I 3 ANTHONY, EARL OF SHAFTESBURY. , '.tircn * Cscper cf&ah'/sff: Jim:t/ril't/tn .'\-/i/r THE LIFE, UNPUBLISHED LETTERS, AND PHILOSOPHICAL REGIMEN OF ANTHONY, EARL OF SHAFTESBURY AUTHOR OF THE "CHARACTERISTICS" EDITED BY BENJAMIN RAND, PH.D. Harvard University LONDON SWAN SONXENSCIIKIN & CO. LIM. NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN CO. I QOO. V PEEFATOET INTBODIJCTION. The present volume consists of a sketch of the life, of the unpublished letters, and of the philosophical regimen of that most fascinating English moralist, the third Earl of Shaftesbury. The entire material for the work, apart from the letters addressed to Locke, has been obtained from the Shaftesbury Papers, which are now deposited in the Record Office in London. Mr. Thomas Fowler in his " Shaftesbury and Hutcheson 1 " expressed the belief that these papers would well repay a more careful investigation than he was able to give them in the preparation of his book. Such research has been made and the results of it appear in the present work. The perusal of it will not only fully confirm the favourable forecast as to the probable worth of the manuscripts for the life of Shaftesbury, but will also reveal, I believe, that they contained from his pen one of the most remarkable unpublished contri- butions of modern times in the domain of philosophic thought. The sketch of the life of the third Earl, which forms the first division of this book, was written by his son, the fourth Earl of Shaftesbury. Its contents have been essentially printed by Thomas Birch in the General Dictionary (1734 41) of Bayle, without any due acknowledgment of their source, although apparently by permission (British Museum, Birch MSS., No. 4318). But this is the first time for the Life to be published under the name of its real author, and with the exception of a necessary change in the order of paragraphs to conform with known events, almost precisely as it exists in the original manuscript. Various clauses and paragraphs of interest have also been inserted as footnotes, which have been taken from a rough draft of the life in manuscript that undoubtedly served as the basis for the copy here followed in the text. In addition, moreover, to the value of this sketch as 1 Thomas Fowler, Shaftesbury and Hutcheson, Lend., 1882. .?. t "...'"> V-"-),' .' .? JLO<< . ?'.H vi. Prefatory Introduction. an original and heretofore comparatively inaccessible source of information for the life of the third Earl, its publication here affords in a compact and narrative form the various events in his career necessary to be known by the reader in order to obtain a clear and ready understanding of the contents of the letters which immediately follow in the work. The second division of this book comprises, with a few indicated exceptions, the unpublished letters of Shaftesbury. These begin in 1689, when he was eighteen years of age, and continue for the most part with desirable regularity, until the time of his death in 1713. The social position, political activity and philosophical renown of the writer accord to them an unwonted value. The events of his personal life, and the character of the times in which he lived, are here revealed with a naturalness and sincerity which impart to the corres- pondence a charm often lacking in similar productions too evidently intended for posthumous publication. All these letters have been arranged in their chronological order. Certain characteristic series of them may, however, very properly be mentioned. Scattered throughout the work is a succession of letters which relate to the personal and family affairs of the third Earl. A small volume of such letters, chiefly in reference to his first unsuccessful love affair and subsequent marriage to another, was published in 1721, by John Toland. These were printed during the lifetime of the two ladies concerned, and naturally evoked the indignation of the fourth Earl. Shaftesbury 's engagement to a lady whom he had never seen does not conform, it is true, with modern standards and procedure. Nevertheless the choice is not difficult to make between a courtship that might largely have preceded marriage and the continued and deepening devotion which the third Earl bestowed on his wife throughout O their wedded life. There is nothing that demands concealment in his career, whatever his mistakes or shortcomings ; the more ~ ' closely one presses home upon the inner motives and exalted purpose of his life the richer and more ennobling does his character appear. Without any attempt at perversion, therefore, much new material here awaits the reader from Shaftesbury 's correspondence with relatives, household officers, and life-long friends. Prefatory Introduction. vii. The letters of this volume which perhaps most strikingly disclose the benevolent disposition of Shaftesbury are those written to or concerning young men. This gracious trait was first made known by a small collection of his letters printed in 1716, entitled " Several Letters written by a Noble Lord to a Young Man at the University." These were addressed by Shaftesbury to Michael Ainsworth, a student taken by him from his own household and sent to University College, Oxford. The originals of most of these letters, as well as of several additional to " Good Michael," as he is generally styled in them, are among the Shaftesbury papers. Only such of them as are of marked value or have been tampered with in the printed book are here reproduced. The letters of this volume will be found to exhibit a much broader range of Shaftesbury 's philanthropic efforts. They disclose a constant and unvarying helpfulness to numerous aspiring youths maintained throughout his entire life. Whether the proteges succeeded or failed his active goodness suffered no diminution or restraint. A most typical instance of this benevolence may be mentioned in the fact that the only reward he sought for many years of political service was a civil position, not for himself or any of his relatives, but for his deserving young friend Micklethwayte. Various letters in this work, moreover, show that he insisted upon the fulfilment of this claim with unyielding persistency amid changing political factions until at length he won. It is this generous and self-sacrificing spirit so frequently displayed in the interests of others which proves the third Earl to have been a most worthy predecessor to the noble and philanthropic seventh Earl of Shaftesbury. Historical interest will chiefly centre in the political letters from the pen of Shaftesbury which this work contains. He played either an active part or tendered when in retirement fruitful advice during the prolonged critical period in English national affairs when the Stuart dynasty gradually gave place to the present ruling house of Guelph. Throughout the reign of William of Orange, and in that of his successor Queen Anne, Shaftesbury was loyal to the maintenance of a Protestant succession. During his entire parliamentary career, moreover, he ever exercised a " passion for true liberty." The political measures which he most strongly supported at home were those which had for their aim the protection of the rights and libertv viii. Prefatory Introduction. of the individual. In foreign affaire he resisted to the end of his life every doubtful compromise on the part of England with Louis XIV. of France, whose desire for universal monarchy he deemed the most threatening and direful evil of his time. His true compatriots were thus discovered among the liberty-loving spirits of the Netherlands, whom he thrice visited, and with whom he was in constant communication. Considerable political material from this source by Shaftesbury has already been made public in the " Original Letters," l addressed by him to Benjamin Furly, the English Quaker merchant at Rotterdam. The manuscripts of these are now in the Record Office, and they have here occasionally been used to give proper continuity to the political career of Shaftesbury. The fresh and additional value of the present volume consists in heretofore unpublished correspondence, which clearly reveals for the first time his direct personal relations with the chief military and parliamentary leaders of his time. Of the former class this work contains letters to General Stanhope, to the family of Lord Peterborough, and to the great Duke of Marl borough ; and of the latter class among others to Lord Godolphin,to Lord Sunderland, and to the noble Lord Sorners. The numerous letters to John Molesworth, a foreign envoy, have, moreover, throughout a political character. Inasmuch as Shaftesbury 's reputation has heretofore chiefly rested on his authorship of " The Characteristics," correspondence of a philosophical import would naturally by many be most eagerly sought. Among the earliest letters in this volume are a considerable number written by Shaftesbury to John Locke. They afford the much desired information as to the personal correspondence of the two philosophers. These letters were originally included among the manuscripts bequeathed in 1704 by Locke to his near relative and sole executor, Sir Peter King, who afterwards became Lord Chancellor of England. They are now the property of this Chancellor's lineal descendant, the Hon. Captain Lionel Fortescue King Noel, second son of the first Earl of Lovelace. To the courtesy of the present owner of 1 Original letters of Locke, Algernon Sidney, and Anthony Lord 8haftesbury, edited by Thomas Forster. Lond., 1830; second edition, 1847. Prefatory Introduction, ix. this Lovelace collection, which has here been so fittingly exhibited in the cause of learning by the grandson of Lord Peter King, to whom we owe a " Life of Locke," the readers of this work are indebted for their present publication. In connection with these letters to Locke, mention must also be made of two additional letters of Shaftesbury in this work relating to that philosopher. In the one dated December, 1704, written to a young friend, Locke's farewell charge to Anthony Collins receives from Shaftesbury a very remarkable counter- charge; and in the other, dated November 9th, 1709, addressed to General Stanhope, Shaftesbury reveals his secret opinion of Locke's philosophy, inasmuch as he writes in it to his philosophical disciple: "I have thus ventured to make you the greatest confidence in the world, which is that of my philosophy against my old tutor and governour." The letters to Pierre Coste, Jean Le Clerc, and Des Maizeauz, which here appear, are all of philosophical interest, as they make known to us Shaftesbury's connection with these contemporary philosophical writers. Especially valuable are the references which those to Coste contain of Shaftesbury's relations to Leibnitz. The entire series of letters to Lord Somers, above mentioned, have moreover a unique philosophical importance. As is well known, Shaftesbury's " Letter concerning Design," which was included in "The Characteristics" for the first time in the edition of 1732, was written to accompany a gift of his " Treatise on the Judg- ment of Hercules" to Lord Somers. But every preceding treatise of Shaftesbury was in like manner presented to Lord Somers with a similar accompaniment of a letter. This remarkable series of letters of presentation now appears for the first time in print. In the letters to Thomas Micklethwayte will be found the inter- pretation of the mythical illustrations and an account of the numerous changes in the second edition of " The Characteristics." The kindness of Shaftesbury to this young man was well repaid by his undertaking the publication of that revised work during the author's last illness in Italy. The philosophy of Horace, as it may justly be termed, is contained in a letter of October 1st, 1706, written by Shaftesbury to Pierre Coste. The study, indeed, of the ancient classics, and more especially of the works of Horace, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, had the profoundest bearing upon Shaftesbury's own philosophy. x. Prefatory Introduction. The third division of this work consists of the Philosophical Regimen of Shaftesbury. This is a most natural supplement to the sketch of his life and to the preceding letters, inasmuch as it is a revelation both of the inmost purpose and of the outward procedure of his life. The manuscript material of this portion is to be found in two note-books among the Shaftesbury Papers of the London Record Office. The earliest writing in these books is dated Holland, 1698, and the latest, Naples, 1712. Their contents thus cover almost the entire period of the author's literary activity, but centre chiefly, however, about his two "retreats" into Holland, the one in 1698 and the other in 1703-4. The form in which the work is written is that of a series of reflections upon various philosophical subjects. These include such topics, among others, as natural affections, deity, good and ill, human affairs, self, passions, pleasure and pain, fancy, character, nature, life, and philosophy. The reflections on the different subjects are intermingled among one another in the note-books, but are brought together under their several themes in this printed reproduction of them. Shaftesbury entitles the reflections 'Aor/oj/uara (exercises). The title of Philosophical Regimen is, however, here employed both because the term regimen is frequently used by him in reference to the reflections, and also because it best reflects their true meaning and character. Many passages throughout the work may be discovered which thus clearly indicate the purport of the reflections in the mind of Shaftesbury. The real key, however, to their interpretation is contained under the subject Improvement. " Memorandums," he here writes, " for what ? About what ? A small concern perhaps, a trifle, for what else can it be ? Neither estate, nor money, nor policy, nor history, nor learning, nor private affairs, nor public. These are great things. In these are great improvements. How many memor- andums, how many common-place books about these ? Who would think of any other memorandums ? Would one think of making any for Life. Would one think that this were a business to improve in ? What if this should be the thing of all others chosen out for a pocket-book and memorandums ? But so it is . . . Begin therefore and work upon this subject. Collect, digest, methodize, abstract. How many codes, how many volumes, how much labour, and what compiling in the study of Prefatory Introduction. xi. other laws ? But in the law of life how ? They who seek not any such in life, nor think that there is any rule, what are they better than vulgar ? " The reflections of Shaftesbury printed in this work thus embody the attempt made by him to ascertain the correct principles of life and to map out the rules of their practical application in his own conduct. They are a veritable Philosophical Regimen. To discover a law and a code of life Shaftesbury pursued, especially during his retreats in Holland, the study of classical authors among the ancients._ " Perhaps no modern," says Toland in his introduction to the Shaftesbury letters, " ever turned the ancients more into sap and blood, as they say, than he. Their doctrines he understood as well as themselves, and their virtues he practiced better." If this statement be limited to the Stoics it is most accurate. It was with the works of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius that Shaftesbury was most thoroughly con- versant. From them he draws most of the topics and their maxims in the Regimen. He reproduces not only their thought but also to a considerable extent their technical language. It would be difficult indeed to find any author with quotations in every instance so apt as those which Shaftesbury makes from these writers. With their philosophy, moreover, he was most thoroughly saturated. " Nor were there indeed," he writes, " any more than two real distinct philosophies, the one derived from Socrates and passing into the old academic, peripatetic and stoic ; the other derived in reality from Democritus and passing into the Cyrenaic and Epicurean. The first, therefore, of these two philosophers recommended action, concernment in civil affairs, religion, &c., the second derided all this and advised inaction and retreat. And with good reason, for the first main- tained that society, right and wrong were founded in nature, and that nature had a meaning, and was herself, that is to say, in her wits, well-governed and administered by one simple and perfect intelligence. The second derided this and made Providence and dame nature not so sensible as a doting old woman. The first, therefore, of these philosophies is to be called the civil, social, theistic ; the second, the contrary." Almost every page of the Regimen demonstrates that the philosophy of Shaftesbury belongs to what in this passage he calls the civil, social and theistic, derivable from the Stoics. The real sources of his xii. Prefatory Introduction. philosophy are to be sought in particular in Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius. Although the philosophy of Shaftesbury is thus founded on stoicism, this Philosophical Regimen is a new and brilliant presentation of that moral system. The discourses of Epictetus were uttered, it is believed, extempore. They have a popular form, but often lack in continuity of expression. The thoughts of Marcus Aurelius, on the other hand, were written down merely for personal use. They bear the evidence of private honesty, but are stated in short paragraphs which are often obscure. The merits rather than the defects of these two works are combined in the Philosophical Regimen of Shaftesbury. It is written in a style that can at all times be readily understood, and it likewise possesses all the sincerity of personal writing where the purpose is " only to improve by these, not publish, profess, or teach them." The eloquence of the utterance is frequently such as could only have proceeded from Shaftesbury, whose method of philosophical rhapsody so captivated his contemporary Leibnitz. The per- manent strength of this Regimen, however, consists in the fact that it is one of the most consistent and thorough-going attempts ever made to transform a philosophy into a life. Just as Spinoza was "God-intoxicated," so Shaftesbury was " intoxicated with the idea of virtue." He is the greatest Stoic of modern times. Into his own life he wrought the stoical virtue for virtue's sake. O This exalted purpose he sought to attain by means of this Regimen. It thus embodies a philosophy which must compel a renewed and critical study from the stoical standpoint of his " Characteristics." Indeed, it may be said, we believe, with perfect truth that there has been no such strong expression of stoicism since the days of Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius as that contained in the Philosophical Regimen of Shaftesbury. The Greek slave, the Roman emperor, and the English nobleman must abide the three great exponents of stoical philosophy. BENJAMIN RAND. HARVARD UNIVERSITY. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFATORY INTRODUCTION v. SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE THIRD EARL OF SHAFTKSBURT : BY HIS Sox, THE FOURTH EARL , .. xvii. I. THE PHILOSOPHICAL REGIMEN. NATURAL AFFECTION .<" 1 DEITY 13 PROVIDENCE 40 THE EXD 48 GOOD AND ILL *r"" 53 SHAME 60 REPUTATION 64 HUMAN AFFAIRS 70 NECESSITY . 90 POLITICAL AFFAIRS PKIENDS SMALL POSSESSIONS SELF ARTIFICIAL OH ECONOMICAL NATURAL SELF FAMILIARITY ... 100 104 109 112 124 133 140 THE BODY .. 147 SELF PASSIONS 151 PLEASURE AND PAIN 161 FANCIES OR APPEARANCES 164 SIMPLICITY 179 NATURE 184 CHARACTER AND CONDUCT ~^~^ 189 CHARACTER .~-rr: 192 FANCY AND JUDGMENT -... 207 THE ASCENTS OF THE JUDGMENT 209 NATURAL CONCEPTS 214 OPINION AND PRECEPTS 221 MAXIMS 224 ATTENTION AND RELAXATION ~ r:. ... 231 IMPROVEMKNT 239 THE BEAUTIFUL 244 LIFE 253 PHILOSOPHY .. .. 267 II. LETTERS OF SHAFTESBURY. To Jolm Locke, December 1st, 1G87 ,, John Locke, December 22nd, 1687 ... ,, his Father, May 3rd, old style [1689] ... ,, his Father, July, 1689 ...... ...... ,, Mr. Taylor, of Weymouth, February 16th, 1689-90 ............... John Locke, January 21st, 1692 ...... ,, John Locke, March 3rd, 1692 ...... ,, John Locke, March 26th, 1691-2 John Locke, July 7th, 1692 ......... ,. Join, Locke, (?) 6th, 1693 ......... ,, Jolm Locke, May 2Sth, 1694 ...... ,, John Locke, September 8th, 1694 ... ,, John Locke, November 29th, 1694 ,, Thomas Stringer, February 15th, 273 274 275 280 hu Mother, beginning of 1696 Lf.rd Rutland, April, 1696 285 287 288 289 291 291 294 296 299 300 301 302 To his Mother, October 10th, 1696 ... ,, his Mother, November 14th, 1696 ,, John Locke, April 9th, 1698 ,, M. DCS Maizaux, August 5th, 1701 ,, Mr. Bennett, November 15th, 1701 .., ,, Benjamin Furley, November 29th. 1701 '. ,, Lord Marlborough, April 10th, 1702 ... ,, Benjamin Furley, November 4th, 1702 ,, M. Des Mai/.aux, November 2nd. 1703 '. ,, Jolm Wheeloek, November 6th, 1703., John Wheeloek, November 16th, 1703 . ,, Lord Suuderlund, November i'th, 1703 ,, .Sir Rowland Ciwiun, January 23rd, 170 i 303 305 306 307 30S 309 310 313 314 315 317 318 XIV. Contents. To the Bishop of Sarum, February 5th, 1704 320 his Sister Frances, March 18th, 1704... 321 ,, Sir Rowland Gwinn, April 19th, 1704 ,, John Locke, September 7th, 1704 Dr. Burgess, January (?), 1704-5 ... 324 ,, Peter King, January, 1704-5 325 Jean Le Clerc, January 13th, 1705 ... 326 ,, Jean Le Clerc, February 8th, 1705 ... 328 ,, Sir Rowland Gwinu, February 24th, 1704-5 334 "" Lord Soiners, October 20th, 1705 ... 336 Lady Peterborough, October (?), 1705 . 341 ,, Lord Cowper, December 2nd, 1705 ... 344 ,, a Friend, December 2nd, 1704-5 344 Mr. Van Twedde, January 17th, 1705-6. 347 Jean Le Clerc, March 6th, 1705-6 ... 352 Mr. Stephens, July 17th, 1706 354 ,, Pierre Coste, October 1st, 1706 355 ,, Teresias, November 29th, 1706 366 ,, Lord Sunderland, December 7th, 1706 3G9 ,, the Duke of Marlborough, December 7th, 1706 371 ,, Lord Seniors, January, 170C-7 371 ,, M. Basnage, January 21st, 1706-7 ... 372 ,, Joseph Micklethwayte, January llth, 1706-7 378 ,, Joseph Micklethwayte, February 26th, 1706-7 379 ,, Michael Ainsworth, October 3rd, 1707 381 ,, Maurice Atshley, October 21st, 1707... 382 ,, Maurice Ashley, November 5th, 1707... 383 ,, Robert Molesworth, December 13th, 1707 383 ,, Mr. Darby, February 2nd, 1708 385 ,, Lord Soiners, July 12th, 1708 3S6 ,, Benjamin Furley, July 22nd, 1708 ... :3S7 ,, Robert Molesworth, September 30th, 1708 339 ,, Robert Molesworth, October 23rd, 1708 391 ,, Lord Somers, December 10th, 1708 ... 394. ,, Lord Halifax, December 16th, 17oS ... 395 ,, Pierre Coste, February 19th, 1708-9 ... 390 Lord Townsend. May 28th, 1709 ... 399 ,, Lord Somers, June 2nd, 1709 4'i() ,, Michael Ainswfirth, June 3rd, 17o9 ... 4i>3 ,, John Wheelock, July 9th, 1709 405 ,, John Wheelock, August 8th, 1709 ... 406 ,, Lidy Russell, August 24th, 1709 4^8 ,, Maurice Ashley, August 24th, 17'i9 ... 4<>9 ,, James Eyre, August 26th . 