioned
as a work of his contrivance. He had learned several lan-
guages, and was acquainted with the studies of history,
philosophy, poetry, and music. Though it is not necessary
to my present purpose, I cannot but take notice that all
who have writ of him mention likewise his perſection of
body. The instances of his strength are almost incredible.
He is described to have been of a well-formed person, and
a master of all genteel exercises. And, lastly, we are told
that his moral qualities were agreeable to his natural and
intellectual endowments, and that he was of an honest and
generous mind, adorned with great sweetness of manners.
I might break off the account of him here, but I imagine it
will be an entertainment to the curiosity of my readers to
find so remarkable a character distinguished by as remark-
able a circumstance at his death. The fame of his works
having gained him a universal esteem, he was invited to the
court of France, where, after some time, he ſell sick; and
Francis the First coming to see him, he raised himself in
his bed to acknowledge the honour which was done him by
that visit. The king embraced him, and Leonardo, faint-


264 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
ing in the same instant, expired in the arms of that great
monarch.
It is impossible to attend to such instances as these
without being raised into a contemplation on the wonderful
nature of a human mind, which is capable of such pro-
gressions in knowledge, and can contain such a variety of
ideas without perplexity or confusion. How reasonable is
it from hence to infer its divine original | And whilst we
find unthinking matter endued with a natural power to last
for ever, unless annihilated by Omnipotence, how absurd
would it be to imagine that a being so much superior to it
should not have the same privilege
At the same time it is very surprising, when we remove
our thoughts from such instances as I have mentioned, to
consider those we so frequently meet with in the accounts
of barbarous nations among the Indians; where we find
numbers of people who scarce shew the first glimmerings of
reason, and seem to have few ideas above those of sense
and appetite. These, methinks, appear like large wilds, or
vast uncultivated tracts of human nature; and, when we
compare them with men of the most exalted characters in
arts and learning, we find it difficult to believe that they are
creatures of the same species.
Some are of opinion that the souls of men are all naturally
equal, and that the great disparity we so often observe arises
from the different organisation or structure of the bodies to
which they are united. But, whatever constitutes this first
disparity, the next great difference which we find between
men in their several acquirements is owing to accidental
differences in their education, fortunes, or course of life.
The soul is a kind of rough diamond, which requires art,
labour, and time to polish it. For want of which many a


The Improvement of Genius. 265
good natural genius is lost, or lies unfashioned, like a jewel
in the mine.
One of the strongest incitements to excel in such arts
and accomplishments as are in the highest esteem among
men, is the natural passion which the mind of man has for
glory; which, though it may be faulty in the excess of it,
ought by no means to be discouraged. Perhaps some
moralists are too severe in beating down this principle,
which seems to be a spring implanted by nature to give
motion to all the latent powers of the soul, and is always
observed to exert itself with the greatest force in the most
generous dispositions. The men whose characters have
shone the brightest among the ancient Romans, appear to
have been strongly animated by this passion. Cicero,
whose learning and services to his country are so well
known, was inflamed by it to an extravagant degree, and
warmly presses Lucceius, who was composing a history of
those times, to be very particular and zealous in relating
the story of his consulship, and to execute it speedily, that
he might have the pleasure of enjoying in his lifetime some
part of the honour which he foresaw would be paid to his
memory. This was the ambition of a great mind; but he
is faulty in the degree of it, and cannot refrain from solicit-
ing the historian upon this occasion to neglect the strict
laws of history, and, in praising him, even to exceed the
bounds of truth. The younger Pliny appears to have had
the same passion for fame, but accompanied with greater
chasteness and modesty. His ingenious manner of owning
it to a friend, who had prompted him to undertake some
great work, is exquisitely beautiful, and raises him to a cer-
tain grandeur above the imputation of vanity. “I must
confess,” says he, “that nothing employs my thoughts more


268 JWisdom, IV.it, and Allegory.
I accidentally fell into a discourse with him; and talking of
a certain great man, who shall be nameless, he told me that
he had sometimes the honour to treat him with a whistle;
adding, (by the way of parenthesis,) “for you must know,
gentlemen, that I whistle the best of any man in Europe.”
This naturally put me upon desiring him to give us a sample
of his art; upon which he called for a case-knife, and ap-
plying the edge of it to his mouth, converted it into a
musical instrument, and entertained me with an Italian
solo. Upon laying down the knife, he took up a pair of
clean tºbacco-pipes; and after having slid the small end of
them over the table in a most melodious trill, he fetched a
tune out of them, whistling to them at the same time in
concert. In short, the tobacco pipes became musical pipes
in the hands of our virtuoso, who confessed to me ingenu-
ously, he had broken such quantities of them, that he had
almost broke himself before he had brought this piece of
music to any tolerable perfection. I then told him I would
bring a company of friends to dine with him the next week,
as an encouragement to his ingenuity; upon which he
thanked me, saying that he would provide himself with a
new frying-pan against that day. I replied, that it was no
matter; roast and boiled would serve our turn. He smiled
at my simplicity, and told me that it was his design to give
us a tune upon it. As I was surprised at such a promise, he
sent for an old frying-pan, and grating it upon the board,
whistled to it in such a melodious manner, that you could
scarcely distinguish it from a bass-viol. He then took his
seat with us at the table, and, hearing my friend that was
with me hum over a tune to himself, he told me if he would
sing out, he would accompany his voice with a tobacco-pipe.
As my friend has an agreeable bass, he chose rather to sing