17u9 4o9 ,, Jean Le CI'rc, November 6th, 1709 ... Ill 322 B To General Stanhope, November 7th, PAGE 1709 413 417 418 419 420 421 422 425 Arent Furley, November 7th, 1709 Thomas Walker, April 23rd, 1710 Bishop But-net, May 23rd, 1710 ... Lord Somers, May 26th, 1710 ... "lichael Ainsworth, July 10th, 1710 Jean Le Clerc, July 19th, 1710 ... Sir John Cropley, July 24th, 1710 Lord Godolphin, January 29th, 1710-11 426 Lord Dartmouth, January 29th, 1710-11 427 Lord Halifax, February 23rd, 1710-11 . 428 Lord Howe, March 26th, 1711 Lord Somers, March 30th, 1711 Lady Waldegrave, May 4th, 1711 Michael Ainsworth, May llth, 1711 ... Lord Godolphin, May 27th 1711 Sir John Cropley, July 2nd, 1711 Sir John Cropley, August llth, 1711... Thomas Micklethwayte, August llth, 1711 the Duke of Berwick, August 28th, 1711 the Duke of Berwick, September 5th, 1711 442 Pierre Coste, October 3rd, 1711 442 John Molesworth, September 7th, 1711 John Wheelock, November 6th, 1711 . Mr. Chetwynd, November 17th, 1711 .. Pierre Coste, November 23rd, 1711 ... Thomas Micklethwaite (?) Thomas Micklethwait, December Sth, 1711 John Molesworth, December 15th, 1711 Sir John Cropley, December 29th, 1711 453 Thomas Micklethwaite, December 29th, 1711 455 Pierre Coste, January 12th. 1712 ... 459 John Molesworth, January 19th, 1712 . 461 Thomas Micklethwaite, January 19th, 1712 ' 462 The Kev. Dr. Fagan, January 23rd, 1711-2 466 Sir John Cropley, February 16th, 1712 " John Whe.-lock, February 23rd, 1712 Thomas Micklethwait, February 23rd 1712 "... Sir John Crr.pl,. y, March l.--t, 1712 .. Thomas Micklethwaite, .March 9i.ii 1712 ... John Molesworth, March 29th, 1712 .. 429 430 433 434 435 435 436 438 441 444 445 446 447 448 449 452 468 470 477 480 Contents. xv. Fo Sir John Cropley, March 29th, 1712 ... 481 Mr. Chetwynd, April 5th, 1712 482 Thomas Micklethwait, April 12th, 1712 484 Sir John Cropley, April 12th, 1712 ... 487 Abbe Farely, May 3rd, 1712 488 John Molesworth, May 17th, 1712 ... 490 The Rev. Dr. Fagan, May 21st, 1712... 491 Pierre Coste, June 5th, 1712 492 Sir John Cropley, June 7th, 1712 ... 495 Thomas Micklethwaite, June 28th, 1712 496 John Wheelock, July 12th, 1712 498 Thomas Micklethwaite, July 19th, 1712 499 Tierre Coste, July 25th, 1712 502 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, August 2nd, 1712 505 John Molesworth, August 2nd, 1712 ... 508 Sir John Cropley, August 9th, 1712 ... 510 Benjamin Furley, August 9th, 1712 ... 510 John Molesworth, August 30th, 1712 ... 511 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, August 30th, 1712 .. 514 To Sir John Cropley, October llth, 1712 517 Benjamin Furly, October 18th, 1712... 519 ,, John Molesworth, October 25th, 1712 520 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, November 22nd, 1712 522 ,, Pierre Coste, November 22nd, 1712 ... 523 ,, Sir John Cropley, November 22nd, 1712 524 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, December 20th, 1712 527 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, December 27th, 1712 529 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, January 3rd, 1713 529 ,, Sir John Cropley, January 10th, 1713 531 ,, Thomas Micklethwaite, January 10th, 1712 532 ,, John Wheelock, January 10th, 1713 533 Mr. Crell to John Wheelock, February 21st, 1713 ... 535 A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE THIKD EAEL or SHAFTESBURY, BY HIS SON, THE FOURTH EARL. The following sketch of my father's life was once intended to have been prefixed to the new edition of the Characteristic*, though upon considering further on it that thought was laid aside ; for the lives of persons who spend most of their time in study and retirement can never afford matter to enliven a narrative ; that probably the expectations of the generality of the world might be raised to conceive, they should find something which neither the capacity of the writer nor the nature of the subject would admit. The single end proposed in these few sheets is, by giving the character and sentiments of the author of the Cluiracteristics, as they really were, to take off some ill impressions which well-meaning persons may possibly have received from many calumnies which have been cast on him. I am sensible the works themselves must be tried by their own merit and not by the absurd comments of envy or error. And as some of these inquisitors have descended so low as even to quote passages from my father's private letters to maintain their charge against him, I hope I shall not be thought impertinent in quoting some others of his private writings, which are in a great measure necessary to mention in going through the account of his life, and which may possibly be a means to explain those passages in the Characteristics which have by some been greatly misapprehended. I hope I need not make any apology for prefixing the following relation of my father's life to this edition of the 15 xviii. Life Sketch. Characteristics. Some sketch of an author's life is generally pleasing to the curious. A just representation of his character must be agreeable to the candid. And as this short account will C9 give a view of his real opinion of our national church and religion, it may possibly be a means to explain those passages in his writings, which have by some been greatly misapprehended. My father was born the 26th of February, 1670-1, at Exeter House, in London (where his grandfather 1 lived) who, from the time of his birth, conceived so great an affection for him that he undertook the care of his education, and who, being sensible of the great advantages which accrue from a good share of literature, 1 The first Earl of Shaftesbury, one of the foremost statesmen of his time, was born 22nd July, 1621. He married (1) Margaret, third daughter of Thomas, Lord of Coventry, February 25th, 1639, who died July llth, 1649; (2) Lady Frances Cecil, daughter of David, third Earl of Exeter, April 25th, 1650, by whom he had one son, Anthony ; and (3) Margaret, sixth daughter of William, second Lord Spencer, of Worthington. The first Earl died January 31st, 1683, in Holland. Anthony, his only son and successor (father of the third earl), born 16th January, 1651-2, married September 22nd, 1669, Dorothy, third daughter of John, eighth Earl of Rutland, by whom he had issue of three sons Anthony, John, Maurice ; and four daughters Lady Frances, married to Francis Stonehouse, Esq., of Hungerford Parks, in Co. Berkshire ; Lady Elizabeth, wife of James Harris, Esq., of Salisbury ; and Lady Dorothy, espoused to Edward Hooper, Esq., of Hurn Court, in Co. Hampshire; and died in 1749; Gertrude, the other daughter, died unmarried. His Lordship dying 10th November, 1699, was succeeded by Anthony (third Earl); the second son, John, died before him in his 21st year, or 1693; Maurice lived till 1726. He was many years in the House of Commons, and in the 13th of King William was chosen from Wiltshire. The second Earl died November 10th, 1699. (Memorandum in Shaftesbury MSS.) Anthony, third Earl of Shaftesbury, author of "The Characteristics," was born on 26th February, 1671, married Jane, daughter of Thomas Ewer, Esq., of Bushey Hall, Leu, county Hertford, August 29th, 1709 (died November 23rd, 1751), and had issue of one son, Anthony (the fourth Earl). The third Earl died February 15th, 1713, in Naples. Anthony, the fourth Earl, was born February 9th, 1711, married (1) Lady Susannah Noel in 1725, (2) Mary, daughter of Jacob, Viscount Folkestone, 22nd March, 1759, and had issue, Anthony, born September, 1761. The fourth Earl died May 29th, 1771. Life Sketch. xix. thought that necessary work could not be begun too early. That his grandson, therefore, might make the quickest dispatch, he chose a method of instilling (as it were) the ancient languages into him by placing a person* about him who was so thoroughly versed in the Greek and Latin tongues that she could speak either of them with the greatest fluency. By this person's instructions my father made so good a progress in his learning that he could read with ease both the Latin and Greek tongues o when eleven years old. At this age his grandfather sent him to a private school, where he remained till after his grandfather's death. In the end of the summer following, viz., 1683, his father carried him to Winchester, where he was treated very indifferently by all except the schoolmaster (Dr. Harris), being often insulted on his grandfather's account, whose memory was very odious to the zealots for despotic power. His ill-usage there made Winchester very irksome to him, and therefore he prevailed with his father to take him from thence and consent to his desire of seeing foreign countries. He began his travels in 1686. The person who attended him as tutor 1 was a very ingenious, honest man, and every way qualified for the employment. Sir John Cropley too (with whom my father continued in the closest friendship to the end of his life) accompanied him everywhere, together with Mr. Thomas Sclater Bacon. My father spent a considerable time in Italy, where he acquired a great knowledge in the polite arts. 2 That he had a sound judgment in painting, the treatises he wrote on that subject plainly evince. He understood sculpture also extremely well, and could himself design to some degree of perfection. Of the rudiments of music too he was not ignorant, and his thoughts concerning it have been approved by the greatest masters in that science. He made it his endeavour while abroad to apply himself as much as possible to the improving in those accomplishments, and for that reason did not * " Mrs. Elizabeth Birch, daughter of a schoolmaster of Oxford or Berkshire." Hough Draft of the Life in Shaftesbury'a MSS. 1 Kough Draft: " Mr. Daniel Denoue, a Scotchman." '-Hough Draft: "Such that he might very properly be called a virtuoso/' xx. Life Sketch. greatly seek the conversation of other English young gentlemen on their travels (which as he had friends along with him he had the less occasion to desire). But whenever it happened that this could not conveniently be avoided, it was observed his discourse was principally directed to the young gentlemen's tutors, from whom he might either learn something or at least converse on such topics as were most agreeable to his genius. He spoke French so readily, and with so good an accent, that in France he was often taken for a native ; and the ease and agility he showed in performing those exercises in which that nation excel, contri- buted to the leading them into that opinion. My father, after three years' stay abroad, returned to England (in 1689) and was offered a seat in Parliament from some of those boroughs where the family had held an interest. But there were several reasons which induced him not to accept their offer at that particular time; and what prevailed more strongly witli him than anything was the resolution he had taken of applying himself entirely to study, and to increasing his knowledge in those subjects with which it is of consequence to be acquainted. 1 In these he happily succeeded, and his learning, though very extensive, was that of an ingenious gentleman. My father continued his strict course of study nearly five years, till on Sir John Trenchard's' 2 death he was elected a burgess for Pool. Soon after his coming into Parliament he had an opportunity given him of expressing that spirit of liberty which he maintained to the end of his life, and by which he always directed his public conduct. It was the bringing in the Treason Act 3 which appeared to 1 Quod ae.que. pauperibtts prodesi, locupletibus deque. Aeque iififjlectum piterix senibuxque nnrdnt. [" Which is of equal benefit to the poor and to the rich ; which neglected will be of equal detriment to young and old."] Horace, JSpittt. IT., 1, 125-26. 2 Sir John Trenchard (1640-1695) was a prominent opponent of the Stuart Dynasty. He became Secretary of State after the accession to the throne of King William. 3 The Parliament which met on the 22nd of November, 1695, passed early in its first session the famous Act for regulating trials in case of treason, in which there was a special provision that a person indicted for treason should be granted the benefit of counsel. Life Sketch. xxi. him the more necessary, as his family at the end of King Charles's reign had been in great danger for want of such a law. He was determined, therefore, to contribute all his endeavours towards the passing of what he thought requisite to secure the life of the subject, which might be taken away almost at the pleasure of the crown. The removing of this defect in our constitution was by most friends to liberty looked on as a matter of the last importance. To this end my father prepared a speech, which those, to whom he showed it, thought a very proper one upon the occasion. But when he stood up to speak it in the House of Commons the great audience so intimidated him that he lost all memory, and could not utter a syllable of what he intended, by which he found how true Mr. Locke's caution to him had been, not to engage at first setting out in an undertaking of difficulty, but to rise to it gradually. The House, after giving him a little time to recover, called loudly for him to go on, when he proceeded to this effect : " If I, sir, who rise only to speak my opinion on the Bill now depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of what I proposed to say, what must the condition of that man be who is pleading for his life without any assistance and under apprehensions of being deprived of it ? " The sudden turn of thought (which by some was imagined to have been premeditated, though it really was as I mention it) pleased the house extremely ; and it is generally believed, carried a greater weight with it than any of the arguments which were offered in favour of the bill l which was sent to the Lords and passed accordingly. My father during this and the other sessions he continued in the House persevered in the same way of acting, always heartily concurring in every motion for the further securing of liberty ; and though these motions very frequently came from people who were of a differently-denominated party in politics, yet he was never for refusing any proposal that he apprehended to be beneficial to his 1 This story is also related of Charles Montague, subsequently Earl of Halifax, in his Memoirs (p. 30), published in 1715. The minuteness of detail in the present account would however tend to confirm its application to Lord Ashley. xxii. Life Sketch. country, and was always for improving the present opportunity, forming his judgment of things by their own merit, and not by the quarter from whence they came. This independent manner of acting which my father observed himself, he also strove to increase in others to the utmost of his power, as he was sensible that independency is the essence of freedom. 1 The fatigues of attending regularly upon the service of the House (which in those active times generally sat long) as well as upon committees at night, in a few years so impaired my father's health, who was not of a robust constitution, that he was obliged to decline coming again into Parliament after the dissolution in 1698. My father, being released from the confinement of the House, was at liberty to spend his time wherever it was most agreeable to him. He went directly into Holland, where he became acquainted with several learned and ingenious men 2 who resided in that country, which induced him to continue there about a twelve-month. Being determined not to be interrupted in what he principally went thither to follow, viz., studying, and that in the most private manner, he concealed his name, pretending to be only a student in physic, and in that character became acquainted with the celebrated Mr. Bayle, 3 with whom he soon grew intimate. A little before his return to England, being willing to be made known to him by his real name, he contrived to have Mr. Bayle invited to dinner by a friend, where he was told he was to meet my Lord Shaftesbury. Mr. Bayle, accidentally calling upon my father that morning, was pressed by him to stay. " I can by no means," said Mr. Bayle, 1 Rough Draft : " Several gentlemen in the House of Commons who were of the same sentiments with my father formed a little society by the name of the Independent Club, of which he was a member, and had a chief hand in setting up, but the club was of no long duration." 2 Amongst the " learned and ingenious men " were undoubtedly Joh. Le Clerc, editor of the Kibliothcque Univi-rseHf; ; Phillipe van Limborch, the celebrated Dutch theologian ; Benjamin Furly, an English quaker merchant, the correspondent alike of Shaftesbury and of Locke ; and Pierre Bayle, subsequently the author of the Diet ion naire Un {wrse!!.*. 3 Benjamin Furly, at whose house Locke had resided during his stay in Rotterdam. Life Sketch. xxiii. " for I must be punctual to an engagement where I am to meet my Lord Shaftesbury." 1 The second interview, as may be imagined, caused some mirth, and their intimacy was rather increased than lessened after the discovery 2 , for they never ceased a correspondence after my father's return, till Mr. Bayle's death. During my father's stay in Holland an imperfect edition 3 of his Inquiry after Virtue was printed, surreptitiously taken from a rough draft, sketched when he was but twenty years of age. He was greatly chagrined at this, and immediately bought up the whole impression before many of the books were sold, and set about completing the Treatise which he published 4 himself not long after. The person who treated him so unhand- somely he soon discovered to be Mr. John Toland, who made this ungrateful return for the many favours he had received from him. Indeed my father then allowed him (at his earnest impor- tunity) an annual stipend, though he never had any great opinion 1 Properly Lord Ashley, as this was his title while his father lived. 2 In the MS. of this life the Fourth Earl gives the account of the acquaintance of the Third Earl with Bayle, and also of the surreptitious publication of the Inquiry, which immediately follows, in connection with his father's visit to Holland in 1703-04. Both incidents have here been transferred to the earlier visit of 1698-99. This change has been made not only in accord with the example of Birch in The General Dictionary, whose publication was revised by the Fourth Earl, but more particularly because there is direct evidence from the letters of Shaftesbury that he was acquainted with Bayle prior to 1704. In a letter, for instance, to Furly (dated January 30th, 1702) he expressly states : " I received lately a present from Mr. Bayle of his Dictionary, for which pray return him my humble thanks. I shall do it myself in a post or two." The publication of the Inquiry, moreover, belonged with certainty to the earlier visit. 3 Shaftesbury himself, in a letter dated June the 3rd, 1709 (p. 403) also styles this edition " an imperfect thing, brought into the world many years since contrary to the author's design, in his absence beyond sea and in a disguised disordered style. It may one day perhaps be set right, since other things have made it to be inquired after." 4 The Inquiry, as completed, was printed in second volume of the first edition of the Characteristics, where it is described as "printed first in 1699," and "formerly printed from an imperfect copy; now corrected and published entire." xxiv. Life Sketch, of him. In this manner he also frequently bestowed pensions on men of learning who stood in need of such assistance, and gave sums of money besides to those, whom by experience, he found deserving. Soon after my father returned to England in November, 1699, he became Earl of Shaftesbury. The multiplicity of business in which he was necessarily involved by the taking possession of his estate so fully employed him (as he was always so prudent as to inspect his affairs with a proper care) that he was prevented from attending the House of Lords the first session after lie t> came to the Peerage; nor did he appear there the next till his friend, my Lord Somers, sent a messenger to acquaint him with the business which the Parliament then had under considera- tion, viz., the Partition Treaty in February, 1700-1. Immediately upon this notice he went post to London, and though when Lord Somers' letter was brought to him he was in Somersetshire, yet he made such despatcli as to be present in the House of Lords the day following. So great a fatigue to one in his infirm state of health was enough to endanger even his life. But he was willing to hazard that or whatever he was possessed of when he thought the doing of it was for the service of his country. He attended the House the remainder of the session as much as his health would permit, being earnest to support King William's measures, who was at that time projecting the Grand Alliance. In my father's judgment nothing could assist that glorious undertaking more effectually than the choice of a good Parliament. He therefore did his O utmost upon the dissolution of this, to contribute to that design ; and was so successful (the parties being then near an equality) that the King told him he had turned the scale ; and my father after this was so well approved of by the King that he had the offer of the place of Secretary of State. This, however, his declining constitution would not allow him to accept. But, although he was disabled from engaging in such a course of business, he was not prevented from giving the King his advice, who frequently consulted him on matters of the highest importance ; and it is pretty well known that he had the greatest share in composing that celebrated last speech of King William, December 31st, 1701. On the Accession of Queen Anne Life Sketch. xxv. to the throne, he returned again to his retired manner of living, being no longer advised with concerning the public, and was at this time removed from the Vice-Admiralty of Dorset, which had been in the family for three successive generations. This slight, though it was a matter of no sort of consequence to my father, was the only one that could be shown him, as it was the single thing he held under the Crown, and was imagined to have been advised by some of those who resented my father's services to the other party in the late reign. /My father made a second journey to Holland in the beginning of the year 1703, and returned again to England at the end of the year 1704. ' Soon afterwards the French Prophets 1 vented their enthusiastic extravagancies which made a great deal of noise throughout the kingdom. There were different opinions as to the method of suppressing this distrac- tion, or at least of stopping its progress, and some advised a prosecution. But my father, who had thoroughly considered the matter, and abhorred any step that looked like persecution, apprehended that such measures tended rather to inflame than cure the disease. This occasioned his Letter concerning Enthusiasm 2 which he sent to Lord Somers, then President of 1 The French Prophets arose among the poor peasants of the Cevennes who were driven from their homes by the Edict of Nantes. - " It was published in August, 1708, at London, in 8vo. under this title, ' A Letter Concerning Enthusiasm to my Lord . . .,' and was attacked in October following in a pamphlet in 8vo., entitled, ' Remarks upon a Letter to a Lord concerning Enthusiasm, not written in raillery but good humour ' ; and in another, published in May, 1709, in 