The Musica/ //osſ. 269
to the frying-pan, and indeed between them they made a
most extraordinary concert. Finding our landlord so great
a proficient in kitchen music, I asked him if he was master
of the tongs and key. He told me that he had laid it down
some years since as a little unfashionable; but that, if I
pleased, he would give me a lesson upon the gridiron. He
then informed me, that he had added two bars to the grid-
iron, in order to give it a greater compass of sound; and I
perceive he was as well pleased with the invention, as Sappho
could have been upon adding two strings to the lute. To
be short, I found that his whole kitchen was furnished with
musical instruments: and could not but look upon this
artist as a kind of burlesque musician.
He afterward, of his own accord, fell into the imitation
of several singing birds. My friend and I toasted our mis-
tresses to the nightingale, when all of a sudden we were sur-
prised with the music of the thrush. He next proceeded
to the sky-lark, mounting up by a proper scale of notes, and
afterward falling to the ground with a very easy and regular
descent. He then contracted his whistle to the voice of
several birds of the smallest size. As he is a man of a
larger bulk and higher stature than ordinary, you would
fancy him a giant when you looked upon him, and a tom-tit
when you shut your eyes.


SINGULARITY IN BEHAVIOUR.
“I steer against their motions, nor am I
Borne back by all the current of the sky.”
ADDISON.
º HERE is nothing which betrays a man into so
- |. #| many errors and inconveniences as the desire of
y º not appearing singular; for which reason it is
very necessary to form a right idea of singularity,
that we may know when it is laudable, and when it is
vicious. In the first place, every man of sense will agree
with me, that singularity is laudable when, in contradiction
to a multitude, it adheres to the dictates of conscience,
morality, and honour. In these cases we ought to consider
that it is not custom, but duty, which is the rule of action;
and that we should be only so far sociable, as we are reason-
able creatures. Truth is nevertheless so for not being
attended to: and it is the nature of actions, not the number
of actors, by which we ought to regulate our behaviour.
Singularity in concerns of this kind is to be looked upon as
heroic bravery, in which a man leaves the species only as
he soars above it. What greater instance can there be of a
weak and pusillanimous temper, than for a man to pass his
whole life in opposition to his own sentiments? or not dare
to be what he thinks he ought to be
Singularity, therefore, is only vicious when it makes men
act contrary to reason, or when it puts them upon distin-


Singularity in Behaviour. 27 I
guishing themselves by trifles. As for the first of these,
who are singular in anything that is irreligious, immoral, or
dishonourable, I believe every one will easily give them up.
I shall therefore speak of those only who are remarkable for
their singularity in things of no importance; as in dress,
behaviour, conversation, and all the little intercourses of
life. In these cases there is a certain deference due to
custom; and notwithstanding there may be a colour of
reason to deviate from the multitude in some particulars, a
man ought to sacrifice his private inclinations and opinions
to the practice of the public. It must be confessed that
good sense often makes a humourist; but then it unqualifies
him from being of any moment in the world, and renders
him ridiculous to persons of a much inferior understanding.
I have heard of a gentleman in the north of England,
who was a remarkable instance of this foolish singularity.
He had laid it down as a rule within himself, to act in the
most indifferent parts of life according to the most abstracted
notions of reason and good sense, without any regard to
fashion or example. This humour broke out at first in
many little oddnesses: he had never any stated hours for
his dinner, Supper, or sleep; because, said he, we ought to
attend the calls of nature, and not set our appetites to our
meals, but bring our meals to our appetites. In his conver-
sation with country gentlemen, he would not make use of a
phrase that was not strictly true: he never told any of them
that he was his humble servant, but that he was his well-
wisher; and would rather be thought a malcontent than
drink the king's health when he was not dry. He would
thrust his head out of his chamber-window every morning,
and after having gaped for fresh air about half an hour,
repeat fifty verses as loud as he could bawl them, for the


272 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
benefit of his lungs: to which end he generally took them
out of Homer—the Greek tongue, especially in that author,
being more deep and sonorous, and more conducive to ex-
pectoration than any other. He had many other peculi-
arities, for which he gave sound and philosophical reasons.
As this humour still grew upon him, he chose to wear a
turban instead of a periwig; concluding very justly that a
bandage of clean linen about his head was much more
wholesome, as well as cleanly, than the caul of a wig,
which is soiled by frequent perspirations. He afterwards
judiciously observed, that the many ligatures in our English
dress must naturally check the circulation of the blood; for
which reason he made his breeches and his doublet of
one continued piece of cloth, after the manner of the hussars.
In short, by following the pure dictates of reason, he at
length departed so much from the rest of his countrymen,
and indeed from his whole species, that his friends would
have put him in Bedlam, and taken his estate: but the
judge, being informed that he did no harm, contented him-
self with issuing out a commission of lunacy against him,
and putting his estate into the hands of proper guardians.
The fate of this philosopher puts me in mind of a remark
in Monsieur Fontenelle’s “Dialogues of the Dead.” “The
ambitious and the covetous,” says he, “are madmen to all
intents and purposes as much as those who are shut up in
dark rooms; but they have the good luck to have numbers
on their side; whereas the frenzy of one who is given up
for a lunatic is a frenzy hors d'autré; ” that is, in other
words, something which is singular in its kind, and does
not fall in with the madness of a multitude.


THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.
SECTION I.
“In wild unclear'd, to Muses a retreat,
O'er ground untrod before, I devious roam,
And deep enamour'd into latent springs
Presume to peep at coy virgin Naiads.”
ANON.
Nº.3
§º
UR sight is the most perfect and most delightful of
all our senses. It fills the mind with the largest
variety of ideas, converses with its objects at the
greater distance, and continues the longest in
action without being tired or satiated with its proper enjoy-
ments. The sense of feeling can indeed give us a notion
of extension, shape, and all other ideas that enter at the
eye, except colours; but, at the same time, it is very much
straitened and confined in its operations to the number,
bulk, and distance of its particular objects. Our sight
seems designed to supply all these defects, and may be con-
sidered as a more delicate and diffusive kind of touch, that
spreads itself over an infinite multitude of bodies, compre-
hends the largest figures, and brings into our reach some of
the most remote parts of the universe.
It is this sense which furnishes the imagination with its
ideas; so that by “the pleasures of the imagination,” or
“fancy,” (which I shall use promiscuously,) I here mean
S


274 Wisdom, JVić, and Allegory.
such as arise from visible objects, either when we have
them actually in our view, or when we call up their ideas
into our minds by painting, statues, descriptions, or any the
like occasion. We cannot, indeed, have a single image in
the fancy that did not make its first entrance through the
sight; but we have the power of retaining, altering, and com-
pounding those images which we have once received into
all the varieties of picture and vision that are most agree-
able to the imagination: for by this faculty a man in a dun-
geon is capable of entertaining himself with scenes and
landscapes more beautiful than any that can be found in the
whole compass of nature.
There are few words in the English language which are
employed in a more loose and uncircumscribed sense than
those of the fancy and the imagination. I therefore thought
it necessary to fix and determine the notion of these two
words, as I intend to make use of them in the thread of my
following speculations, that the reader may conceive rightly
what is the subject which I proceed upon. I must therefore
desire him to remember, that by “the pleasures of the ima-
gination,” I mean only such pleasures as arise originally from
sight, and that I divide these pleasures into two kinds: my
design being first of all to discourse of those primary plea-
sures of the imagination, which entirely proceed from such
objects as are before our eyes; and in the next place to
speak of those secondary pleasures of the imagination which
flow from the ideas of visible objects, when the objects are
not actually before the eye, but are called up into our
memories, or formed into agreeable visions of things that
are either absent or fictitious.
The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their full ex-
tent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor so refined as


276 JWisdom, Iſiſ, and Al/gory.
business is into vice or folly. A man should endeavour,
therefore, to make the sphere of his innocent pleasures as
wide as possible, that he may retire into them with safety,
and find in them such a satisfaction as a wise man would
not blush to take. Of this nature are those of the imagina-
tion, which do not require such a bent of thought as is
necessary to our more serious employments, nor, at the
same time, suffer the mind to sink into that negligence and
remissness, which are apt to accompany our more sensual
delights, but, like a gentle exercise to the faculties, awaken
them from sloth and idleness, without putting them upon
any labour or difficulty.
We might here add, that the pleasures of the fancy are
more conducive to health than those of the understanding,
which are worked out by dint of thinking, and attended
with too violent a labour of the brain. Delightful scenes,
whether in nature, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influ-
ence on the body as well as the mind: and not only serve
to clear and brighten the imagination, but are able to dis-
perse grief and melancholy, and to set the animal spirits
in pleasing and agreeable motions. For this reason, Sir
Francis Bacon, in his Essay upon Health, has not thought
it improper to prescribe to his reader a poem or a prospect,
where he particularly dissuades him from knotty and subtle
disquisitions, and advises him to pursue studies that fill
the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories,
fables, and contemplations of nature.
I have in this paper, by way of introduction, settled the
notion of those pleasures of the imagination which are the
subject of my present undertaking, and endeavoured, by
several considerations, to recommend to my reader the pur-
suit of those pleasures. I shall in my next paper examine


The Pleasures of Zºe /magination. 277
the several sources from whence these pleasures are de-
rived.
SECTION II.
“The work, divided aptly, shorter grows.”
I shall first consider those pleasures of the imagination
which arise from the actual view and survey of outward ob-
jects: and these, I think, all proceed from the sight of what
is great, uncommon, or beautiful. There may, indeed, be
something so terrible or offensive, that the horror or loath-
someness of an object may overbear the pleasure which
results from its greatness, novelty, or beauty; but still there
will be such a mixture of delight in the very disgust it gives
us, as any of these three qualifications are most conspicuous
and prevailing.
By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any single
object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one
entire piece. Such are the prospects of an open champaign
country, a vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of moun-
tains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of
waters, where we are not struck with the novelty or beauty
of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which
appears in many of these stupendous works of nature. Our
imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at
any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into
a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views, and feel
a delightful stillness and amazement in the Soul at the
apprehension of them. The mind of man naturally hates
every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is apt
to fancy itself under a sort of confinement when the sight is
pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened on every side


278 JWisdom, Wit, and 4//egory.
by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the con-
trary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the
eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the
immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety
of objects that offer themselves to its observation. Such
wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the
fancy as the speculations of eternity or infinitude are to the
understanding. But if there be a beauty or uncommonness
joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven
adorned with stars and meteors, or a spacious landscape
cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the plea-
sure still grows upon us, as it arises from more than a single
principle.
Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure
in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable
surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which
it was not before possessed. We are indeed so often con-
versant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many
repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or
uncommon contributes a little to vary human life, and to
divert our mind for awhile with the strangeness of its appear-
ance. It serves us for a kind of refreshment, and takes off
from that satiety we are apt to complain of, in our usual
and ordinary entertainments. It is this that bestows charms
on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature
please us. It is this that recommends variety, where the
mind is every instant called off to something new, and the
attention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on
any particular object. It is this, likewise, that improves what
is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double
entertainment. Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any
season of the year pleasant to look upon, but never so much