8vo., under the title of ' Bart'lemy Fair, or an enquiry after wit, in which due respect is had to a Letter concerning Enthusiasm to my Lord . . . ,' by Mr. Wotton ; and in a third piece entitled ' Reflections upon a Letter Concerning Enthusiasm to my Lord ... In another letter to a Lord,' London, 1709, in 8vo. A French translation of the ' Letter Concerning Enthusiasm, 1 by Monsieur Samson, was printed at the Hague in 1708, in 8vo. Monsieur Leibnitz also wrote some Remark* in French on the ' Letter Concerning Enthusiasm,' which are published by Des Marizeaux in the second volume of ' Reiueil de diverses Pieces sur la Philosophie, la Religion Naturelle, 1'Histoire les Mathematiques,' etc., par Messieurs. Leibnitz, Clarke, Newton et autresautheurs colebres printed at Amster- xxvi. Life Sketch, the Council, and which being well approved by him and others to whom he showed it, my father made public, though without his name or that of the person to whom it was addressed. The Letter gave offence to some who thought he treated the subject in too ludicrous a manner, considering the affinity it bears to the most serious ones. But when we consider the occasion on which it was written we shall see things in another light ; for where he is pointing out ridicule as the most proper and surest way to suppress such vain and idle delusions, with what propriety could he himself have been serious. He derides not religion. Let its sacred name be reverenced, but not the false appearance of it. My father had perhaps greater antipathy to enthusiasm than most persons, having seen many of the fatal consequences attending this deception in some people with whom he was particularly acquainted. He wrote a little treatise upon the subject some years before the Letter of Enthusiasm which he addressed to his brother, and which has never been made public. The grea.t freedom of thought expressed in this and all his writings has given some people such a dislike to him that they have not only questioned his regard for the Church of England, but even his belief of revealed religion. But to a considering person freedom of thought will never appear dangerous to religion, for free thinking in its proper sense is the examining into things carefully by the standard of unprejudiced reason in order to form a judgment upon mature deliberation and impartial inquiry. This far from staggering us will certainly confirm us in our religion, whose truth always prevails when tried by this test. Some men indeed who, having raised them- selves above the ignorance of the mere vulgar, conceited with their imagined elevation, contemptuously look down upon the rest of mankind as wandering in the paths of error, and though they are really enemies to everything sacred would shelter themselves under the appellation of f ree-thinkers. But is not such a superficial examination under the specious pretence of free-thinking to banish thought from the world ? In order to show my father's dam in 1720." Birch. Shaftesbury's own remarks upon the replies to this treatise may be found in a letter dated May 5th, 1709, which is one of those he addressed to a student in the University. Life Sketch. xxvii. sentiments on our religion, I shall quote a passage from the treatise I mentioned where he speaks of himself and his brother, with whom he had no reserve : " Being risen both of us pretty late in the morning which was Sunday, we went (you know) to church for the first time this New Year. Thither I never went with truer zeal, in a better disposition or with wholesomer reflections. And what satisfied me still the more, it was by appointment that we were that day to receive the Sacrament together, having had no opportunity of a long time. Here we both joined in blessing that good Providence which had by reason and education separated us from the impure and horrid superstitions, monstrous enthusiasms, and wild fanaticisms of those blasphemous visionaries we saw abounding in the world, and which had given us on the contrary side such established rites of worship as were so decent, chaste, innocent, pure ; and had placed us in a religion and church where in respect of the moderate party and far greater part the principle of charity was really more extensive than in any Christian or Protestant church besides in the world ; where zeal was not f rensy and enthusiasm ; prayer and devotion not rage and fits of loose extravagance ; religious discourses not cant and unintelligible nonsense ; nor the character of a Saint resembling that of their inspired and godly men or women leaders ; but where a good and virtuous life, with a hearty endeavour of service to one's country and to mankind, joined with a religious performance of all sacred duties and a conformity with the established rites, was enough to answer the highest character of religion, and where all other pretences to gifts or supernatural endowments beyond these moral and Christian perfections were justly suspected and treated as villainy, cheat, imposture, and madness." My father was very constant in his attendance at church and in receiving the Communion when his asthma would permit. He had also a great respect for many of the writings of our best Divines, particularly those of Dr. Whichcote, since by his means two volumes of sermons were published from copies, which had been taken down in shorthand as that great man delivered them. r> To return to the thread of my father's life in the year 1700, he was married to Miss Jane Ewer, youngest daughter of Thomas Ewer, Esq., of the Lee, in Hertfordshire, to whom ho xxviii. Life Sketch. was related. A year or two afterwards, finding his health still declining, he was advised to seek assistance from a warmer climate. Before he left England he took leave by letter of several of his acquaintances, and among that number of the Earl of Oxford, who was then just promoted to that title. As this letter is not in the usual strain of those addressed to Ministers of State, I shall for that reason insert it. " Reygate, May X9th, 1711. " My Lord, The honour you have done me in many kind enquiries after my health, and the favour you have shown me lately, in forwarding the only means I have left for my recovery by trying the air of a warmer climate, obliges me ere I leave England to return your Lordship my most humble thanks and acknowledgments in this manner, since I am unable to do it in a better. "I might, perhaps, my lord, do injustice to myself , having had no opportunity of late years to pay my particular respects to you, if I should attempt any otherwise to compliment your lordship on the late honours you have received, than by appealing to the early acquaintance and strict correspondence I had once the honour to maintain with you and your family, for which I had been bred almost from my infancy to have the highest regard. Your lordship well knows my principles and behaviour from the first hour I engaged in any public concern, and with what zeal I spent some years of my life in supporting your interest, which I thought of greater moment to the public than my own or family's could ever be. What the natural effects are of private friendship so founded, and what the consequences of different opinions intervening, your lordship, who is so good a judge of men and tilings, can better resolve with yourself than I can possibly suggest. And being so knowing in friends (of whom your lordship has acquired so many), you can recollect how those ties or obligations have been hitherto preserved towards you, and whose friendships, affections and principles you may for the future best depend upon in all circumstances and variations public and private. For my own part, I shall say only, that I very sincerely wish you all happiness, and can with no man living congratulate more heartily, on what I account a real honour and Life Sketch. xxix. prosperity. Your conduct of the public will be the just earnest and insurance of your greatness and power. And I shall then chiefly congratulate with your Lordship on your merited honours and advancement, when by the happy effects it appears evidently in the service of what cause and for the advantage of what interest they were acquired and employed. Had I been to wish by what hands the public should have been served, the honour of the first part (your Lordship well knows) had fallen to you long since. If others from whom I least hoped have done greatly and as became them, I hope, if possible, you will still exceed all they have performed, and accomplish the great work so gloriously begun and carried on for the rescue of liberty and the deliverance of Europe and mankind. And in this presumption I cannot but remain with the same zeal and sincerity as ever, my lord, &c." My father set out for Naples in July, 1711, and pursuing his journey through France, was obliged to pass through the Duke of Berwick's camp, who at that time lay with the army under his command encamped near the borders of Piedmont. He was entertained by the Duke in the most friendly and polite manner, and was by his care conducted safe to the Duke of Savoy's dominions. He lived nearly two years after his arrival at Naples 1 , dying there the 4th February (O.S.) 1712-13. The only pieces which he finished after he came to Naples were the Judgment o/ Hercules and the Letter concerning Design, which last was first published in the edition of the CJiaracteristics of 1732, but till then unaccountably suppressed by his executors, 1 Rough Draft : " My father lived two years after he came to Naples, which was a long time considering the severe illness he was afflicted with and which nothing but the excellence of the air in Italy and the uncommon care of my mother in attending him, could have preserved so long." And again the Fourth Earl writes: "His life would probably have been much longer if he had not worn it out by great fatigues of body and mind, which was owing to his eager desire, after knowledge, as well to his zeal to serve his country. For he was so intent upon pursuing his studies that he frequently spent not only the whole day, but the great part of the night besides in severe application, which confirmed the truth of Mr. Locke's observation on him that the sword was too sharp for the scabbard." xxx. Life Sketch. though it was his express direction to have it printed. The rest of his time he employed in ordering his writings for publication, which he placed in the order they now stand. The several prints then first interspersed in the work were all designed by himself, and each device bears an exact affinity to the passage to which it refers. 1 That no mistake might be committed, he did not o leave to any other hand, even so much as the drudgery or correcting the press. In the three volumes of the Characteristics he completed the whole of his writings which he intended should be made public, 2 though some people have, however, in a very ungenerous manner, without any application to his family, or even their knowledge, published several of his letters, 3 and those too of a private nature, many of which were written in so hasty and careless a manner, that he did not so much as take copies of them. A little before his death he had laid a scheme of writing a " Discourse on the Arts of Painting, Sculpture, &c," which, had he lived to have completed, would have been a very 1 See letters of the year 1712, in this volume. 2 Shaftesbury's Characteristics of 3 fen, J fanners, Opinions, and Times, was published at London in its first edition in 1711. It consisted of the Inquiry Concerning Virtu?, which was surreptitiously issued in 1G99 ; the Letter Concerniny Enthusiasm,, printed separately, by himself, in 1708 ; the Moralists : A Philosophical Rhapsody, which first appeared in January, 1709; the Census Communis, an Essay upon the Freedom of Wit and Jfunwnr, likewise printed in May of the same year; the Soliloquy, or Advice to an Author, dated 1710; and the Miscellaneous Refactions, the only treatise not published previously to this collected edition of his works. The second and corrected edition, here mentioned in the context, which included the Judyment if Hercules, was not published until 1714, immediately after his death. The third edition was published in 17-3; the. fourth edition in 1727 ; the fifth edition, with the Lifter Concern in;/ Dexiyn, in 1732; the excellent Baskerville edition in 1773; and a single volume of an edition, undertaken by the Uev. William M. Hatch, in 1871. At the present time, therefore, a new and complete edition of this celebrated work is a desideratum. r> Toland's LI tiers from the late Earl of tihaftesbury to Robert jl/olesioorth, Esq., which were published in 1721, during the life time / Trore dp, w \^vx>'j, ayaOt'/, KCII u7rA>7, /ecu /aia, tcai Tepa TOV TreptKei/mevou croi ?TiK>79 Kal a-peprjTiKrjs fiia6e. If there be a better rule, let us see what that is, let us see how it is with men that lose these natural affections; how it is even with beasts and the common creatures. Which are the happiest, or in the best state, those that live orderly and obey these affections, or those that are hardened 4 TJie Philosophical Regimen. against nature and have all of this kind unnatural and in dis- order ? Of this there has been enough said elsewhere. Nor is anything more evidently demonstratable than this, that the only means and rule of happiness (even amongst these other creatures, as far as they are capable of happiness) is to follow nature, and whether knowingly or unknowingly, to act in pursuance of this design, and under the power of such affections as these. Thus much as to all human and other creatures, being either wholly irrational, or considered only in such a use of reason as is common ; but not such as contemplates nature, and considers of the whole ; what it is ; how governed ; by what laws ; whether it be one and simple, fixed and constant, equal to itself, knowing, wise and good. Let us consider, therefore, how the matter stands with a creature who is after this other manner and in this higher degree, rational. Either this which we call natural affection and this that we have shown of the order of nature in particular, is notwithstanding wholly and solely from chance, and not properly designed ; or, it is from a limited and imperfect design ; or, it is from an all-powerful, wise and perfect design. If the first or second be supposed we must consider other matters, and how either of these opinions can stand ; but if the latter be allowed it will follow that besides that relation to a species, there is a further relation which every creature has, viz., to the whole of things as administered by that supreme will or law which regulates all things according to the highest good. If it be thus, it follows that a creature who is in that higher degree rational, and can consider the good of the. whole, and consider himself as related to the whole, must withal consider himself as under an obligation to the interest and good of the whole, preferably to the interest of his private species: and this is the ground of a new and superior affection. Now if it lias been- made the good and happiness even of unknowing and irrational creatures to follow that private and inferior affection which is only towards a species and part of the whole, how can it but be mud) more the good of every knowing and rational creature to live according to that affection which is the highest and most perfect '. Nature has made this the reward of every creature, even unknowingly and unconsciously pursuing her Natural Affection. 5 intention and design; that by this very pursuit the creature preserves itself in its most perfect state. And shall the same nature and sovereign wisdom of the whole have made it less the happiness and good of a knowing and rational creature, to have a right and deserving affection towards nature and the whole ? What is it, therefore, that we call a right and a deserving affection ? Let us consider what this is, and to what this supposed relation, if it be true, obliges us. If a father be in danger of his life, if his safety or interest call for it, we are to expose ourselves willingly. Labour, pain, and even death (if necessary) are to be suffered without murmuring, without complaining, cheerfully, generously. This is according to nature. This is natural affection. This, if it be lost or wanting in any creature, the creature is vile, degenerate, imperfect, wretched. If friends are in danger, and their interest call for it, our part also is to expose ourselves freely and voluntarily : if our city or country, much more. These are the relations, these the affections. Now, let us see how this is elsewhere and in another degree. If there be a supreme parent, a common father of men and all other beings, and if all things happen according to the will of this first parent, it follows that everything is to be kindly and well accepted ; no murmuring, no complaining. If all things in the universe are for the good of one another, all united and conspiring to one end, all alike subject to one wise and perfect rule, all alike produced from one original and fountain : it follows that I must in a certain manner be reconciled to all things, love all things, and absolutely hate or abhor nothing whatsoever that has being in the world. If the universe be as OIK; city, and the laws of that city perfect and just, it follows that whatsoever happens, according to the laws of that city, must be accepted and esteemed. And since there is nothing but what is according to those laws, there is nothing that happens but what 1 ought highly to applaud, and to accompany with my mind and sinoeivst affection. And if 1 do otherwise 1 am impious, unjust, unnatural, ungrateful, an apostate from reason, and vicious in a higher order and decree. f~> r~* Here, then, is that new relation. Here it is that that other 6 The Philosophical Regimen. affection arises, and this is the natural affection of a rational creature, capable of knowing nature and of considering the good and interest of the whole. Now, how is this affection preserved ? How made consistent with those other affections, or rather those others with this ? If every other affection of that lower order (however natural any such may be) be not entirely subordinate to this superior affection, this is wrong. If a relation be beloved ; if a friend ; if it be thy city, thy native country; if all this be not freely, willingly, readily, resigned, what is this but disobedience? What else but this can be called apostacy? If there be any reluctancy, any murmuring or grieving, any abhorrence, any aversion, what is this but rebellion, impiety, resistance ? Thus are all other affections to be subdued. This is the new order, the new economy which belongs to another degree. '' This is the province of the truly wise man who is conscious of things human and divine : to learn how to submit all of his affections to the rule and government of the whole ; how to accompany with his whole mind that supreme and perfect mind and reason of the universe. This i.s- to live according to Nature, fo follow Nature, and to own and obey Deity. If I have friends, I act the part of a friend ; if I am a father, the part of a father. If I have a city or country, I study its good and interest ; I cherish it as I ought ; I hazard myself and do all for it that in me lies. If I must no longer be a father ; if children or friends are taken from me ; if He who gave me a country and a nation O v take it back, and either by war or any other means cause it to cease or perish, all is well. I am tree and unconcerned, so that I have done my part for my country ; so that I have not been wanting to my friend ; so that I have acted the part of a father. But shall I not bemoan my child '( Shall I be thus indifferent and unconcerned l . Shall I have no more natural affection ? Wretch ! consider what it is thou callest natural affection. In what way canst thou have natural affection whilst this thou callest so is still retained '. In what way freely and readily resign both children and family when any higher duty calls or thy country is to be served ? In what way resign alike country, children, mankind and all else in this world when He who placed thee calls thee from hence < In what way canst thou accompany Natural Affection. 7 Him, or applaud all that He does ? How act or suffer as becomes thee, as becomes a man, and one that is free, generous, disinterested ? How can this be whilst thou retainest this other sort of affection ? Now if it be thus even with respect to such subjects as these, what must it be towards those other matters such as riches, honours and the rest ? What must that degene- racy be which detains us by any affections towards things of such inferior kind ? Be it so. But where is the good or happiness of having this natural affection ? Where is the ill of having that which is falsely called so ? This it is. If thy affection be such either towards friends, relations, countrymen, or whatever else is engaging or delightful, it must happen that when anything here succeeds amiss thou must be at a loss and disturbed within thy- self, wholly dissatisfied with Providence and the order of things, impatient, ^ingry, full of complaint, bitterness, vexation, discon- tent. Nor is this any more consistent with true affection than with happiness. For in what way can the affections of such a one be preserved in due order ? in what way preserve a mind in the midst of such convulsions and disorder ? and how maintain those subordinate affections in their several degrees, if this O supreme affection be thus shaken and overturned ? On the other hand, if we stand affected towards these things as we ought, if c? ~ our affections are such as can immediately give way and without struggle or hindrance readily close with what happens ever so contrary, if our will be in conformity to the supreme will, and ready to receive whatever happens and is appointed : this only can afford us happiness and content; bestow peace, serenity, calm ; make us to live in friendship with men and with due acknowledgment and reverence and piety towards Ood. Nor can those several relations, offices, duties, parts, be any otherwise preserved but after this manner. It is in vain to think of being virtuous, just, or pious but upon this foundation. It is on this that integrity, faith, honour, generosity, magnanimity, and every- thing of that kind depends. Now, how is it that this is accom- plished '. in what way can we arrive at this natural affection ( in what way affect and disaffect, as we ought to do. and according to nature '. Of fll./DfJS f/tdf (I i'(\ xtilllf "I'f <>f v OVTWV TO. /xeV COTTIV e >ifJiiv, TO, Se OVK ;cn9 TU>V OVK e' f]ij.lv. [" Despise the things which are not within our power." Epict. EncJi., c. xix., 2.] Remember, therefore, henceforward not to think any more of natural affection in the imperfect and vulgar sense, but according to the just sense and meaning of the word and what it imports. Is my appetition,* seeking, aversation, right and natural ? am I not frustrated ? am I riot at a loss, hindered, disturbed ? do I affect safely, on sure ground, and with certainty of success? Is it not merely chance that has made me hitherto prosperous in my desire, aim and wish ? and is it not merely that and nothing else, which now at this time is the occasion of my present ease and satisfaction ? How is it that I am affected towards a change c? in any of these outward circumstances ? how towards the con- clusion of all and the finishing of my part ? how towards the loss of friends, companions, relations, children, country ? Is it here that I can prove my affection natural ? Can nothing of this kind separate me from nature, or hinder me from joining with it and accompanying it ? Is it no longer in the power of any chance whatsoever to raise any contrary affection or to interrupt the course of that which carries me with the whole of things and makes me to be unanimous with Deity ? If it be otherwise, it is in vain to plead nature and say, I lament and grieve ; but I am natural. This is the part of a father. Wretch ! consider what art thou thyself and whence? where dost thou inhabit? in whose city :* under what administration ? whence dost thou draw thy breath '. at whose will and by whose donation has thou received this being, and art now at this moment sustained? Dost thou not consider that by thus deserting Him, by thus opposing and (as much as in thee lies) impugning and destroying His rule and administration, thou art not only far from being (as thou sayest) a father; but art thyself, an unnatural son, an ill-subject, an ill-creature ? What hast thou to do with nature ? what Natural Affection. 9 pretence of being natural ? What other relation, what part dost thou tell us of, after such a part as this, after having thrown off this relation, this highest duty and obligation, upon which the rest depends ? But all other creatures are thus affected towards their young. And are all other creatures therefore sensible of that other relation ? were they made to consider nature as thou dost ? were they brought into the world to contemplate the order of it and recognise the author and supreme, to join themselves to him, and assist in his administration and rule ? were they made free, unhinderable, invincible, irrefragable, as to that inward part ( Had they any means or natural accommodations, instruc- tions, or faculties given them towards justice, faith, piety, magnanimity ? If not ; what should they follow but that other affection, which with respect to them is natural ? But if thou also wouldst act thus and still be natural, divest thyself in the first place, of that other part ; be no longer a man ; and then we will grant it, that thou dost act naturally, and according to thy constitution and end. All affection carries with it an inclining or declining, so that if this inclining and declining be right and natural, the affection is right and natural ; else not. If all that nature produces be natural, i.e., orderly and good, to incline or decline contrary to nature, or to what nature produces, must (with respect to the particular mind) be unnatural and ill. But to repine, to grieve, to be mean, or lament, is to decline contrary to nature, and is therefore unnatural affection. Every affection is natural which affects the preservation and good of that which nature lias assigned to it. Thus the natural affection of a part or member is to work for the preservation of the body. Thus five natural affection of a father is to love his children. Thus the natural affection of a man, a rational creature and citizen of the universe, is to love whatsoever happens according to those laws by which the universe is upheld. See how duly these parts are preserved. Does not the finger or hand, of its own accord, carefully decline every touch that may be hurtful : but when the head is in danger, does it not as readily expose itself of its own accord, and without waiting the order or dictate of th<- mind .' Is not the care of the whole body and private person set aside when the part or duty of a parent calls >. X 10 The Philosophical Regimen. Are not relations, children, and all of this kind forgotten when the part of a citizen comes on ? How is it that we honour and praise the severity of those Romans, deaf to all entreaties, inflexible, immovable, and with an equal temper and unaltered countenance, performing the part of the magistrate in the sentence and execution of their beloved children ? And is this part thus readily found and thus preserved and obeyed everywhere else in nature, and shall it only be wanting towards nature itself ? If therefore the highest and most natural part be that which is towards nature, consider what it is to be wanting in due affection here, and for the sake of a O member, a body, children, friends, city, or anything of this kind, to be divided from nature, to accuse nature, and to disaffect that which the supreme and sovereign will decrees for the good and preservation of the whole. Either nature which has given the several subjects of affection, is itself a subject of affection to a rational creature capable of considering nature, or it is not so. If it be not so, we can no longer say we affect any duty or part because assigned to us by nature ; and thus nothing can be properly called natural. If, on the contrary, I adhere to that which is natural, and for that reason because it is natural, then nature is to me a subject of affection. If nature be at all a subject, what can it be but the highest subject ? If it be the highest subject, then, to be wanting in affection towards it, is to be most of all unnatural. Now everything that happens is from the same nature (the nature of the whole), and, therefore, to be dissatisfied with what happens, is to be dissatisfied with nature. Now to grieve, bemoan, and repine is to be dissatisfied with what happens and to throw off our affection to nature. Therefore to affect any- thing, so as on account of it, to grieve, bemoan, or repine, must of necessity be wrong and unnatural affection. To consider of natural affection, and is it to examine and measure the affection due to every particular, as nature has appointed * What is the subject '. Is it (for example) a finger, or a hand ' Preserve it, cherish it as a member. But if the whole body come in question, expose it freely, slight it, abandon it, give it up ; for, this is due to the interest of the whole. Tims if I have friends, relations, children, city, I prize and cherish Natural Affection. 11 these. In what way ? As given me by nature, thus to love and to take care of. But if the interest of nature call, I forsake everything else and follow nature, without murmuring, without complaint. In what way, therefore, shall I love my children or relations ? As strongly and affectionately as is possible for me to love them, but so as that nature may be accused ; so as that, whatever happens, I may still adhere to nature and accept and ' embrace whatsoever nature sends. This is the foundation. This is all. Consider this, and it will be easy to find the true measure of all affection, and what discipline and rules must be followed to reduce our affection to nature and to affect as becomes a rational creature. A mind that refuses its consent to what is acted in the whole and for the good of the whole, is the same as a hand that should refuse to act for the body. What is a hand ? A single part made for the use and convenience of the body. What am I ? A man. But how a man ? As an Athenian ? As a Roman ? As a European ? And is this all ? No, but . TTOLVTI oKwr/jiia ', [" Can a certain order subsist in thee, and disorder in the All ? "Mar. Aurel., Med., Bk. IV., 27]. The elements are combined, united, and have a mutual dependence one upon another. All things in this world are united, for as the branch is united and is as one with the tree, so is the tree with the earth, air, and water which feed it, and with the flies, worms, and insects which it feeds. For these are made to it, and as much as the mould is fitted to the tree, as much as the strong and upright trunk of the oak or elm is fitted to the twining and clinging branches of the vine or ivy, so much are the leaves, the seeds, the fruits of these trees fitted to other animals, and they, again, to one another. All hold to one stock. Go farther : and view the system of the bigger world. See the mutual dependence, the relation of one thing to another ; the sun to the earth ; the earth and planets to the sun ; the order, symmetry, regularity, union, and coherence of the whole. It follows, therefore, that as the plant or tree has a nature, the world or universe must have a nature, and here arises the question, WJutt wni. of a 'luiture, xhoidd thix he ? There are in this world three sorts : a vegetative, a sensitive, and a rational. Should the nature of the universe, which contains and brings forth all other natures, be itself merely vegetative and plastic, like that of a tree or of a fo'tus ( or, should it be only a degree further, and be, sensitive, as an animal '( or should it be yet further, and be rational, but imperfectly so, as man ? Or, if this seem still utterly mean and absurd, should not the nature of the universe, which exhibits reason in all that we see ; which practises reason by a consummate art and prudence in the organisation and structure of things; and (what is more) which produces principles of reason and raises up intelligences and perceptions of several degrees in the beings that are but of a 13 14 The Philosophical Regimen. moment's duration, that start out of it, as it were, and sink into it immediately ; should not this sovereign nature of the whole be a principle itself of much greater understanding and capacity than any else ? Should not the most extensive sight or know- ledge with which we are acquainted and the highest wisdom which we admire, be as nothing in comparison with that original one from whom all is derived ? And should not that affection, which we see in all natures towards their offspring and produc- tions, towards what is more remotely united to them, or what is strictly any part of themselves, be much inferior to that affection of the Supreme Nature towards all and to what is produced and administered by it, as everything is ? And what is this, in one word, but that God is ; that He is one and simple, infinitely wise and perfectly good ? Things are finite or infinite. If infinite, that which we call O the whole is infinite ; if finite, still that which exists is the whole. But next of what kind or nature is this whole ? Is it like that of a stone or of scattered pieces of sand ? Then that had remained for ever its nature, and it could never have given rise to other natures or principles that unite and conspire together, as plants, vegetables, animal-bodies and the like. Is it, therefore, only a vegetative nature ? Then that had remained its nature ; it mio-ht have flourished and grown and thriven as those other ~ O natures, and might have borne its fruit and varied itself a thousand ways. But in what way could such a nature have pro- duced reason '. In what way could it bring perception out of itself if it were not in itself '. Therefore the nature of the universe is intelligent. Therefore, says one, there is indeed intelligence in things, or in the nature of things, and as eternally belonging to them. But the whole, says he, is not united as you suppose. So that there is not, therefore, one intelligence. Let us hear, then. Are not the small fibres of this root conspiring together and united ? They are: but, with what ^ With the plant; and the plant with what '. With the earth and other plants. And the earth and other plants with what '. With air, water, animals and other things around ; the animals themselves with one another and the elements in which they live and to which they are fitted, as either by wings for the air, by fins for the water, and other things of that kind. In short, all these conspire together, Deity. 15 and so all other things, whatever they may be, in this world. And is it not the same with the world itself in respect of the sun and the planets ? How then ? Is there beyond this anything or nothing ? If nothing, then is this the whole, and then the whole is as one and has one nature. But there is more beyond, this. Undoubtedly there is so. And shall that and this have no relation nor mutual dependence ? Shall not the coherence and union be the same, to the infinite ? Or shall we come at last to something in the whole which has no relation to the rest of things and is independent ? It remains, therefore, that all things cohere and conspire; all things are in one, and are comprehended in the nature of the universe. This nature is either merely vegetative, and then it could have produced only tilings of the same species ; or if there be in the universe beings of another kind, that is to say, such as have perception and intelligence, by what should they be produced unless by a like nature ? But there is no other nature to produce anything except the nature of the universe ; therefore the nature of the universe is intelligent, and therefore there is a universal intelligent and provident principle. If it be not yielded that the universe is one, or has one nature, so as to conspire together and to one end, it will not be denied, however, that this is proper to the stalk of grass. If the stalk of grass has it, then (by what has been said before) the whole earth has it, and not only the earth, but the whole system of the bigger world, as far as we know of anything. Either, therefore, this system, with all that exists besides, holds together, is still one whole, and is united; or (what is strange to imagine), though there be such perfect coherence in this apparent whole, yet there is incoherence in that sympathize, what is it I To feel together, or be united in one sense or feeling. The fibres of the plant sympathize, the members of the animal sympathize, and do not the heavenly bodies sympathize' ' \Vliy not ' Because we are not conscious of this feeling. No more are we conscious of the feeling or I) 18 The Philosophical Regimen. sympathizing of the plant ; neither can we be conscious of any other in the world besides that of our own. If, however, it be true that these others sympathize, then the world and the heavenly bodies (more united and more harmoniously conspiring together than either the plant or animal body) must also sympathize. If there be a sympathizing of the whole, there is one perception, one intelligence of the whole. If that, then all things are perceived by that intelligence. If so, then there is one all-knowing and all-intelligent nature. This we know. We ourselves have a mind, because we are conscious of it. But we cannot be conscious of any other mind, or that there is any such thing as a mind besides our own. If, therefore, we will believe in no other mind, there is an end, and we can go no further. If we presume or believe there is anywhere a mind out of ourselves, or that there are anywhere perceptions, intelligencies, or natures such as perceive and act ; by what is it are we induced to believe this ? Is it only because we speak and converse with such ? If so, then we cannot speak and converse but with our own kind, nor believe any such thing but in our own kind ; so there is an end, and we can go no further. But if we can have cause to believe it from any other if rounds, then what is it that is sufficient to make us believe of O anything that it perceives and acts ? It must be this, or nothing : When there is a consent and harmony of parts, a regular conduct for the good of the whole, a steady management suitable to one end and design. Now, here the question arises. The system of things we see, and with it the whole of tilings, is thus, or it is not thus. It' it be thus, it bears the marks and lias a mind. If it be not thus, show in what it is otherwise, and it will appear either that the objection, whatever it be, is from gross inequality and partiality, by referring all things to ourselves, and to the good or interest of one r-i r^ small and inconsiderable part of things; or, that it is mere ignorance, the same as his who, being ignorant in anatomy, would find fault with the glands, as useless and superfluous, or with the pores, as inconvenient and the occasion of receiving harm. Where the principle or cause is chance the product and effect must be disorder and madness. Where the cause is desitm Deity, 19 and a mind, the effects must be order and harmony. Which of these is the case ? If there be an economy of the whole and a mind, is it such as that thou shouldst expect to see it, as thou seest a man, for example ? Certainly not. What is it, then, that thou wouldst see to satisfy thee of this mind ? the effects of such a mind. And what must those be ? What else but order, agreement, sympathy, unity, subserviency of inferior things to superior, proper affec- tions of subjects making them to operate correspondingly towards a general good, a conversion of everything into use, a renovation of all things by changes and successions; nothing idle, nothing vacant, nothing superfluous, nothing abrupt. See, therefore, if all be not thus, and whether it be not ignorance and short-sightedness, or an ill-temper and wrong affection, which makes things to appear otherwise. Yesterday thou wert entertained with the contemplation of several natural things. The order of the heavens was wise and wonderful ; the anatomy of man most complete and perfect. It was a wonder with thee how the orbs should be preserved and steadily hold those courses; how the wisest Providence could have contrived so well for the support of such a body as thy own. These were thy thoughts yesterday. To-day it was an earthquake; or not so much, a storm only that destroyed some corn ; a slight infection of the air which hurt some cattle, or which affected thyself. And what follows ? Why Providence is arraigned. The world is become a new thing, all is wrong ; all is disorder. But was not all this owned possible, and even natural, but yesterday '. It was. Which is it, then, that is wrong and disordered > the world, or thyself '. What is this but temper :* View the heavens. See the vast design, the mighty revolu- tions that are performed. Think, in the midst of this ocean of being, what the earth and a little part of its surface is; and what a few animals are, which there have being. Embrace, as it were, with thy imagination all those spacious orbs, and place thyself in the midst of the Divine architecture. Consider other orders of beings, other schemes, other designs, other executions, other faces of things, other respects, other proportions and harmony. Be deep in this imagination and feeling, so as to enter into what is done, so as to admire that grace and majesty of tilings so great 20 The Philosophical Regimen. and noble, and so as to accompany with thy mind that order, and those concurrent interests of things glorious and immense. For here, surely, if anywhere, there is majesty, beauty and glory. Bring thyself as oft as thou canst into this sense and apprehen- sion ; not like the children, admiring only what belongs to their play; but considering and admiring what is chiefly beautiful splendid and great in things. And now, in this disposition, and in this situation of mind, see if for a cut-finger, or what is all one, for the distemper and ails of a few animals, thou canst accuse the universe. That the Deity is present with all things, knoivs all things, and is provident over all. Where is the difficulty of this ? How is this hard of conception ? Could a plant or tree reason, and were to answer to the question how it was possible for it to perceive the approach or neighbourhood of some other fellow- plant, it would answer by the touch. But what if not touched, how then ? It were impossible it should know anything. Thus the plant, and though I should again arid again aver that without touching the leaves or boughs of another plant it could have notice of their motions and feel, as it were, when they were agitated, and how ; this in all likelihood would be a paradox till the sense of hearing was added. But this being added, let us again ask in what way a grove, being placed at a distance from it, the trees could be perceived in their situation, distance from one another, in their different shapes, growths, as also in their very healths, sicknesses, age and youth, by any other notion than that which arises from a perceptible alteration of figure !* Would not this be a new and yet greater paradox .' I perceive yonder, afar off, that the leaf of that tree is withering and in decay. Does it seem shattered or broken ? No, but as to shape and fashion perfectly entire. What is it then that gives the intimation '. Something from the surface. What something ? Is it rough or smooth, even or uneven '. Does there anything grow upon the surface '. Are they regular figures or irregular triangles, globules, lines ? 1 know not. What are they, then ' Colours. This to the plant must be unintelligible, and not only unintelligible but (if the plant be not a wise. 1 plant) incredible. But how is it with thyself ' Wilt thou be as dull and stupid Deity. 