The Pleasures of Z/ie /magination. 279
as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new and
fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much
accustomed and familiar to the eye. For this reason there
is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jet-
teaus, or falls of water, where the scene is perpetually shift-
ing, and entertaining the sight every moment with some-
thing that is new. We are quickly tired with looking upon
hills and valleys, where everything continues fixed and
settled in the same place and posture, but find our thoughts
a little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as
are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye
of the beholder.
But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to
the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret
satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and
gives a finishing to anything that is great or uncommon.
The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an in-
ward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through
all its faculties. There is not, perhaps, any real beauty or
deformity more in one piece of matter than another, because
we might have been so made, that whatsoever now appears
loathsome to us might have shewn itself agreeable; but we
find by experience that there are several modifications of
matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration,
pronounces at first sight beautiful or deformed. Thus we
see that every different species of sensible creatures has its
different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most
affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is nowhere
more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and pro-
portion, where we often see the male determined in his
courtship by the single grain or tincture of a feather, and
never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species.


28o JWisdom, Iſiſ, and A//gory.
The feather'd husband, to his partner true,
Preserves connubial rites inviolate.
With cold indifference every charm he sees,
The milky whiteness of the stately neck,
The shining down, proud crest, and purple wings:
But cautious, with a searching eye, explores
The female tribes, his proper mate to find,
With kindred colours mark'd ; did he not so,
The grove with painted monsters would abound;
Th’ ambiguous product of unnatural love.
The blackbird hence selects her sooty spouse,
The nightingale her musical compeer;
Lured by the well-known voice, the bird of night,
Smit with his dusky wings and greenish eyes,
Woos his dun paramour. The beauteous race
Speak the chaste love of their progenitors;
When, by the Spring invited, they exult
In woods and fields, and to the sun unfold
Their plumes, that with paternal colours glow.
There is a second kind of beauty that we find in the
several products of art and nature, which does not work in
the imagination with that warmth and violence as the
beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt, how-
ever, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness
for the places or objects in which we discover it. This
consists either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in the
symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and
disposition of bodies, or in a just mixture and concurrence of
all together. Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye
takes most delight in colours. We nowhere meet with a
more glorious or pleasing show in nature, than what appears
in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is
wholly made up of those different stains of light that shew
themselves in clouds of a different situation. For this
reason we find the poets, who are always addressing them-


282 Wisdom, Wit, and A//gory.
that are most agreeable, and to range, under their proper
heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind, without
being able to trace out the several necessary and efficient
causes from whence the pleasure or displeasure arises.
Final causes lie more bare and open to our observation,
as there are often a greater variety that belong to the same
effect; and these, though they are not altogether so satis-
factory, are generally more useful than-the other, as they
give us greater occasion of admiring the goodness and wis-
dom Cf the first Contriver.
One of the final causes of our delight in anything that is
great may be this. The Supreme Author of our being has
so formed the soul of man, that nothing but Himself can
be its last, adequate, and proper happiness. Because,
therefore, a great part of our happiness must arise from the
contemplation of His being, that He might give our souls
a just relish for such a contemplation, He has made them
naturally delight in the apprehension of what is great or
unlimited. Our admiration, which is a very pleasing mo-
tion of the mind, immediately rises at the consideration of
any object that takes up a great deal of room in the fancy,
and, by consequence, will improve into the highest pitch of
astonishment and devotion when we contemplate His nature,
that is neither circumscribed by time nor place, nor to be
comprehended by the largest capacity of a created being.
He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of anything
that is new or uncommon, that He might encourage us in
the pursuit after knowledge, and engage us to search into
the wonders of His creation ; for every new idea brings
such a pleasure with it, as rewards any pains we have taken
in its acquisition, and consequently serves as a motive to
put us upon fresh discoveries.


The Pleasures of the Imagination. 283
He has made everything that is beautiful in our own
species pleasant, that all creatures might be tempted to
multiply their kind, and fill the world with inhabitants; for
it is very remarkable, that wherever nature is crossed in the
production of a monster, the breed is incapable of propa-
gating its likeness, and of founding a new order of crea-
tures: so that, unless all animals were allured by the beauty
of their own species, generation would be at an end, and
the earth unpeopled.
In the last place, He has made everything that is beauti-
ful in all other objects pleasant, or rather has made so many
objects appear beautiful, that He might render the whole
creation more gay and delightful. He has given almost
everything about us the power of raising an agreeable idea
in the imagination: so that it is impossible for us to behold
His works with coldness or indifference, and to survey so
many beauties without a secret satisfaction and compla-
cency. Things would make but a poor appearance to the
eye, if we saw them only in their proper figures and mo-
tions: and what reason can we assign for their exciting in
us many of those ideas which are different from anything
that exists in the objects themselves, (for such are light and
colours,) were it not to add supernumerary ornaments to
the universe, and make it more agreeable to the imagina-
tion? We are everywhere entertained with pleasing shows
and apparitions : we discover imaginary glories in the
heavens and in the earth, and see some of this visionary
beauty poured out upon the whole creation: but what a
rough unsightly sketch of nature should we be entertained
with, did all her colouring disappear, and the several dis-
tinctions of light and shade vanish In short, our souls
are at present delightfully lost and bewildered in a pleasing


284 II isdom, II iſ, and Al/gory.
delusion, and we walk about like the enchanted hero of a
romance, who sees beautiful castles, woods, and meadows;
and, at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and the
purling of streams; but upon the finishing of some secret
spell the fantastic scene breaks up, and the disconsolate
knight finds him on a barren heath, or in a solitary desert.
It is not improbable that something like this may be the
state of the soul after its first separation, in respect of the
images it will receive from matter; though indeed the ideas
of colours are so pleasing and beautiful in the imagination,
that it is possible the soul will not be deprived of them, but
perhaps find them excited by some other occasional cause,
as they are at present by the different impressions of the
subtle matter on the organ of sight.
I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with
that great discovery, which is universally acknowledged by
all the inquirers into natural philosophy, -namely, that
light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are
only ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any
existence in matter. As this is a truth which has been
proved incontestably by many modern philosophers, and is
indeed one of the finest speculations in that science, if the
English reader would see the notion explained at large, he
may find it in the eighth chapter of the second book of Mr
Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding.
SECTION IV.
“But mutually they need each other's help.”—Roscom Mon.
If we consider the works of nature and art as they are
qualified to entertain the imagination, we shall find the last


Z%e Pleasures of the Imagination. 285
very defective, in comparison of the former; for though
they may sometimes appear as beautiful or strange, they
can have nothing in them of that vastness and immensity,
which afford so great an entertainment to the mind of the
beholder. The one may be as polite and delicate as the
other, but can never shew herself so august and magnificent
in the design. There is something more bold and masterly
in the rough careless strokes of nature, than in the nice
touches and embellishments of art. The beauties of the
most stately garden or palace lie in a narrow compass; the
imagination immediately runs them over, and requires
something else to gratify her; but in the wide fields of
nature, the sight wanders up and down without confine-
ment, and is fed with an infinite variety of images, without
any certain stint or number. For this reason we always
find the poet in love with the country life, where nature
appears in the greatest perfection, and furnishes out all
those scenes that are most apt to delight the imagination.
“—To grottos and to groves we run,
To ease and silence, every Muse's son.”—POPE.
“Here easy quiet, a secure retreat,
A harmless life that knows not how to cheat,
With home-bred plenty the rich owner bless,
And rural pleasures crown his happiness.
Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb’d with noise,
The country king his peaceful realm enjoys:
Cool grots and living lakes, the flow'ry pride
Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide;
And shady groves that easy sleep invite,
And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night.”
DRYDEN.
But though there are several of those wild scenes that are
more delightful than any artifical shows, yet we find the


286 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
works of nature still more pleasant, the more they resemble
those of art; for in this case our pleasure rises from a
double principle—from the agreeableness of the objects to
the eye, and from their similitude to other objects. We
are pleased as well with comparing their beauties as with
surveying them, and can represent them to our minds,
either as copies or originals. Hence it is that we take
delight in a prospect which is well laid out, and diversified
with fields and meadows, woods and rivers; in those acci-
dental landscapes of trees, clouds, and cities, that are some-
times found in the veins of marble ; in the curious fret-
work of rocks and grottos; and, in a word, in anything
that hath such a variety or regularity as may seem the effect
of design in what we call the works of chance.
If the products of nature rise in value according as they
more or less resemble those of art, we may be sure that
artificial works receive a greater advantage from their re-
semblance of such as are natural ; because here the simili-
tude is not only pleasant, but the pattern more perfect.
The prettiest laudscape I ever saw was one drawn on the
walls of a dark room, which stood opposite on one side to
a navigable river, and on the other to a park. The experi-
ment is very common in optics. Here you might discover
the waves and fluctuations of the water in strong and pro-
per colours, with the picture of a ship entering at one end,
and sailing by degrees through the whole piece. On
another there appeared the green shadows of trees, waving
to and fro with the wind, and herds of deer among them in
miniature, leaping about upon the wall. I must confess
the novelty of such a sight may be one occasion of its
pleasantness to the imagination; but certainly its chief rea-
son is its nearest resemblance to nature, as it does not


The Pleasures of the Imagination. 287
only, like other pictures, give the colour and figure, but the
motion of the things it represents.
We have before observed, that there is generally in
nature something more grand and august than what we
meet with in the curiosities of art. When, therefore, we
see this imitated in any measure, it gives us a nobler and
more exalted kind of pleasure than what we receive from
the nicer and more accurate productions of art. On this
account our English gardens are not so entertaining to the
fancy as those in France and Italy, where we see a large
extent of ground covered over with an agreeable mixture of
garden and forest, which represent everywhere an artificial
rudeness, much more charming than that neatness and
elegancy which we meet with in those of our own country.
It might indeed be of ill consequence to the public, as well
as unprofitable to private persons, to alienate so much
ground from pasturage and the plough, in many parts of
a country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to a far
greater advantage. But why may not a whole estate be
thrown into a kind of garden by frequent plantations, that
may turn as much to the profit as the pleasure of the owner?
A marsh overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded
with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more beneficial,
than when they lie bare and unadorned. Fields of corn
make a pleasant prospect; and if the walks were a little
taken care of that lie between them, if the natural em-
broidery of the meadows were helped and improved by
some small additions of art, and the several rows of hedges
set off by trees and flowers that the soil was capable of
receiving, a man might make a pretty landscape of his own
possessions.
Writers who have given us an account of China, tell us