21 as that plant would be, and reason in the same manner ? Is there nothing in the universe beyond hearing and sight, because thy wretched body has nothing better than an ear and eye ? But why need I mention the Deity, who is infinite ? Suppose merely that creature of His, the sun, to be intelligent, to what distances does he convey himself ? how noble a part of the universe receives influence from him ? What are the earth and other planets who perpetually receive from him both light and heat ? Now what should the sense of such a creature be (if such a one I may call a creature) compared with this earthly kind ? this that is confined to sucli wretched and perishing bodies ? this that is admitted and supported by such poor organs in common to us with other fellow-animals ? Yet this still supposes something exterior, whereas, with respect to the Deity, what is there or can there be exterior ? Does not He contain all within Himself. Is there anything foreign to the universe ? an3 T thing beyond the extent of that mind which resides in it ? Shall all other things be thus disposed and governed by it ; and shall that which is of the same nature and kind have no communi- cation with it ? Shall all other motion be subordinate ; and shall the motions of minds, shall thoughts, sentiments, or whatsoever is of that kind, be independent, separated, and hid ? Remember, therefore, in what a Presence thou actest, and instead of an assembly of men, instead of Greece, instead of Rome, instead of thy city, friends, country, instead of a full concourse (if it were possible) both of moderns and ancients ; remember that One, who is more than all. Thus contemplating Him, how is it possible thou shouldst either act or think any- thing mean, abject, or servile :* Which is more shameful ? to think of Providence as those do who count themselves naturalists: or thinking of Providence as thou dost, to be no otherwise affected than as thou art ' Which of the two is the more absurd .' to have the faith of Epicurus, and believe in atoms; or, being conscious of Deity, to be no otherwise moved, by Mis Presence than if He were not. or had no inspection of our thought or action '. This is in the same manner, to live without Deity, and perhaps this last may be esteemed the greater impiety. Either atoms or Deity: if the latter, consider what is 22 The Philosophical Regimen. consequent ; who it is that is present ; how and in what manner. Dost thou, like one of those visionaries, expect to see a throne, a shining light, a court and attendance ? Is this thy notion of a presence '. And dost thou wait till then, to be struck and astonished as the vulgar are with such appearances and show ? Wretched folly ! But if without all this He be here, actually present, a witness of all thou dost, a spectator of all thy actions and privy to thy inmost thoughts, how comes it that thou livest not with Him, at least but as with a friend ? Who is there whom thou wouldst thus treat ? whose presence, whose testimony, whose opinion dost thou ever slight thus ? Who is there that passes with thee so for little ? What wretch ever so mean ? Is this living so much as with a friend ? Is this living with a benefactor ? a father ? a superior, who is more than magistrate, more than people, more than friends, relations, country, mankind, world ? Is this thy conception and belief of a Deity ? Art thou still with thyself, as if alone ? This is, in effect, to believe and not believe. The foundation of all those seeming strange things taught us by a certain philosophy is solely this: Thaf 1hcrc. c'x a God* And having once this notion, am I to rest here ? Impossible. For, being concerned as I am in this general administration of things, it behooves me of necessity, if I believe such a ruler, to enquire what His rule and government is ; what His laws, what His nature; what I myself am, how related to Him. This the vulgar think they see, and on this account worship Him, pray to Him, and do whatsoever else they think is acceptable to Him. Why '. That they may receive good from him ; avoid ill. What good ' Life, health, estate, children, &c. What ill * Death, poverty, losses, disgrace. These are the pursuits and endeavours, these the aversions and declinings. If 1 cannot satisfy my lust, I grieve and repine. If I meet with evils and afflictions, I murmur and complain, if I dare do so, if I may have leave, if not. and that I am withheld by fear, what do I still but murmur and repine '. What is it that can make me on (ITTI 6f(>s . . . .fip-fls $f. rivfs ovrfs iin" avrov ytyovafjitv KU\ npus T'I tpyov; [That there is si God . . . and who are we, who were produced by him, and for what designed? A>/W. /)i.; lik. TL, c. xiv., $L'7]. Deity. 23 praise or think well of Providence ? A command ? Impossible. Nor can anything else besides the reason of the thing, besides satisfaction, besides conviction. What conviction ? That His administration is entirely just and good. Why then am I miserable ? This is natural. This cannot be otherwise. Hence all those expostulations with Providence and sentiments which we endeavour to stifle but cannot. Thus the vulgar. But he who has otherwise considered the nature of God, so as firmly to hold that opinion of Him and his administration as of what is most wise and perfect, such a one receding from the vulgar has no longer the same notions of good and ill, happy and unhappy, amiable or detestable ; but in all these things is utterly different. Men despise and condemn me. Hast thou done anything unbecoming a man ? hast thou violated any law of the Deity ? If not, in what way can this be called disgrace ? how is this shameful ? On what is it that disgrace or honour depends >. Is it on the opinion of the wise or ignorant ? of the vulgar, or those who have reason ? of the virtuous or vicious ? Thus disgrace, infamy, contempt, is not an ill. For if real shame and disgrace depend on the judgment of the most considerable, and not of the most vile, then that which is disgrace with men, but is honourable, right, and becoming with respect to God, is either not disgrace, or the Deity not Deity. But I suffer pain, I undergo fatigue, I am exposed to dangers and death. Where is that soldier who thinks of these in the presence of his general I What wounds, what fatigues does he complain of ? What life is lie concerned for ? And is not the cause much greater here * Thus are outward tilings despised, nor is this anything more than what is consequent from a real sense of Deity. Now let me once but be convinced, that my good is elsewhere than in outward tilings ; let me exercise myself in this, so as to incline and decline aright ; and see how firm and undisturbed I shall remain in my thoughts of Providence and Deity! how satisfied with administration ! how clear of doubt and scruples ! how far from any murmuring or repining, and in all respects how pious, religious, just, and good! But otherwise than thus, this cannot be. Remember, therefore, how it is that this revolution is wrought, and how these things mutually operate on one another. For by conceiving highly of the Deity, we despise 24 The Philosophical Regimen. outward tilings ; and by despising outward things we become strong and firm in the opinion and conception of Deity. But as this opinion can never be made lasting, sound or just, whilst we retain those other false and unsound opinions ; so it is here chiefly that we are to labour, and to expect the fruit of this when we are further advanced And thus it is that the same philosophy recommends to us the use of the eV/cAto-t? [aversion], and to suspend for a certain season the opei/'.svo ///>/.-< i if Efiirt.fiiH, 15k. 1 IT., c. xiii., cuiicerniri^ solitude, itc. : how tliis inav be borne ; how nature contemplated; how the Deity imitated. f Dix'-n/lt:-"'* 1 1/' K/iii'trfnx, |>k. I., C. XVl'. Deity. 25 Again, consider whence comes that weakness and irresolution in the opinion concerning m/iri '.s> being wcidble by nature; and also in that of other creatures being made serviceable to him and for his use. Whence comes this floating and hesitation, but from the inward jarring of those principles as they touch and have affinity elsewhere, as they borrow, as it were, from another system, and derive from another fountain of which they still retain something and cannot flow wholly clear and pure ? Other- wise ; what could be more absurd ? Has the spider her web and art for no use ? And are so many species of volatiles made and framed for her proper prey, and as so many subjects of her art and faculties, and shall the understanding and reason and faculties of man, his tonjnie ~ o and hands and power of employing and managing these as he does, be esteemed a lesser matter, an accident, a vagary, a scape and oversight of nature, foreign to her design, and owing to blind and random chance ? Then may the whole world be so, full as well, and let us hearken to Epicurus' atoms. What shall we say, therefore, as to all these domestic animals which are thus framed and fitted to us, some of which can scarce be imagined able to subsist without us ? Shall sheep and cattle and the rest of that kind be only accidentally man's ; but properly and naturally the lion's and the tiger's ? Are bees, ants, and even all creatures that do but herd, allowed society and man denied it ? and this, too, when he of all creatures is most impatient of solitude, most exposed in such a state, most indigent and helpless in maturity as well as infancy, and can no way subsist or be preserved without it, and neither subsist in winters without some artificial lodgment and provision of food, nor be protected against the creatures that can master and devour him '. All this is senseless and absurd, and yet see what happens! Consider, how great must be the power of those former impressions to mar and corrupt '. and how inveterate is this evil .' Apply this, therefore, upon all occasions to the idea and contemplation ol' (Jod, and remember the preceding caution. If the writer of the Table 1 described, after such a manner, Imposture and her Cup; if the draught was such in those days. 26 The Philosophical Regimen. what is it now ? and how deeply have we drunk ? Is it possible, therefore, that we should have stomachs to receive any strong or wholesome truths till we have vomited up those dregs ? Can we expect anything but qualms, nauseatings, crudities, indigestions ? What must we do, then ? Be contented with slender diet : observe a mji-men and course: refrain ? No, but I must follow my instinct and bent ; I must eat stronger food ; I must go out into the open air ; I must exercise and use my limbs. Go, then, and write and think and speak high things of Deity ; talk * magnificently of virtue, exhort others, imitate a man in health ; act a Cato, a Thrasea, a Hebridius, a liuf us : but expect to suiter for this. Remember what will be the event, since even within, in thy own breast, these things are cautiously to be approached. If presently after what has been said, it be lawful to venture on a strong thought of Deity, and even renew withal one of those dangerous ideas, take this single reflection. Consider a Paradise, an Eden (as in Milton), where that favourite of the Almighty was placed : how privileged : how adorned : fitted to view and contemplate the noble scene ; and admitted even into a part of the administration. What sort of solitude f he passed; in what thoughts, what affections ; after what manner he had c5 > communication with Deity, access, commerce, discourse, entertain- ment. This and more than this (for these are still low ideas) are verified in him, who having followed certain precepts, has accordingly framed himself a mind and will, and gained that situation TO (rvvraTTeiv eavrov TO*? 0X0/9 [where lie adapts himself to all tilings]. This, those ancients (those only heroes) knew and were possessed of. This, the worshipper of the TO oai/jioviov had : this the explorator had ; this the seeming wretch, who was //\o? uOuvuroi? [dear to the immortals]; and this he who could say ar /mot (rvvap/j.6et [everything har- monizes with me. JA'/w/.v Aurcli H.N M-W., Z?/V.. 15k. HI., c. xiii. Deity. 27 change ? how sudden a renouncing of all other things ? and how strong an application to that one affair, whatever it were that should be thus enjoined ? Consider how it is with thorough enthusiasts who are actually persuaded of some such message or resolution ? how resolute and bold in despising all other things ? and how transported with this one honour, this sole dignity ? Now is it not a thousand times more ridiculous than the merest enthusiasm of these people, to be convinced of a being infinitely more perfect than all that they conceive or think ; and yet to be by so many degrees less affected than they are ? Is it not a thing monstrously preposterous to be fully and absolutely convinced that there is a Deity, and of the highest perfection ; that He superintends all things, sees and knows all things, and is present everywhere ; and yet at the same time to be so little affected by such a presence as to have more regard even for the commonest human eye ? What can be the meaning of this ? where does the mystery lie ? Consider, and thou inayest soon find. The vulgar have an idea of God ; they have ideas also of good, of excellent, of able, admirable, .sublime. Now they for their part unite these ideas and join those of this latter kind to the idea of their God. Therefore that which they count good they ascribe to him. Thus they give him a will such as their own ; passions such as their own ; pleasure like that of their own ; revenge, as delighting in revenge ; praise, as loving praise : thus attendants and a court, external pomp, splendour, and whatsoever they themselves admire. Consider now thy own idea of God ; and whether thou join est to it the ideas that thou hast of good, glorious, amiable, and excellent. Otherwise, what can such an idea produce? Is arbitrariness or revenge at any time a good with thee/ If so, ascribe the same to God; imagine Him to be one that is always thus entertained and that enjoys the highest advantages of this sort. Thus thou shalt admire Him, imitate Him, con- ceive the highest esteem and value for Him. What is despicable? If the things themselves are such, why dost thou admire them ? H they are of the nature of good; if they are excellent and of worth; where should they be but with the Deity '. What will Deity be, when deprived of these >. what will there be left to admire or emulate > how praise or greatly esteem such a condi- tion ? 28 The Philosophical Regimen. No wonder, therefore, if the vulgar surpass us in their opinion of Deity. No wonder if the vulgar admire and adore theirs with more sincerity than the philosopher his; if all we mean by philosophy be this. How should it happen otherwise with those of this sort ? What should they be else but in a certain manner Atheists ? They have discernment enough to find that such ideas as these agree not with the idea of God ; but not discernment enough to find that they agree as little with the notion of good. o "OTTOU yap TO , eKei KOU TO etW/3e?. [" For where our interest is, there, also, is piety directed." Enict. Encli.. c. xxxi., L / -t 4.] Now try to philosophize after this rate and see what will happen. Correct the vulgar idea. Divest the Deity of all which we esteem happiness and good ; take from Him what we reckon power, what we extol as great and mighty : and what remains ? what must be the effect ? Where can piety be ? where adoration, reverence, or esteem ? In what way can we admire or respect such a being but so much as in comparison with some great prince or dignified man '. Now, where is the remedy ? what cure ? Nothing but this. To consider what is excellent and good, what not. For where we imagine this to exist, thither our admiration will be turned ; where we think this is wanting, thither our contempt. If that which vile and wicked men possess be excellent and good, we must admire vile and wicked men ; there is no help for it. If pleasure be good, we must admire those who enjoy pleasure arid have the means of being voluptuous. If anything of those external tilings (anything besides what belongs to that perfection of a mind) be good, it follows that we must attribute either these things or something of the same kind with these- things to Deity; or otherwise we <"> / must think lowly and contemptibly of such a being. In short, if we would truly own or worship Deity, if we would leave room for any true and sincere veneration, honour, admiration, or esteem, we must cither ascribe those things to Him which we admire as excellent and good, or we must no longer admire as excellent or good those tilings which we cannot ascribe to Him. If what has been said above be just, consider what a wretched kind that is which we call frc<- t ['' it is incumbent on every one to otter libations and sacrifices." E/>ict. Eitdi., c. xxxi., 5], with what follows orai' fnai'TLKii [" when you have recourse to divina- tion." //>/. Take up the lute. Touch the strings and tune them. Hearken ! Begin. TW oVrwi' rd //ej' CVTIV e' tjfjLtv, TO. e OVK (}> fj/jiiv. [There are things which are within our power, and there are things which are beyond our power.] Say, how does it sound *. Ill, harsh, hollow '. Anything, or as / i/O good as nothing; nothing at all. Hold! lay down the lute. No more. Have done with philosophy, divinity, contemplation, thought, virtue, Deity. (Jo to common talk, common rules. Be 1 cf. Xlutftcxbu-rya Characteriaticn (1711), Vol. II., pp. '5o7-S. 36 The Philosophical Regimen. everything. Nothing. Or rather be nothing indeed, truly nothing. Go to atoms (if it be atoms), for that is better than a life where there is no better or more certain opinion of things than superstition or atoms. Happy he ! whose faitli in Deity, satisfaction, assurance, acquiescing, rejoicing in Providence and in the universal administration and order of things depends, not on any history, or tale, or tradition, or wonder amongst men ; not on man himself, or any set of men ; not on any particular schemes, or systems, or solutions, of the phenomena of the world ; no, not even on that great solution by a futurity ; but who, leaving the present things to be as they are, and future ones to be as they are to be, committing all this to Providence, to be or not to be, as to that seems best, knows, feels, and is satisfied that all things are for the best ; nothing ill-made, nothing ill-governed, nothing but what contributes to the perfection of the whole, and to the felicity of Him who is the whole in the whole. But how should this be ? How is this brought about ? t^ How believe that all is good and nothing ill ''. How not be disturbed, nor shaken, nor in doubt ? How not be afflicted, repine, nor grieve ? How no ill Providence, dark Providence, hard fate ? How no words, no secret thoughts, no inward murmurs of this kind ? No way but this (which tliou knowest too well enough). If ei' TOi? <{> f'l/ufv JULOI'OIS 9{]S TO icf. K itclt., c. xxxi., 2.] If not the rest is idle, senseless, poor : flattering* (!od as a tyrant, not loving, following, obeying him as a father, or good prince, f " Dread Sovereign! Thou art all- powerful. And what then '. Therefore thou art all-good. I am in thy hands, mighty Lord. And what then '. Therefore, I complain not. Talk not why I was thus made, or why made at all if to be miserable: if to have been in fault and been a wretch. * Kvpit, fXfTjffov' 7rirp(\l/6v ^tot ft\0flv. (ivftjn'nToCiov, aXXo y(ip TI 6f\fis 17 TO apfivuv [" Lonl li;ive meivv upon me, suffer me to rome off safe. Foolish man! would you have anything but what is best ? "- --Kj>l<:L Z>(V.. l',k. II., c. vii., 5 li'.l j <'f. I')', 'i'illotson. Deity. 37 No, I am contented to be miserable. I say not so much as within myself that my lot is hard. I say not thou art unjust, arbitrary, cruel, or that thy order is ill, or amiss." Wretch ! dost thou not say it ? Is not this saying it ? How canst thou help it, poor wretch such as thou art ? How can Almightiness itself help it ? Or how make this otherwise : that he who sees not goodness should believe goodness ? that he who feels misery should not complain, even though he vows most holily that he complains not, nor ever will complain ? Faith in Deity : not faith in men. This not previous, and not fundamental to that. For, what a foundation ! Men witnessing for God ! And who for men ? Who for powers above men ? who for miracles ever so great ? What security against daemons ? what proof against magic ? what trust to anything above or below if first not satisfied of Deity, i.e. goodness, order of justice in the whole ? And how assured ? By what but reason ? what but philosophy ? Faith in Deity. That other, and this. A faith which depends on a philosophy proved by record ; and a faith which depends on a philosophy that had neither education nor the weakness of nature on its side : sprung from strong conviction, without melancholy, even in youth and pleasure, in the midst of the world, and in an age just going contrary, all things fighting against it, superstition, libertinism, the fashionable learning and philosophy in vogue. Imagine these two, not as separate but going together ; and this latter as a confirmation of the former. Consider the care taken to preserve and retain that former, and take notice to bring the same diligence and care hither. A certain enemy of religion defining that which he understood by faith, called it a " premeditated and stubborn resolution of giving reason the lie." There is indeed a faith which carries with it a sort of resolution, and stubborn resolution to give everything the lie except the reason. The stubbornness of this faith is such as to contradict the very senses, the imaginations, the habitual and almost natural opinions of mankind, the report of men, the received notions of the world, the plausible and in all appearance most innocent thoughts, unexceptionable judgments, and warrantable fancies: as of what is good, what ill, what eligible, what ineligible, what 38 The Philosophical Regimen. indifferent and what of concern. If by reason be understood the reason of the world, this is indeed giving reason, and (if you will too) common sense the lie. T e0' q/juv, TU owe e^>' rj/uiiv. Is not this equally faith ? Is not this equally mystery ? Remember then, and respect those other mysteries, for all is faith, and without faith all must be Atheism What is that which at present they call Deism ? The belief of a God ? What God ? A mind ? a real mind ? universally presiding, acting ? present everywhere ? conscious of every- thing ? even of secret thought and every intelligent act, as being infinitely intelligent and the principle of all intelligence ? Is it this they understand ? Is it of such a Providence as this that they are persuaded in themselves ? Be it so. It is well. But if it be anything less than this ; if this be too high a key ; if the heart (the truest pledge of thought) discover plainly a sense and apprehension of things far short of this, far wide of such a system, far beneath so high and exalted an idea ; then let us hear what this idea is. What Deism ? What Deity ? Of what is it they talk to us ? What nature '. (What is nature ?) What virtues or powers do they tell us of ? What magic, charm, or spell ? What coherence of things ? or what jumble ? How hanging together, put together, standing together ? By what power, energy, force ? For from one sort of man we have an account, such as it is, a blind account, be it ; but still it is an account, and in this they are fair. Alcnn* a r nd roul. A plain negative to Deity, fair and honest. To Deism, still no pretence. So the sceptic. PC /}/<( j>s so ; perlm p* wot so. But to Deism still no pretence. From whence then this other pretence ? Who are these Deists ? How assume this name '. By what title or pretence '. The world, the world *. say what '. how '. A modified lump '. matter '. motion ? What is all this '. Substance what ''. Who knows ? why these evasions ? subterfuges of words ( definitions of things never to be defined { structures or no foundations ''. Come to what is plain. Be plain. For the idea itself is plain; the question plain; and such as evcrvone has invariably sonic answer to which it is decisive. Mia/I f or not miii'l .' IF mind, a providence, the idea perfect : a God. It' not mind, what in the place '. For whatever it be, it Deity. 