The Pleasures of the /magination. 289
SECTION V.
“Witness our cities of illustrious name,
Their costly labour, and stupendous frame.”
DRYDEN.
Having already shewn how the fancy is affected by the
works of nature, and afterwards considered in general both
the works of nature and of art, how they mutually assist and
complete each other in forming such scenes and prospects
as are most apt to delight the mind of the beholder, I shall
in this paper throw together some reflections on that parti-
cular art, which has more immediate tendency, than any
other, to produce those primary pleasures of the imagination
which have hitherto been the subject of this discourse. The
art I mean is that of architecture, which I shall consider
only with regard to the light in which the foregoing specu-
lations have placed it, without entering into those rules and
maxims which the great masters of architecture have laid
down, and explained at large in numberless treatises upon
that subject. -
Greatness in the works of architecture may be considered
as relating to the bulk and body of structure, or to the man-
ner in which it is built. As for the first, we find the ancients,
especially among the eastern nations of the world, infinitely
superior to the moderns.
Not to mention the tower of Babel, of which an old author
says, there were the foundations to be seen in his time, which
looked like a spacious mountain; what could be more noble
than the walls of Babylon, its hanging gardens, and its temple
to Jupiter Belus, that rose a mile high by eight several storeys,
each storey a furlong in height, and on the top of which was
T


The Pleasures of Z/ºe /magination. 291
In Egypt we still see their pyramids, which answer to the
descriptions that have been made of them ; and I question
not but a traveller might find out some remains of the laby-
rinth that covered a whole province, and had a hundred
temples disposed among its several quarters and divisions.
The wall of China is one of these eastern pieces of mag-
nificence, which makes a figure even in the map of the
world, although an account of it would have been thought
fabulous, were not the wall itself still extant.
We are obliged to devotion for the noblest buildings that
have adorned the several countries of the world. It is this
which has set men at work on temples and public places of
worship, not only that they might, by the magnificence of
the building, invite the Deity to reside within it, but that
such stupendous works might, at the same time, open the
mind to vast conceptions, and fit it to converse with the
divinity of the place. For every thing that is majestic
imprints an awfulness and reverence on the mind of the
beholder, and strikes in with the natural greatness of the
soul.
In the second place, we are to consider greatness of man-
ner in architecture, which has such force upon the imagina-
tion, that a small building, where it appears, shall give the
mind nobler ideas than one of twenty times the bulk, where
the manner is ordinary or little. Thus, perhaps, a man
would have been more astonished with the majestic air that
appeared in one of Lysippus's statues of Alexander, though
no bigger than the life, than he might have been with Mount
Athos, had it been cut into the figure of the hero, according
to the proposal of Phidias, with a river in one hand, and a
city in the other.
Let any one reflect on the disposition of mind he finds in


294 ll isdom, ll’if, and A1//gory.
mind in architecture, I might next shew the pleasure that
arises in the imagination from what appears new and beauti-
ful in this art; but as every beholder has naturally a greater
taste of these two perfections in every building which offers
itself to his view, than of that which I have hitherto con-
sidered, I shall not trouble my readers with any reflections
upon it. It is sufficient for my present purpose to observe,
that there is nothing in this whole art which pleases the im-
agination, but as it is great, uncommon, or beautiful.
SECTION VI.
“So far as what we see with our minds, bears similitude to what we see
with our eyes.”
I at first divided the pleasures of the imagination into such
as arise from objects that are actually before our eyes, or
that once entered in at our eyes, and are afterward called
up into the mind either barely by its own operations, or on
occasion of something without us, as statues or descriptions.
We have already considered the first division, and shall
therefore enter on the other, which, for distinction's sake, I
have called “The Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination.”
When I say the ideas we receive from statues, descriptions,
or such-like occasions are the same that were once actually
in our view, it must not be understood that we had once
seen the very place, action, or person, that are carved or
described. It is sufficient that we have seen places, persons,
or actions in general, which bear a resemblance, or at least
some remote analogy, with what we find represented: since
it is in the power of the imagination, when it is once stocked
with particular ideas, to enlarge, compound, and vary them
at her own pleasure.


298 Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
several readers affix to the same words. For, to have a true
relish and form a right judgment of a description, a man
should be born with a good imagination, and must have
well weighed the force and energy that lie in the several
words of a language, so as to be able to distinguish which
are most significant and expressive of their proper ideas,
and what additional strength and beauty they are capable
of receiving from conjunction with others. The fancy must
be warm to retain the print of those images it hath received
from outward objects, and the judgment discerning, to know
what expressions are most proper to clothe and adorn them
to the best advantage. A man who is deficient in either of
these respects, though he may receive the general notion of a
description, can never see distinctly all its particular beauties;
as a person with a weak sight may have the confused pro-
spect of a place that lies before him, without entering into
its several parts, or discerning the variety of its colours in
their full glory and perfection.
SECTION VII.
“He on whose birth the lyric queen
Of numbers smiled, shall never grace
The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen
First in the famed Olympic race.
But him the streams that warbling flow
Rich Tibur's fertile meads along,
And shady groves his haunts shall know
The master of the AEolian song.”
ATTERBURY.
We may observe, that any single circumstance of what we
have formerly seen often raises up a whole scene of imagery,
and awakens numberless ideas that before slept in the ima-
gination; such a particular smell or colour is able to fill the


The Pleasures of Z/e //ſtagination. 299
mind on a sudden with the picture of the fields or gardens
where we first met with it, and to bring up into view all the
variety of images that once attended it. Our imagination
takes the hint, and leads us unexpectedly into cities or
theatres, plains or meadows. We may further observe, when
the fancy thus reflects on the scenes that have passed in it
formerly, those which were at first pleasant to behold appear
more so upon reflection, and that the memory heightens the
delightfulness of the original. A Cartesian would account
for both these instances in the following manner:—
The set of ideas which we received from such a prospect
or garden, having entered the mind at the same time, have
a set of traces belonging to them in the brain, bordering
very near upon one another; when, therefore, any one of
these ideas arises in the imagination, and consequently
dispatches a flow of animal spirits to its proper trace, these
spirits, in the violence of their motion, run not only into the
trace to which they were more particularly directed, but into
several of those that lie about it. By this means, they
awaken other ideas of the same set, which immediately
determine a new despatch of spirits, that in the same manner
open other neighbouring traces, till at last the whole set of
them is blown up, and the whole prospect or garden
flourishes in the imagination. But because the pleasure we
receive from these places far surmounted and overcame the
little disagreeableness we found in them, for this reason
there was at first a wider passage worn in the pleasure
traces, and, on the contrary, so narrow a one in those which
belonged to the disagreeable ideas, that they were quickly
stopt up, and rendered incapable of receiving any animal
spirits, and consequently of exciting any unpleasant ideas in
the memory.