39 cannot without absurdity be called God or Deity ; nor the opinion without absurdity be called Deism. For what is a mind in the infinite but an infinite mind ? and how this, without infinite wisdom ? and how this without infinite goodness, infinite power ? and how this without a providence, consciousness, care, rule, order, such as has been mentioned ? And what less than this is God ? What opinion of a God but this opinion ? what else can be called Deity, or denominate a Deist ? What is this Deism they talk of ? How does it differ from mere Atheism ? Is it some secret virtue (like magic) which they assign to things ? Is it the plastic nature, or Epicurus' atoms ? But Epicurus was more sincere, for his is only a god for the vulgar ad populum phaleras [trappings for the people]. But he pretends not to bring this into philosophy nor resolve any- thing in nature by this, or any such like principle. Neither does any one call the Atomists Deists. Of what system then / / are these Deists ? Of Democritus' or the Epicureans they are not. Peripatetics, Platonists, Pythagoreans, Pyrrhonists * What ? Faitlt in Deity, and justly so called. For is it not indeed faith ( implicit faith ? implicit belief ? For how always explicit ? The sudden shocks, disturbances, foreign ideas, sophistry of wit, commotion in the affections : what in these eases, but faith I For the reasons being not present at these moments, or ready at call, must we not rely on those decrees and resolu- tions which reason at cool seasons and tit times of deliberation has so often confirmed and rendered peremptory '. How else adhere to anything '. how constant, stable, self-consistent, but by this faith ( Strive, however, to need it the least that is possible ; preserving the chain of thought and affections uninterrupted; that so it may be still the same reason, same comprehension, conviction and clear light. For what hinders that this should always be explicit '. What but wrong opinions, wrong assent ? Why therefore permit such '. Why these beirinnins } . (for who > i / o n knows the consequence '.) Whv any suspension, relaxation, wrong attention but for a moment '. For, to what does this tend except to the loss not only of reason but also of faith itself: the reserved powers of reason, the recourse, refuge, citadel, strength ' PROVIDENCE. Nothing can be wiser than that order of Providence: that the same things it has placed out of our power it should also have placed out of our knowledge. Would there be room for the natural affections ? What measure of affection inclining or declining in outward things, the good or ill of native country, friends, body, health ? What medium but either perfect indifference towards these, or perfect rebellion, perfect contempt and resistance of the Divine will '>. But as things are ordered by that Divine will in making plain what is of real concern to me and hiding what is not, how can I be indifferent or without due concern in every relation ? I know how Providence bids me to affect and act : but I am ignorant what will be the event of my action. If I were not ignorant I must affect the event which might perhaps be contrary to that which is my present endeavour and action. Therefore I must either not act, or act without affection, or with my affection contrary to my action. For if I affect the end, how can I but affect in some manner and love the means ''. and if the means, how unnatural would this be '. For in this manner I must oftentimes affect (as would seem most preposterous) my country's ruin, children's death, my own sickness, and the like, all absurdity and confusion. But in the other way and as it is regulated, how natural and easy is all! For how is it that I affect the prosperity of my little family ? as it stands in the (Ireat, if the (Jreat call, farewell the little oiii 1 : 1 give it up to what '. to my country and my country to what '. To my first and greatest country. Hut what the good of that is 1 know not till my action is over. Therefore, I cease not to act still and affect according to nature, always satisfied with my having so affected as well as with the contrary effect, if it happen to prove contrary. And thus I affect both according to nature and with nature. According to nature, as willing the o'oo'l of niv relations, and country, primarily, chiefly, and as most eligible: but not absolutely. With nature, as yielding to 40 Providence. 41 Providence, and accompanying Providence when its will is declared, having beforehand willed with this exception and reserve, and d)? nv SiSwrai [as it may be permitted] not e^ cnrajro? [by all means]. * This was eligible just now, before the thing was over. Now it is over, it is no more so, but contrariwise. What is yet to come may be eligible or ineligible, because not yet come. But it is certainly to come. How know I certainly 1 If certainly, must I not wish it so, whichever Avay it be ? What deliberation ? What room for choice or preference ? Where would the eligible be, or the ineligible ? What priority or precedency of things ? What regard or deference to anything friends, relations, country ? Why more affect their good than their ill ? Why not equally their ill, when Providence would have it then ill, when thou knowest that it is their ill and not their good that is to happen ? But this thou knowest not, and canst never know, till it be happened ; and when happened, then affect, then choose. The one was eligible before, but now the other. Thus, before the event, affection and disaffection, approbation and disapprobation, inclining and declining had place ; but now, after the event, no place. All is affection, no disapprobation, no disaffection, nothing ineligible. The past is ever eligible, and the best. AA e) /u.a\Xoi> e/jen'o 6e\w> TO yu'o/mevoi' KpeiTTov. yap }')yov/u.ai o 6 Oeo? OtXci // o eyw. [" But am always content with that which happens, for I think what God chooses is better than what I choose." Ejttct. Dic., Bk. IV., c. vii., 20.] Such is the harmony of Providence with one who has harmony in himself, and knows wherein Providence has placed his good and ill ; wherein not. Providence dispenses tilings unequally. What things ? The things that are not my good. But the things that arc my good, how ? Are they not in my own power '. How blame the dispensation '. Providence dispenses without regard, promiscuously and indifferently. What ; Indifferent things, but good and ill; how '>. To the good and to the ill distinctly, not promiscuously. Be thou therefore one of the o o\(av, u/\A e/u.t:/ULV>]T(). OTl 7rur TO ycio/uLerov eop/u.a$) to know both it and myself, and to be conscious for what and to what I was born. If I use these I am a man, and as such Providence will use me. If I use them not I am a mere animal (let my shape be ever so much of a man), and as an animal Providence will use me, even as we men use other animals, making them willingly or unwillingly serve our purposes. What is that which is dragged and forced '. What goes to death unwillingly ? An animal though a human creature an animal still (if it be thus), a mere animal; for if it knows no better what life is, it is still but the animal. The man knows better, and will go to death like a man, not as to slaughter. What slaughter ? Is (iod the butcher '. Man ! dost thou know (lod, that thou thinkest thus of Him, and no better '. Can He kill otherwise than kindly, fatherly ; for the good of everything, and as the preserver of the whole '. Is there any harm ? Not if thou art a man ; thou canst not think so. For where is the liana of death ? And if none here, what other harm .' Where can there be any '. But if thou art an animal only there is harm, in this alone, that what might have been a man should remain still an animal, and no more. This is thy harm. But that there should be animals is no harm in the whole. When thou ceasest to be one (that is to say, when thou becomest a man), neither will there be anv harm to thee. So that if thou 44 The Philosophical Regimen. complainest any more, complain (if thou wilt) of the hard case of animals, but not of men ; for, being once a man, thou wilt know there is no cause. If I know Providence, I know my good arid can follow it ; so, no complaint. If I know not my good. I do not in reality know Providence. So if I complain, I complain of a spectre and not of Deity: I complain as an animal, not as a man. For wherein lies the animal ? where the distinction ? Go then and complain for the sake of animals and for thyself as being but an animal, when yet it lies in thee to be otherwise if thou pleasest. See what a complaint ! Thus ignorant people sitting by a painter will needs be giving him instructions, guiding his hand, and teaching him his art. " This colour is harsh, this disagreeable and sad ; here the paint lies too thin and hardly covers the cloth, here thick, uneven, rough." Come, take the pencil, let us see thy own performance, what ordering, what work thou art like to make. But is this the case here ? Man ! is it not much more the case ? Canst thou judge of this in the piece ? Seest thou the real piece ? or a part only ? Is it the whole breadth of the cloth or only a thread or two ? Art thou in a right light and at the due distance, to view this in the full breadth of time, the circle of generations, the compass of worlds and in the infinite extent of this design ? Hast thou so much as thought of this ordering ? Art thou a virtuoso here ? Hast thou any masterly knowledge or judgment ? Let us sec it, give us the proof: let us hear how thou earnest by it. Where did'st thou study for it, and how ? or will the taste and knowledge of this kind come of itself? or come easier and with less study than that other taste ' Is the high virtuous part more easy than the virtuoso's '. How know a hand '. how judge the master or the art ? how comprehend so much as one rule:* But why should there lie tyrannies? why these; dark sides upon the globe? I would have no shade.no roughness, but all smooth: no sad colours, but all 0-ay and li<> - ht. Pretty amusement ! ladies' talk! ~ / r" */ the wantonness of children ! But is this for men too >. Is this to study nature '. is this an understanding of beauty '. a knowledge of proportion, symmetry, or rule.'' Where is the great onyinfil? Or if none; from whence these copies ' this derivation ' What is tin-re in the world that has more of beautv, or that Providence. 45 gives the idea of the TO KO\OV more perfect and sensible than the view of an equal commonwealth, or city, founded on good laws ? a well-built constitution, fenced against exterior and interior force; a legislature and a militia; a senate propounding, debating, counselling; a people resolving, electing; a majesty executing and in rotation ? And for what all this ? Against what, this precaution ? Whence this so fair, so comely and admirable a structure ? How if no tyranny, no ambition, 110 irregular passions or appetites of men ? This is that Chrysippean paradox inveighed against by so many. Thus honest Plutarch. But how can this (even this too) be otherwise or better ? how more orderly or beauti- ful than as it is ? Or, say, where would the prodigy of a Chrysippus be, his dialect, his astonishing force, if not liable withal to be thus taken by many and thus derided and inveighed against ? For how explain these things to the vulgar ? And what to say to those vulgar philosophers who thus set forth Providence ? who need a daemon to solve the ill phenomena, and who make thus a mere baby of the world, to dress, and dandle ? How ? as being babies themselves, and having baby- tJoy/uara. But till we have quitted and exchanged these for better this must be still with us a baby-world, and baby- like be thus dressed and undressed, taken to pieces, and put together, according to what our fancy tells us is pretty or not pretty. (), pretty play ! but which costs many a sigh and groan. Leave the play then, and be in earnest. Be no more the child and there will be no need to cry or lament. All is well, excellent well, and tliou mayest play too and play safely in another far better mariner, if thou understandest that divine play (Epict. Dicourw.s, Bk. II., c. v., and Bk. IV., c. vii.). For it is that alone that can make piety, religion, or virtue, earnest ; Providence, in earnest, Providence, that is to say, in earnest, a government and good government; in earnest, wisdom, perfect wisdom, perfect goodness, than which nothing better can be thought or wished, for else this is not earnest, and when we praise, we lie and flatter. In parliament, the contr'ntufiud 'itt <'<>nt' ; iif. In Providence, which ever way the question go, always 79 (f)uv ou Sia^epojueOa. [" We may learn the will of nature from the things in which we do not differ from one another." E/>ict. Ench., c. xxvi.] In whatsoever we accuse Providence we contradict ourselves and so cannot without absurdity accuse. Sicknesses, diseases, deaths, in vegetables, animals, systems, worlds remote, and at a distance from ourselves, are natural. The answer is ready OTI TWV /ivo/mei'Mi' earTiv [these are events that will happen]. But bring it a little nearer and presently OL/J.OL, rdXas t-/w [how wretched I am]. No one is so vulgar as not in some measure to contemplate the revolutions of things, and see at least the spring and fall with many other generations and corruptions of nature as really beautiful and pleasing. The same, of nations and even worlds where self can but be abstracted. Animals may sicken and die: no harm still: it is natural. Men (foreign men) may die: it is natural; even our neighbour at tin- next door: it is natural still, TMV yivop-evutv. But in my house ! in my own family ! there it is. And thus we stand not to our own judgment. We accuse ourselves, deny, contradict ourselves, when we accuse Providence: for were we all of us, in spite, to make * From scrap of old date, viz., Holland, lOOtf. f St. Giles, 1701-5. Providence. 47 a charge against it, we could not any way agree one with another, nor any one of us with ourselves. Again, TO /3oi/A>;/xa T*J$ >., Bk. L, c. xx., 3 17 The End. 51 essential to its operation. What is it, then, that we can under- stand to be the effect and operation of a man ? Is it only when he eats and drinks and sleeps ? Is it when the heart beats and keeps due time, and the adjacent parts about it correspond ? If so, then indeed is this all one with the watch. But what if the fancy and imagination be wrong? what if the understanding be blind ? what if the affections fight one with another ? Is this a right effect ? is this a due operation ? What, therefore, is the operation and effect of a man? what does the nature of man aspire to and terminate in ? Is it not this ? " The use of reason ? the exercise of understanding? a certain will and determination? certain affections?" What exists therefore, that is able to hinder these operations and these effects ? Or what is there in the sufferance or injury of that other part, which is able to hinder me from acting as a man ? from being either just, proud, virtuous, or good ? from acting that which is before me with magnanimity and constancy ? from acquiescing in what is present as the part assigned me and committed to me ? from being benign, and beautiful towards men, composed and easy towards events, and in unanimity with the whole ? This is what the nature of man imports. Or is it rather on the contrary to whine arid to bemoan? to be peevish and malignant ? to be effeminate and soft ? impotent towards pleasure, and impatient of pain and labour or hardship / If manhood be the contrary to this; if it be in action and exercise, in reason and in a mind that this consists : then is it here that the man is either saved or lost. These are the springs and wheels, which, when impaired and hindered, the man ceases and is extinct. And as in the watch, a certain motion is the end to which all is referred ; so also, here, it is a certain motion that is the end, and when this proceeds right, all is well, and nothing farther is required. We see in man}' things what their end is in nature; but more particularly in our own bodies. The end of the muscle is the attraction or convenient motion of the part, such as the eye- lid or eye itself. The end of the eye is sight: the end of sight, the preservation and protection of the animal ; as the end of the seminal vessels and their propel- affections is the propagation and increase of the animals, and the good of a whole species. The teeth, eyes, hands, and all other limbs and organs are made for i/ O 52 The Philosophical Regimen. one another and for the good of the whole body. The different sexes are made for one another and with respect to a kind or species. If so, then in the same manner as the several parts of the creature have their end, so the whole creature has his end in nature and serves to something beyond himself. If it be to the good of his kind, it must be to the perfection of his kind. If the perfection of his kind be society, then his end also will be society. And since the only perfection, the only tolerable state of man and that alone in which he can possibly endure or subsist, is society ; the end of man is therefore society. If it be not his good to follow this end ; then has he some other end within himself, which is contrary to that natural end or end in nature. If, on the contrary, it be his chiefest good to follow that end of nature, then is his private end and the real and only end of man to live according to nature. O Now that which is called our private or particular end, to which we ultimately refer or have respect, must be that which can yield to nothing else ; for, if it yield to anything, then that which is yielded to will be the end, and not what we first determined. If there be that which is preferable to everything else, and which can yield to nothing besides, this, if anything, must be called our end. Now, to live merely, cannot be our end ; for, then death could not at any time (as it may) be rightly preferred to it. What is there, therefore, that we can never (as they say) sacrifice to anything ? Bodily ease, soundness of limbs, health, and constitution are undoubtedly eligible and desirable. Are these, therefore, or is it pleasure that to which we may sacrifice everything else I If so, then we may sacrifice our mind. Now it is certain that he who has a mind, or what is worthy to be called so, will never think of parting with it, on any other account. If so, then that which last remains and is preferable to everything else is a mind and resolution, will or I/ > reason, becoming a man. Ti' so, then this is our end : and our end in nature and our private end will be the same. And thus our end is, io It re (tfcordrny l<> mttcrc. GOOD AND ILL. Nam quid sequar, aut quem ? [For what shall I pursue, , whom follow? Hor., Ep., I., Bk. I., line 76.] Why should it / disturb me that I am thought singular ? and wherefore should I not persist in following what I think is good, after I have thought so long and chosen on such good grounds ? But this is j odd, this is out of the way, and against the general conceit. Whom then shall I follow ? Whose judgment or opinion shall I take concerning what is srood. and what is not ? ^ O ._ O 7 One man affects the hero and esteems it the greatest matter of life to have seen war and to have been in action in the field. Hence he looks upon those as wretches and altogether contemptible who have never known anything of this kind. Another laughs at this man, counts this stupidity and dullness, prizes his own wit and prudence and would think it a disgrace to him to be thought adventurous after that manner, or to have willingly at any time engaged in danger. One person is assiduous and indefatigable in advancing himself to the character and repute of a man of business and of the world. Another on the contrary thinks this impertinent, values not his fame or character in the world, and would willingly never come out of the stews or drinking houses where he best likes to be, and which he accounts the highest Ood. fi O One values wealth as a means only to serve his palate and to eat finely. Another loathes this, and aims at popularity. One admires gardens, architecture, and the pomp of buildings. Another has no relish this way, but thinks all those whom they call virtuous to be distracted. One there is who thinks all experience to be madness; and thinks only wealth itself to IK- good. One plays ; another dresses and studies an equipage : another is full of heraldry, a family and a blood. One recommends gallantry and intrigue ; another riot and debauch ; another buffoonery, satire and the common wit : another sports and tin- country : another a court ; 54 The Philosophical Regimen. another travelling and the sight of foreign countries ; another poetry and the fashionable literature. All these go different ' ways. All censure one another and are despicable in one another's eyes. What is it, then, that I am concerned for ? Whose censure do I fear ? or who is it that I shall be guided by. If I ask are riches good when only heaped up and unemployed ? One answers, they are. The rest deny. How is it then that they are to be employed in order to be good ? All disagree. All tell me different things. Since, therefore, riches are not of themselves good (as most of you say) and since there is no agreement amongst you as to the way they are made or have become good ; why may not I hold it for my opinion that they are neither of themselves good, nor in any way made good ? If there be those who despise fame ; if of those who covet it, he who desires fame for one thing despises it for another; and if he who seeks fame with one sort, despises it with another ; why may not I say that neither do I know how any fame can be allied a good. If those who court pleasure and admire it of one kind, contemn it of another, why may not I say that neither do I know which of these pleasures, or how pleasure in general, can be good ? If among those who covet life ever so earnestly, that life which to one is eligible and amiable is to another despicable and vile ; why may not I say that neither do I know that life itself is necessarily good ? In the meantime I both see and know certainly, that the necessary effect or consequence of loving and esteeming these things highly, and as essentially good, is to be envious, to repine and long, to be often disappointed and grieved, to be bitter, anxious, malignant, suspicious, and jealous of men, and fearful of events (all which is misery): and that on the other side the effect of despising these is liberty, generosity, magnanimity, self-appro- bation, consciousness of worth. And are not these really good, but uncertainly so, as the other '. A generous affection, an exercise; of friendship uninterrupted, a constant kindness and benignity of disposition, a constant complacency, constant security, tranquility, equanimity : are not these ever and at all Good and III. 55 times good ? Is it, then, of these that anyone can at any time nauseate or be weary ? Are there any particular ages, seasons, places, circumstances, that must accompany these to make them agreeable to us ? Are these variable and inconstant ? Do these by being ardently beloved or sought procure any disturbance or misery ? Can these be at any time over-valued ? If not, then where can my good be but in them ? Wherefore is it that I act at any time ? Why do I choose ? Why prefer one thing to another. Is it because I conceive or fancy good in it, or because I fancy it ? Am I, therefore, to follow every present fancy and imagination of good ? If so, then I must follow that at one time which I do not at another ; approve at one time what I disapprove at another ; and be at perpetual variance with myself. But if I am not to follow all fancy alike, and if of fancies of this kind some are true, some false ; then I am to examine every fancy and there is some rule or other by which to judge and determine. It was the fancy of one man to set tire to a beautiful temple in order to obtain immortal remembrance or fame. If this were a good to him, why do we wonder at him ? If the fancy were wrong, in what was it wrong ? Or wherefore was not this his good as he fancied ? Either, therefore, that is every man's good which he fancies, and because he fancies it and is not content without it ; or otherwise there is that with which the nature of man is satisfied and which alone must be his good. If that in which the nature of man is satisfied and can rest contented, be alone his good, then lie is a fool who follows that as his good which a man can be without and yet be satisfied and contented, in tin; same manner as he is a fool who flies that which a man may endure and yet be satisfied. Now, a man may possibly not have burnt a temple (as Erostratus) and yet may be contented. In the same manner a man may be without any of those things which are commonly called goods and yet may be contented; as on the contrary lie may possess them all and still be discontented and not at all happier than before. II' so. then happiness is in a certain temper and disposition, in a certain mind and will. It' so, why do not I seek it there f . Whatsoever is good must be alike good to all : whatso- ever is ill, alike ill to all. Sorrow, trouble, dejection, honour 56 The Philosophical Regimen. anxiety, fear, tranquility, satisfaction, content, freedom of mind, good dispositions, good affections, and whatsoever creates or establishes, are alike good or ill to all, and therefore are of the nature of good or ill. If virtue be not necessary to produce satisfaction and content, or, if content may as well be without as with it, then virtue is not our good ; if necessary, it is our good, and whatsoever is indifferent towards the procuring of content is indifferent in itself. Now, if this that my fancy represents to me, be necessary to content, it must be necessary towards every man's content. Is it fame that my fancy represents to me as necessary ? But this is not necessary to every man's content (for there are those who can live as well satisfied without it), therefore it is not necessary to my content, and is not my good. Is it honour or power ? The same. Is it riches ? The same. Is it pleasure of whatever kind \ The same. Neither do any nor all of these certainly procure satisfaction, since the mind may be as unquiet in the midst of these as at any other time. Now if that alone be good which is necessary to every man's content that it should be present, then that alone is ill which is necessary to every man's content that it should be absent. Now, that a man should be sure of living twenty years, or one year, or one hour, is not necessary to his content. Nor is it necessary to his content that he should not believe or know that he is to die the next year or next hour. Therefore, to be sure of dying the next year or next hour is indifferent; and, therefore, death is not an ill. K pain be ill, it must be alike ill to all men (for so is sorrow, afHiction, honour, despair, anxiety, and all of this sort). But if there be a certain temper or resolution which can cause it to be slighted, then it is not an ill to him who has that temper or resolution, but to him who wants it, and therefore not constantly and in itself an ill. But if pain be said to be ill, yet all pain is not so; since that which to an effeminate person is insufferable pain and trouble, is to a man laborious or warlike, a subject of delight and enjoyment. What else is that delight of sportsmen, or of those who love adventures and who engage in things hazardous and not accomplished but with pain and difficulty ''. What is the difference between one that is robust and manly, and one that is weak and tender, except this that which afflicts the Good and III. 57 one is of no concern to the other ? Therefore, if to some the greatest pains can be tolerable, and if to others the slightest pains are intolerable, then is not the greatest pain itself to be considered so much as that is to be considered which makes pain to be either well or ill-supported and to be tolerable or intolerable ? Thus, therefore, neither is pain, nor death, nor poverty, nor obscurity considerable as ill. Nor, on the other hand, is pleasure, wealth, honour, or fame of any consideration as to our happiness or good. But as by fearing these former as ill, or pursuing and following these latter as good, there must of necessity be disturbance, disappointment, anxiety, jealousy, envy, animosity, which are and ever must be eternally ill and miserable ; so 011 the contrary side, by a liberty from these, there must be serenity of mind, tranquility, security, an undisturbed enjoyment of all social affection, and an exercise of all virtue, which are and must be eternally good and happy. He that affects what is not in his power, or disaffects in the same manner what he cannot hope to avoid, cannot be said to have content. He therefore who pursues a right affection, pursues his happiness, content and good. He who despises this affection, or says he can be content without it, contradicts him- self, and may as well say he can be content without content. The good of life is either in the sensations of the body, or in the motions and affections of the soul, or in the action of the mind in thought and contemplation ; or, if it be not in one of these separately, it must be in some mixture of these one with another. If it be in sensuality alone, then it is in brutes that good is completed and most perfect, since they have more capacity for this, as they are more exempt from the other. If it be in soul and mind, but in subserviency to sense, it is still the same, since if the highest good (supposed in the sense) be attained, the other is slighted, and thus still the bestial state r*> is most perfect. IF it be in a soul and mind eminently and principally, so the body is to be subservient, then it is to be considered how far this subserviency i.s to go. Now it is evident that as the activity of the mind and operations of the soul are the causes of the sensual pleasures being less felt, and are there- tore the diminution of that other sort of good ; so, on the other side, is sensuality the obstruction of this good which is in a mind. 58 The Philosophical Regimen. Such is the opposition and fight of these two principles. There- fore, if the highest degree of this sort of good (viz., of a mind), be not attainable but by the loss of the other, then that other, as the meaner good must be sacrificed to this greater, and the only true and real good is the enjoyment of a soul and mind freed from the incitements, commotions, and disorders of sense. Now if the chiefest good be in this of a soul and mind, and their operations, then consider how it is that thou exertest them ; what thou makest to be the objects of their pursuit and inten- tion. How dost thou employ them, and upon what ? how is it that thy soul loves, esteems, admires, rejoices ? what is it that thy mind contemplates with delight ? and what are the thoughts it loves to be entertained with ? See what the subjects are. For as is the worth of these so is thy worth. As the greatness and fulness is of these, so is that of the good thou enjoyest. See therefore where fulness is and where emptiness. See in what subject resides the chiefest excellence and beauty, and w r here it is entire, perfect, absolute; where broken, imperfect, short. View these terrestial beauties, and whatever has the appearance of excellence and is able to attract. See that which either really is or but stands in the room of the fair, beautiful, and good : * a mass of mettle; a tract of land; a number of slaves; a pile of stones ; a human body of such certain lineaments and proportions. But go to what is more specious : a friend : a set or society of friends: a family; and that larger family, a city, commonwealth, and native country. Is this the highest of the kind ? Is this of the first order, the first degree of beauty ? May each of these be beautiful by themselves, without a beautiful world '. ("an beauty and perfection be there and not here { or, if here, can it be in a less degree than there ? If beauty be at all in this /coV/xo? (the original and container of all other beauties) can it be less perfect in the whole than in the parts.' 1 Or. on the contrary, is it not impossible that it should be imperfect in the parts, and only perfect in the whole ^ where all the pieces *~ are (in the artist's phrase) /v^/^/'/VV.v. matched, adjusted: where all is joined * Kti\uv Ka\ dya&ov. + iTvuftaivfiv di Tf^i'irni \iyovm ["they are suitable, the workmen sav." ./"/- Aiin-l. .!/''/., P.k. V., jjS.] Good and III. 59 and united ; and in which all number, pvQ/j.6^, measure, and pro- portion are summed. See in painting, see in architecture, where it is that beauty lies. Is it in every single stroke or stone, which unitedly compose the whole design ? is it in any separate narrow part, or in the whole taken together ? is it (suppose) in the foot- square of the building, or the inch-square of the painting ? or is it not evident that if the eye were confined to this, the chief and sovereign beauty would be lost, whatever slender graces might appear in those imperfect fragments ? Now consider and apply this. Consider painting and architecture itself, consider music and harmony, a voice, a face, to what does this refer ? how stands it in the larger piece ? how in the whole ? what part is it ? of what is this the image, reflection, shadow ? where is the sovereign beauty ? where the sovereign good ? See, therefore, what is amiable in the first and what, but in the second and lower degree. Go to the first object. Go to the source, origin, and principle of excellence and beauty. JSee where perfect beauty is, for where that is, there alone can be perfect enjoyment, there alone the highest good. SHAME. (1) They laugh at the habit, the posture, place, countenance. Shall this disturb ? But were it in another case (a loss of fortune, of friends, a melancholy or concern about a dying relation or a sinking public). This would be otherwise, there would be little regard to this or to anything they could say, though ever so full of mockery or satire. And why this ? Because thou wouldst be otherwise taken up, and in a greater concern, to which the rest would be as nothing. And is this, therefore, a slighter case ? Are those other things of more concern than that without which there is no being a friend, or possibility of being truly a fellow-citizen, or fellow-creature, an owner of deity, or lover of men ? without which I must lie, dissemble, flatter ; tremble and be a coward ; soften in pleasure and be voluptuous and effeminate ; hate and be an enemy ; be unreconciled to Providence and be impious ; in short, without which my whole life must be absurdity and contradiction ? (2) Again, either this is a true shame (and then it is some- thing vicious), or, if it be for nothing in itself ill, the shame is ill. But how to bear the reproach of a whole people ? How do robbers, debauchees, and the common women \ But these are not ashamed of ill actions. And shall they be unhurt by the report of others that are virtuous, whilst thou art inferior to the reproaches of those who are ignorant and vicious ? They are not ashamed (thou sayest) of what is base. Wherefore ? Because they think it not base. But if they thought it base, could they be otherwise than ashamed ? No. Then, wherefore is thy shame '. See what thou art forced to confess. In short, it is impossible we should be sorry for anything but because we think it ill. It is impossible we should be ashamed for anything but because we think it base. So that either thou art troubled because thou thinkest fame to be a good, or every virtuous action not honourable. GO S}iame. 61 (3) Again, if a number of children deride thee, wouldst thou be concerned ? No. If of idiots ? The same. If of mechanics and the lowest of the vulgar ? Still the same. But perhaps these whom thou fearest are judges of vice and virtue, and know what is good, what ill. Not so. Then who are these but children, idiots, and mechanics, or all one with these ? and what have we to do with their judgments ? If they are wise, instead of condemning, they will praise the action. If they condemn, they are the same vulgar whom thou despisest, and who know neither thee nor themselves. Thus as to the great people. Thus as to kings and their court. Thus as to the formal part of the world and those who are called learned. (4) Again, to remember that saying of Marcus Aurelius, " to look down as from on high," &c. : a city ; a rumour of people a nest of mites ; the swarming of insects. How, when the tree is shaken ? how many cities swallowed in one earthquake ? and how soon must all be swallowed by death, and the whole surface of the earth changed and new ? Not anything extant that now is. What if the change were sudden and before their eyes ; how would they look ? Where are the solemn brows, the important reproofs, the anger or mirth ? They divert them- selves with me ; they please themselves. Be it so. But who can bear contempt ? Any one may that knows himself ; what it is that one contemns, and why; what is contemptible and what not.* (o) Again, these, by their contempt, disturb me. But if greater and better than these were present and applauded me I should bear up and should contemn them wholly and what they thought or said. Why, man ! Is there not a greater Presence than all this ? Is there no intelligence, no consciousness in the whole ''. or is all there blindness, ignorance, and impotence ? Or is that Being a more inconsiderable spectator and less worthy thy concern ' or, it' thy action be just and thy affection right, is not tltis that which he approves ? And what more ( Wouldst thou that this approbation should be signified to thee? Wouldst thou hear a certain SOUTH! as from men '. Or wouldst thou that they also should hear that thou art approved '. What folly '. * cf . Ilf/al TOV iiywvu'iv, KfiK'tit. /)!.., Bk. II., c. xiii. 62 The Philosophical Regimen. Consider, therefore, these five. (I) An ordinary calamity, (2) robbers and the common women, (3) children and idiots commending, (4) the world and its inhabitants, (5) God. Pudor, inquit te mains angit [" a false shame distresses thee." Hor., Sat. II., 3, 39.] This is what forces thee to confess thy meanness, lowness, and imbecility. This is what makes thee unequal in every strife, unable to stand a moment on behalf of thyself and inward character, or so much as to expostulate or parley with these antagonist appearances, those species, marks, spectres, phantoms, which carry all before them and make what ravage they please. This is that which in company moulds and twines thee after any manner ; forces thee to speak where thou shouldst be silent, be silent where thou shouldst speak ; makes thee to have whatever sort of countenance is commanded ; to smile, frown, pity, applaud, as is prescribed ; and to be, in short, whatever the company around thee is. For, should I not do thus, what would they think of me ? what would they say ? Why, man ! what is it to thee what they think or say ? Is not this their concern ? Are not they to look to this ? Is it not at their own peril ? What hast thou to do with their miseries and woes ? with their wrong opinions, ill judgments, and errors ? See that thy own opinions be right, and in particular that this opinion be so which thou conceivest concerning their praise or dispraise. What is all this stooping and slavery, and whence but from that wretched opinion and doy/xa still remaining, Unit another's y>/v//'.sr (i/i/d commendation w my good? Consider the sum of this. What it' all these and all besides that are upon earth should conceive the highest opinion of thee, what good would this be to thee >. or, if they all thought ill, what ill '. 1 should be useless in the world. Retire then. Where is the harm ' What sorrow, what ill does this portend .' What else is it but death ? In the meantime, what is it to me, where my task is appointed to me, where my service is. how far it extends, how near ceasing and coining to that period to which, of its own accord, and by the course of nature, in a few years it will come ? Am I unserviceable now '. If not now, I must be so however within a little. If I stay, but till age and infirmity do their part, what signifies it whether it he one cause or another that 1 ~ sends me out of the world ? If I have still a part in it, I act ; if SJiame. 63 not, I bid farewell. Where is the ground for all this anxiety ? What is the ground for all this anxiety ? What is this stir about an outward character ? Either it can be kept or not be kept. If not, either I have a part still, or no part. If none, it is well, I am discharged. How ? as complaining that it should be thus soon ? that I had not a longer time given me to o o act ? that I had no better nor more considerable a part ? Think what it is thou callest considerable. How ? with respect to what ? Is it with respect to Him who distributes the parts ? Are not all alike considerable in this respect ? But with respect to men What are men \ What are their interests 1 , what is society or community but with respect to this superior and his appoint- ment ? If I have no concern for them, what is it to me what my part has been amongst them ? If I have concern and am desirous of a part, it is because of nature ; and what part would I have, for nature's sake, other than what nature has appointed me ? What service would I render to the whole but what the whole has willed > What approbation is there. What glory or honour with respect to Deity, except in following and obeying. Remember therefore to run still to the utmost, and not to stick half-way. Think always of the worst. They despise me. Who ? These few, these two or three. Let it be the whole world and what then ? See what is it that I fear ? Is it my body that will sutt'er '. This is not the question here. What is it then ? Is it my mind ? How, in what way, unless I will myself \ What is fame ? in what way does it hurt { in what way advantage ? what good does it do me at best? what ill at worst.'' Where does the good or ill lie? In the opinion. Set that right therefore, and all else will be right. OL'TJ yap uvdptaTTivov TL avfv Trjs tiri ra Qaa crvvavafpopus (v TTpafis [" For neither wilt thou do anything well which pertains to man without at the same time having reference to things divine." Mar. Aur.-l. M,>d., Bk. ITT., $ 13]. REPUTATION. Besides many and weightier reasons for a good man's disregard of esteem and fame, even with those who are called the better sort, there is this good warrant on his side ; that in reality a true character was never well relished or understood by the critics and nice judges of the world ; no, not so much as in ancient times. Socrates and Diogenes appeared as buffoons, and the first a dangerous one. As shining as was Marcus' character and station, he was enough censured and under-valued by the refined people. An Augustus and a court like his were more after their taste. Cato was not so amiable with this sort. A Cicero, an elder Cato, or a Fabius agreed better; and to them a Pericles or Themistocles was beyond an Aristides or a Phocion. What these two latter, as well as Socrates, suffered, was from the faction of these great ones, even such as pretended to be for liberty. The people of themselves were well inclined towards them, and could not but live well with men whose manners were so simple and popular. The mere people, despicable as they are, have in truth the best insight and judgment in the matter. It is here as in the virtuous world. The half-witted and half-learned, who have only a smattering of the arts, are pragmatical, conceited, and only ingenious in choosing constantly amiss. A Le Brim, a Vanderwerf, a French or Flemish hand is charming : a Titian and a Carate are too masterly, and rather fright them. They can see nothing natural in that which is so verv near nature. Yet often a verv child or peasant shall tint! x - likeness and bear testimony to nature where these pretended artists are at a stand. Few indeed (as the satirist says) are so detestable as to prefer Nero to Seneca ; but how man}- would prefer Seneca to Rufus > For see how even Tacitus himself treats this latter. Why able to slight it easily in the whole, yet not by parts:* C4 Reputation. 65 why so often at defiance, yet reconciled ? free unconcerned, dis- interested, yet drawn in again and engaged? But new views, a better world (as they say), hopes of the world, a part in that world, and a character. Here the deceit and folly, here the treachery, the TU e' jj/x?i/ forgot : the state of men and of their minds who know not what are e(j> rifs.lv, what not this and all of this kind forgot. The game turned. A new game, a character, a circumstance, the thing played for, not the play ; a play in earnest, a game begun not so easily left off; not a loser con- tentedly : so bowls, tables, and other games, when made a business of. Remember why these games forborn formerly and why not this game forborn therefore now ? Since playing at this game, thou canst less command thyself than thou couldst at those other games. But try, let it be a game merely ; let it be play, real play, skill, exercise only ; not gain or victory. For what gain here but the action ? what victory but the action ? what played for, but good play only ? And can the play be good that aims in earnest at the praises of those who understand it not? Does it belong any more to this play to frame men's voices than to a gamester to make bowls or paint the cards ? Must not each take them as he finds them ? But if that be the business to gain voices, it is another art and has a different name. This is not playing the cards or bowls; this is not play or exercise or skill, but a poor ordinary mean craft, a servile trade ; the turner and the toy- shop. Or is ambition anything more ? is it the business here to rrutkc voice*? What is at stake ?- a fortune, reputation, fame. Is this then what is played for ? No : but honesty and virtue. Play away then for those other are the cards and not the stake. The dice run wrong let them run. Is it my fault ? or shall I go to a conjurer for better fortune f . If play I must, what have I to do, but play well ''. Or would you have me cheat ? But you will be ruined. .Man! how ruined! 1 What is played for ? nothing but the play. Thou forgettest thyself, for here is no ruin in the case; no loss at this game, but in the game or play only; the things thou talkest of are the curds, the dice, wood, horn, paste- board, stuff. What are their opinions' their voices ' what is all this to the game '. If they rail and I do well, is it not I that win, and are not they the losers f . 66 7 he Philosophical Regimen. All is lost. What ? Reputation, name, esteem ? Who plays for these ? Who made this to be the play ? But there is 110 play without them. The game then is up. But thou must leave the play. Right, for why did I begin ? But there is an end, then. And must there never be an end ? But where is the loss all this while ? Have I not my stake ? Have I not got what I played for ? Or had I any design upon the cards ? Should I pocket the dice, and carry these off with me ? What have I to do with these ? or what care I who has them ? Again, then. What was the opinion or fame in those early days, when honesty not succeeding with relations, or the part} 7 , thou gavest that matter up, and turning Epicurean (with Horace and his Odes) didst follow pleasure with air, mirth, humour ? What was a rumour or a censure at that time ? What was a grave judgment passed on thee by any of the solemn ones of lofty brows ? What if some such account had been brought thee when dancing (suppose) or in any other of those entertainments ? Sport, mere sport, and nothing else. And shall the course in which thou art now engaged, the entertainments of these latter days, and the order of life now taken up with, be yet not so powerful, or of so much virtue as the fiddles ( Shall that philosophy be more prevalent than this ? Shall the vulgar, as they are considered, be more despised than now '. Shall the chief good as then admired be more attractive than at present, after what thou hast experienced, and now seest, and knowest ? 