3OO Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
It would be in vain to inquire whether the power of
imagining things strongly proceeds from any greater perfec-
tion in the soul, or from any nicer texture in the brain of
one man than of another. But this is certain, that a noble
writer should be born with this faculty in its full strength
and vigour, so as to be able to receive lively ideas from
outward objects, to retain them long, and to range them
together upon occasion, in such figures and representations
as are most likely to hit the fancy of the reader. A poet
should take as much pains in forming his imagination as a
philosopher in cultivating his understanding. He must gain
a due relish of the works of nature, and be thoroughly con-
versant in the various scenery of a country life.
When he is stored with country images, if he would go
beyond pastoral, and the lower kinds of poetry, he ought to
acquaint himself with the pomp and magnificence of courts,
He should be very well versed in everything that is noble
and stately in the productions of art, whether it appear in
painting or statuary; in the great works of architecture
which are in their present glory, or in the ruins of those
which flourished in former ages.
Such advantages as these help to open a man's thoughts,
and to enlarge his imagination, and will therefore have their
influence on all kinds of writing, if the author knows how
to make right use of them. And among those of the learned
languages who excel in this talent, the most perfect in their
several kinds are perhaps Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. The
first strikes the imagination wonderfully with what is great,
the second with what is beautiful, and the last with what is
strange. Reading the Iliad, is like travelling through a
country uninhabited, where the fancy is entertained with a
thousand savage prospects of vast deserts, wide uncultivated


The Pleasures of the Imagination. 301
marshes, huge forests, misshapen rocks and precipices. On
the contrary, the AEneid is like a well-ordered garden, where
it is impossible to find out any part unadorned, or to cast
our eyes upon a single spot that does not produce some
beautiful plant or flower. But when we are in the Meta-
morphoses, we are walking on enchanted ground, and see
nothing but scenes of magic lying around us.
Homer is in his province, when he is describing a battle
or a multitude, a hero or a god. Virgil is never better
pleased than when he is in his elysium, or copying out an
entertaining picture. Homer's epithets generally mark out
what is great; Virgil's what is agreeable. Nothing can be
more magnificent than the figure Jupiter makes in the first
Iliad, nor more charming than that of Venus in the first
AEneid.
“He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows,
Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod,
The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god:
High heaven with trembling the dread signal took,
And all Olympus to the centre shook.”
POPE.
“Thus having said, she turn’d and made appear
Her neck refulgent, and dishevell'd hair;
Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach'd the ground,
And widely spread ambrosial scents around:
In length of train descends her sweeping gown,
And by her graceful walk the queen of love is known.”
- DRYDEN.
Homer's persons are most of them godlike and terrible;
Virgil has scarce admitted any into his poem who are not
beautiful, and has taken particular care to make his hero so.
“And gave his rolling eyes a sparkling grace,
And breathed a youthful vigour on his face.”
DRYDEN,


3O2 Wisdom, II’if, and Allegory.
In a word, Homer fills his readers with sublime ideas, and,
I believe, has raised the imagination of all the good poets
that have come after him. I shall only instance Horace,
who immediately takes fire at the first hint of any passage
in the Iliad or Odyssey, and always rises above himself
when he has Homer in his view. Virgil has drawn together,
into his AEneid, all the pleasing scenes his subject is capable
of admitting, and in his Georgics has given us a collection
of the most delightful landscapes that can be made out of
fields and woods, herds of cattle, and swarms of bees.
Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, has shewn us how the
imagination may be affected by what is strange. He de-
scribes a miracle in every story, and always gives us the
sight of some new creature at the end of it. His art con-
sists chiefly in well-timing his description, before the first
shape is quite worn off, and the new one perfectly finished;
so that he everywhere entertains us with something we never
saw before, and shews us monster after monster to the end
of the Metamorphoses.
If I were to name a poet that is a perfect master in all
these arts of working on the imagination, I think Milton
may pass for one; and if his Paradise Lost falls short of the
AEneid or Iliad in this respect, it proceeds rather from the
fault of the language in which it is written, than from any
defect of genius in the author. So divine a poem in English
is like a stately palace built of brick, where one may see
architecture in as great a perfection as one of marble, though
the materials are of a coarser nature. But to consider it only
as it regards our present subject; what can be conceived
greater than the battle of angels, the majesty of Messiah,
the stature and behaviour of Satan and his peers? What
more beautiful than Pandaemonium, Paradise, Heaven,


3O4. Wisdom, Wit, and Allegory.
because here we are not only delighted with comparing the
representation with the original, but are highly pleased with
the original itself. Most readers, I believe, are more
charmed with Milton's description of paradise, than of hell:
they are both, perhaps, equally perfect in their kind; but in
the one the brimstone and sulphur are not so refreshing to
the imagination, as the beds of flowers and the wilderness of
sweets in the other.
There is yet another circumstance which recommends a
description more than all the rest; and that is, if it repre-
sents us to such objects as are apt to raise a secret ferment in
the mind of the reader, and to work with violence upon his
passions. For, in this case, we are at once warned and
enlightened, so that the pleasure becomes more universal,
and is several ways qualified to entertain us. Thus in
painting, it is pleasant to look on the picture of any face
where the resemblance is hit; but the pleasure increases if
it be the picture of a face that is beautiful; and is still
greater, if the beauty be softened with an air of melancholy
or sorrow. The two leading passions which the more se-
rious parts of poetry endeavour to stir up in us are terror
and pity. And here, by the way, one would wonder how it
comes to pass that such passions as are very unpleasant tº
all other times, are very agreeable when excited by proper
descriptions. It is not strange that we should take delight
in such passages as are apt to produce hope, joy, admiration,
love, or the like emotions, in us, because they never rise in
the mind without an inward pleasure which attends them.
But how comes it to pass, that we should take delight in
being terrified or dejected by a description, when we find so
much uneasiness in the fear or grief which we receive from
any other occasion ? -


The Pleasures of the Imagination. 309
fore, any of these represented naturally, we cannot look
upon the representation as altogether impossible, nay, many
are prepossessed with such false opinions, as dispose them
to believe these particular delusions; at least we have all
heard so many pleasing relations in favour of them, that we
do not care for seeing through the falsehood, and willingly
give ourselves up to so agreeable an imposture.
The ancients have not much of this poetry among them,
for, indeed, almost the whole substance of it owes its ori-
ginal to the darkness and superstition of later ages, when
pious frauds were made use of to amuse mankind, and
frighten them into a sense of their duty. Our forefathers
looked upon nature with more reverence and horror, before
the world was enlightened by learning and philosophy; and
loved to astonish themselves with the apprehensions of witch-
craft, prodigies, charms, and enchantments. There was not
a village in England that had not a ghost in it; the church-
yards were all haunted; every large common had a circle of
fairies belonging to it; and there was scarce a shepherd to
be met with who had not seen a spirit.
Among all the poets of this kind our English are much
the best, by what I have yet seen; whether it be that we
abound with more stories of this nature, or that the genius
of our country is fitter for this sort of poetry. For the Eng-
lish are naturally fanciful, and very often disposed, by that
gloominess and melancholy of temper, which is so frequent
in our nation, to many wild notions and visions, to which
others are not so liable.
Among the English, Shakspeare has incomparably ex-
celled all others. That noble extravagance of fancy, which
he had in so great perfection, thoroughly qualified him to
touch this weak superstitious part of his reader's imagina-


3 IO JWisdom, Iſiſ, and Allegory.
tion; and made him capable of succeeding, where he had
nothing to support him besides the strength of his own
genius. There is something so wild, and yet so solemn, in
the speeches of his ghosts, fairies, witches, and the like ima-
ginary persons, that we cannot forbear thinking them natural,
though we have no rule by which to judge of them, and must
confess, if there are such beings in the world, it looks highly
probable they should talk and act as he has represented
them.
There is another sort of imaginary beings, that we some-
times meet with among the poets, when the author repre-
sents any passion, appetite, virtue, or vice, under a visible
shape, and makes it a person or an actor in his poem. Of
this nature are the descriptions of Hunger and Envy in Ovid,
of Fame in Virgil, and of Sin and Death in Milton. We
find a whole creation of the like shadowy persons in Spenser,
who had an admirable talent in representations of this kind.
I have discoursed of these emblematical persons in former
papers, and shall therefore only mention them in this place.
Thus we see how many ways poetry addresses itself to the
imagination, as it has not only the whole circle of nature for
its province, but makes new worlds of its own, shews us
persons who are not to be found in being, and represents
even the faculties of the soul, with the several virtues and
vices, in a sensible shape and character.
I shall, in the two following sections, consider, in general,
how other kinds of writing are qualified to please the ima-
gination; with which I shall conclude this essay.


The Pleasures of the Imagination. 313
itself to the infinite space that is everywhere diffused about
it; or when the imagination works downward, and con-
siders the bulk of a human body in respect of an animal
a hundred times less than a mite, the particular limbs of
such an animal, the different springs that actuate the limbs,
the.spirits which set the springs a-going, and the propor-
tionable minuteness of these several parts, before they have
arrived at their full growth and perfection; but if, after all
this, we take the least particle of these animal spirits, and
consider its capacity of being wrought into a world that
shall contain within those narrow dimensions a heaven and
earth, stars and planets, and every different species of living
creatures, in the same analogy and proportion they bear to
each other in our own universe; such a speculation, by
reason of its nicety, appears ridiculous to those who have
not turned their thoughts that way, though at the same time
it is founded on no less than the evidence of a demonstra-
tion. Nay, we may yet carry it further, and discover in the
smallest particle of this little world a new inexhausted fund
of matter, capable of being spun out into another universe.
I have dwelt the longer on this subject, because I think
it may shew us the proper limits, as well as the defectiveness,
of our imagination; how it is confined to a very small quan-
tity of space, and immediately stopped in its operation, when
it endeavours to take in anything that is very great or very
little. Let a man try to conceive the different bulk of an
animal, which is twenty, from another which is a hundred
times less than a mite, or to compare in his thoughts a
length of a thousand diameters of the earth, with that of a
million; and he will quickly find that he has no different
measures in his mind, adjusted to such extraordinary de-
grees of grandeur or minuteness. The understanding, in-


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~~~~~~
~~~~~
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