0eo'f 009 vvv TrlOtjKos- 1 To-day a prodigy, to-morrow an ass. So it will be. O admirable thing, rcnotrn ! Wondrous reputa- tion ! Mighty f [reputation] was threatened (sad speeches abroad ! sad censures past ! sad noises and reports !) Just at that instant the chimes sounded. And what are chimes ? What are noises, and rumours of tongues ? Dull, sorry things, God knows; equally musical both, equally con- sonant ; wires, hammers, or bells struck, pulled, moved just alike, from as intelligent, rational causes, as certain and as regular; and in comparison, the latter rather the more regular of the two. Is this the tune that should move thus ? Is this the harmony that should draw thee, affect thee, sink and raise thee ? Sad soul, indeed, if it be so ! sad harmony within ! But listen inwards; turn thy ear thither and thou wilt hear better sounds. Is it so I Thank Heaven that thou dost find it thus. Improve this ear, learn to have a good one in this kind and, fear not, true harmony will follow and come on apace. Again these chimes sound. How ? what ? Is it a musician that strikes these notes ? Are they from immediate art, skill, and masterly knowledge ? No, but from an engine, a piece of clock- work. What wonder then if out of tune and dissonant ? wilt thou admire this music as the common people ? What of that other music ? wilt thou also hear keen and stand in admiration with those same common people ? Do so then. But imagine that if a master or real judge of music stood by, he would despise thee for this attention ; as justly he might. Hearken then to such as thou knowest masters. Hearken to the great master and organist, and to those that immediately derive from him, for us Tor these others what are they themselves but mere organs, chimes, set agoing of themselves without any inherent principle of true music, or any other than ;i poor wretched imitation. 68 TJie Philosophical Regimen. The world says thus ; the world expects ; the world talks. Who is the world ? who is it when the gossips say the world ? The town ladies, the parish wives, the servants, talking of one another and of their masters, the neighbourhood in the country, the farmers at the next fair or market ; which of these uses not the word, and with the same emphasis, Ike. world ! But where then is this emphatical world ? what is it ? or who ? Is it the beau monde ? is it the court and drawing-room ? is it the chocolate-house world ? the coffee-house world ? the quality world or the common-people world ? the scholar world ? the virtuoso world, or the politic, negotiating, managing, busy world ? the foreign or the home world > For behold what passes as a great story, a mighty affair in one of these worlds is just nothing in another. Whom of these, then, or which am I to consider ? whom or which of these will I make the world ? shall it be the greater number, the mere people ? See who there is that was best served or best deserved of them either now or anciently; and see if a good rope-dancer or prize-player be not of the two more talked of, not to say more loved. Shall it be the managers, the men who govern the multitude ; arid not the multitude themselves ? See, then, these managers, the politicians and <^ 1 known actors in the state, the old stagers (as they call them), those who are at the helm and have long dealt in state-affairs : see this race; and say who are honestest, the governors or those governed ? Are not these worse yet by some degrees > Are the courts or even the senates, parliaments, and public stations, the passages to virtue and true honour, as well as to fame, fortune, and honour of another kind? Vt'Kt'uj'm riiiUu, retrorxuin. If they once went in honest, how are they come out ? Where are the footsteps '. What are they changed to soon wheu there '. Is this, then, the world '. Are these such us tliou wouldst approve thyself to >. Reckon them up by name, take out from tin-in those who mind chit-fly their pleasures, or the advancing themselves, those that act with design, private interest or revenge, the downright corrupt and profligate, together with the bigoted and superstitious. ank<' him\ The ridiculousness of this, the shame of this. HUMAN AFFAIRS. To yup o\ov, KdTideiv ael TO. avQpunriva, //ze/oa KOI eirreXij. [" To conclude, always observe how ephemeral and worthless human things are." Mar. Aurcl. Med., Bk. IV., 48.] Consider the several ages of mankind ; the revolutions of the world, the rise, declension and extinction of nations, one after another ; after what manner the earth is peopled, sometimes in one part and then in another ; first desert, then cultivated, and then desert again ; from woods and wilderness, to cities and culture, again into woods; one while barbarous, then civilized, and then barbarous again ; after, darkness and ignorance, arts and sciences, and then again darkness and ignorance as before. Now, therefore, remember whenever thou art intent and earnest on any action that seems highly important to the world, whenever it seems that great things are in hand, remember to call this to mind : that all is but of a moment, all must again decline. What though it were now an age like one of those ancient ? What though it were Rome again ? What though it were Greece ? How long should it last ? Must not there be again an age of darkness !* Again Goths ? And shortly, neither shall so much as the name of Goths be remembered, but the modern as well as ancient Greeks and Italians be equally forgotten. Spartans, Athenians, Thebans, Achaians, the innumerable cities of the continent and islands, the European and Asiatic Greeks, the commonwealth of Rome, and in Africa, Carthage, &c., what were these once I and now, what I The Morea, Turkey, the holy Patrimony and a Land of Priests '. Nations fighting for Mahomet ; Christians of different sects warring one with another; doctrines, heresies, creeds, councils, synods, persecutions. What a different face of things I A little while hence, and this O too will be changed, and so that, and so the next ; and after many revolutions, the same over again. Nothing is new or strange. That, that now is, after it has ceased, shall one time or 70 Human Affairs. 71 another be again ; and that, that is not now, shall in time be as it was before. Vast and spreading commonwealths, as those of ancient Greece, Italy, and through all the Western World. Vast and spreading tyrannies of long duration, as those of Persia, India, and the Eastern world. Rude and illiterate commonwealths, as those of Gaul, Germany, the Scythians, Vandals, Goths. Polite and learned commonwealths, as those of Greece and Rome. Harmless rites and ceremonies of religion ; barbarous and obscene rites ; peaceable and corresponding religions, uniting and reconciling the world ; dark and horrid superstitions covering the face of the world, causing wars and confusion. o o Such is the state of mankind ; these are the revolutions. The tree sprouts out of the ground, then grows, then flourishes awhile ; at last decays and sinks, that others may come up. Thus men succeed to one another. Thus names and families die ; and thus nations and cities. What are all these changes and successions ? What is there here but what is natural, familiar, and orderly, and conducing to the whole ? Where is the tragedy ? Where the surprise or astonishment ? Are not these the leaves of the wood carried off with the winter blast, that new ones may in the spring succeed ? Is not the whole surface of the earth thus ? and are not all things thus I Is it not in these very changes that all those beauties consist which are so admired in nature, and by which all but the grosser sort of mankind are so sensibly moved ? The sum of all this is, that be this what season soever of the world, be it the very winter that thou livest in, or be it in the spring, all is alike. Had it been in the full growth of letters, sciences, arts, liberty, or what other perfection human nature 1 in its best state is capable of, or had it been in the autumn and decline of all this that thou hadst lived, it amounts but to the same. Were Rome or Sparta thy country, or hadst thou been thyself Lycurgus or Valerius, and founded those governments, what then '. What was all this but in order to their corruption '. What is four or five hundred years' duration more than forty or twenty ' oT' what would a thousand or ten thousand be, supposing that things could last so long ' Ts there anything in this that can satisfy >. What remains then but that the thing that is just, sociable, 72 The Philosophical Regimen. and in appearance tending to the good of mankind ; that and that alone tliou shouldst intend and that perform as far as lies in thee, without regard to what was in time past, or to what shall be in time to come, or to what is now present in this age. What if thou couldst at this present time set aright and in that order what thou desirest, it could not possibly continue, or be fixed any way, but must soon decline and have its period as those things which have been before. All this is endless and an altyss. To labour, therefore, and toil with anxiety and regret about these matters, to wish that thy country were for ever prosperous, and flourishing, and immortal : all this is stupid, and is the proper affection of one who either is a stranger in the world, and is ignorant of its revolutions and vicissitudes, or who, knowing these, repines and thinks them hard, and would correct the order of Providence. And what is such affection as this but impiety ? To pursue or follow anything, as greatly concerned for the success ; to promise ourselves great things ; to rejoice at the progress of affairs as going well, and then be troubled and cast down when either they stop or go back again ; to build with great joy and delight whilst the work succeeds, and when anything happens ill to be in affliction and trouble for it ; to lay schemes and designs and projects of things to come, of reformations, changes, establishments, in a family, amongst friends in a public, or amongst mankind : what is all this, but to be like children making their houses of cards which they know very well cannot stand beyond the second or third storey, and yet when the structure perishes and the work fails under their hand, crying, and afterwards beginning anew. But the comparison seems too ridiculous perhaps, and is disliked. Begin then in the first place with thy I >ody and constitution. Of what nature is this :* What kind of work is it, to defend and reai - , and nourish and prop this ? Dost thou promise to thyself always to keep this sound and whole ? Will any art keep this from being bruised and maimed and dis- tempered, and perpetually under some ill and accident or another; always wanting to have something, or be rid of something: always in indigence, always in distress, and under repair '. If there be no end of this, and no security ever to be Human Affairs. 73 obtained, where is either rest or happiness ? What is this but toil and labour in vain ? Consider next as to a family. Shall all here be one time or other prosperous ? Shall children, brothers, sisters, domestics, friends, be all virtuous and act as they should do ? How long shall this continue ? Or, how long is it that thou expectest to have them with thee in the world, or to have them thus orderly and virtuous, if they are thus already ? Consider as to the public the same. What reformations dost thou expect ? how far to extend \ for how long time to last ? and how long will it be ere that time comes when not so much as the name of this people shall remain ? If all this be doating, fond, and foolish, and if all things are in a constant flux, and o alteration, always perishing and renewing, always passing, and nothing fixed or at a stay ; if the success of what thou art so earnestly doing, either for the health and support of thy body, or about a family, or in the public, be all uncertain, but the revolution, chancre and death of each of these be certain and O inevitable ; if all this that we strive about be that which can never be accomplished, never brought to perfection, never kept at a stay, but be vile, rotten, and of no duration, inconsiderable for time, for substance, for place : what then, is all this but the houses of cards, and the passion and ardour of the children busying themselves ? Is nothing therefore to be minded ? Is there nothing that is important ( This certainly is, and this only : how in the midst of all, to preserve a sound and steady mind, a just and right affection, how to have a uniform and suitable will, how to approve and disapprove, choose and reject according to reason, how to act as becomes a man, as a creature and fellow-creature, sociably, justly, piously, and how to acquiesce and be contented. Either that which thou art concerned for, and so much troubled and disturbed about, is merely what relates to thy body, and the satisfaction of those desires which have nothing in common with virtue, or else it is what is of a generous kind and relates to virtue and common good. If there be anything in this thy concern which relates to a body, life, a family, an estate, a name, a voluptuous course of living: and that these an- what thou regardest, then is thy interest and that of the public very opposite, and thou art yet far off from virtue or a 74 The Philosophical Regimen. virtuous affection. It' it be purely a public good and virtue which leads thee, then surely thou hast considered of virtue, what it is, and wherefore thou pursuest it as good. If thou hast considered of virtue and the good of it, thou must have learned this : that it is in a certain disposition, affection, or will. If so, that which is not a loss, hindrance, or prejudice of this disposition, affection, or will, is not a loss of that good which arises from virtue. Now if anything happen ill in human affairs, or if it be ill with mankind, this does not alter thy disposition, affection or will, therefore, neither docs it / diminish thy good or happiness. That another person's mind should be in health is no more necessary to my own mind, than it is necessary to my body that any other should have his body in the same disposition. If I am dissatisfied and troubled that any part of the world is vicious, I may as well be dissatisfied that any one person in the whole world should be so. In short, either my good is in certain outward circumstances or in a mind and affection. If I grieve that any of those around me are not as I would have them to be, then my good is in outward circumstances. If so. how is this virtue ? or which way shall virtue be a good ? or if not a good how followed or pursued ? To have a right affection and will is either a good or not so ; if not so. then virtue is not a good to be followed. If virtue and right affection be a good, then that only is necessary to the good of virtue which is necessary to the support of that good and right affection. Now, that the world be either more or less virtuous is nothing to my affection or will, and therefore nothing to my good. How. therefore, is this that has happened an ill '. It is not so, in the sense of the body; for those who regard tin- body are least of all concerned for this. Neither is it an ill to my mind, as placing its good in virtue and right affection. Hut I cannot be satisfied unless men act thus. If such be thy affection, it is not what virtue in any manner requires or has need of: nor is it of anv good either to thvsell or others. It not that, then what is this but fancy and wilfulness '. Kor what else is wilfulness but to will positivelv and without reason, or. as \ve say. "to will, because we will." Observe this temper and affection. " I must needs have such Human Affairs. 75 an estate and such a house ; I must needs have such and such to attend me." What is the difference between this and that other " I must needs have every one to be good and virtuous ? " Why may I not as well say " I must needs have everyone live as long as I live ; I must needs have mankind immortal ? " All this is of the same kind ; far out of true affection, far wide of nature and the right structure of a will. It is only wilfulness and a bent of mind not governed by reason, or capable of any measure or rule. For if I would be towards mankind as I ought to be; towards nature and the whole as I ought to be; it is enough that I will and affect rightly myself, and that this should be all my care and concern. But if this do not satisfy me, and if this be not my end, what is the difference between being bent on a certain constitution or structure of mankind, or on a certain building like that of wood or stones ? What is the o difference between the fancy of constituting a family or common- wealth, or that of modelling and disciplining an army ? What is the difference between aiming at having a line and splendid country, or a fine and splendid house ? If to affect the public good be virtue ; and that the conse- quence of affecting thus, be to be disturbed and afflicted in ill- success ; then is virtue its own torment and not its own reward. If it be true that virtue is its own reward, and that all that virtue seeks <.s to be virtue; what would I have more than this, that my affection be as it ought to be ? If knowing that my country is at the end of a thousand years to be extinct I refuse on that account to net for it, through discontent; I am mad and extravagant. If I can notwithstand- ing act with content, knowing that it shall not last beyond a thousand years; why not as well, though it last but for a hundred ? or why not the same, though but till next year ? What though the age be illiterate or superstitious, or like to grow so more and more; how long was the last in that condition, and how many such ages must again and again pass in a few periods and in a small and inconsiderable portion of the revolutions of the world '. What though the next age recover from superstition ; what if virtue prevail ; and that again there appear men, such as may be truly called so; how soon must this decline again, and superstition and barbarity arise as before '- 76 The Philosophical Regimen. Therefore when either thou art setting thyself to any work that seems considerable in the public or to the promotion of virtue ; or whenever thou sittest down to read anything ancient, especially what lias relation to philosophy, remember this all was darkness, but a while since, now there is a little glimmering of light, and whether this proceed or no, in a little while all will be again dark. What though the philosophers be oddjy repre- sented, and their history imperfect, mixed and corrupted, ill written, and worse understood ? what though Laelius, Cato, Thrasea, Helvidius, Agripinus and such as these be unknown ? what though Socrates and Diogenes be forgotten, or most ridiculously represented ? These were sucli as were not con- cerned for this themselves. Why art thou concerned ? Hercules, Theseus, Cadmus, were long since become fables; though they perhaps were excellent men in their age. And now many things which were in those days, are grown wholly out of memory and are lost. So also in what relates to those others mentioned, their affairs are now in a manner thrown fabulous and obsolete, and in O a little time neither shall the name of Socrates, or Epictetus or Marcus, remain. Again barbarity, again Goths. Go then, and in this disposition have recourse to the ancients and what remains of them ; and make use of this gift of Provi- dence, gratefully, thankfully, and contentedly; as having received the rules, and obtained these precepts, by which without more ado thou mayst be happy. If either these tilings or these men be unknown, or undervalued, or destroyed ; if either now, or a while hence, or sooner, or later, there be ignorance and barbarity: all this is the same; all must revolve in this manner. And, at what revolutions of the world thou art present, how long the spaces shall be, how soon cither such or such things shall again return and prevail : all this is indifferent. And now if thou canst stand thus affected towards these matters, if thou apprehendest the thing never otherwise than thus; then neither shalt thou be disturbed or shocked when anything in the public succeeds not; or when philosophy is traduced, or slighted by those that are ignorant. Remember that as men are constituted, they cannot stand otherwise towards virtue and philosophy than as they do : that is to say, they of necessity must both curse, it and praise it. Be Human Affairs. 77 not therefore lightly and foolishly raised by the praises of those that at another time must curse. Neither be concerned at the curses of those who, by the same necessity, must praise again, and at some other time admire. He that is impatient and cannot bear with the world, such as it is, does not consider how often lie himself is intolerable, and that if the world were to be reformed and become as perfect as he requires it to be, it were not tit that such a creature as he should live in it. If thou art thyself such as thou shouldst be, what need is there of more ? If thou art weak and unable to bear with things, why not reform thyself rather than the world, since the one is practicable, the other mere extravagance ? Remember what has been said concerning the folly and stupidity of those reasonings about the duration of things. What is it to thee whether the ancients be remembered or not ? Whether their manners and government, whether liberty, generous sentiments, or philosophy be restored for a while and flourish for one age or two, as then ? Is it to last for ever ? Must not other things prevail and have their course ? Must not superstition, barbarity, darkness and night succeed again in their turns ? Is riot this the order of things ? Is not this the chorus, the seasons, the summer and winter, day and night ? But I would have no winter here, no night. See the stupidity of this. But if there must be winter, if there must be night, what is it to me, when or for how long I And what should I do but commit this to Him who lias appointed the seasons of the world, as is most conducing, and as was necessary, for the safety, happiness and prosperity of the whole ? After this manner this one dogma is sufficient (and remember to have it in readiness): either the race of mankind is eternal or not eternal. It' eternal, what though the intervals, instead of one age, were a thousand '. If not eternal, what signifies it how soon any one thing ceases, since all of this kind must cease within a little { Either periods, and then that which is not now, will be, at some other time: and so again and again, after many changes and revolutions, and thus to perpetuity. Or else one period that puts an end to all: and il' so, where is the harm ' What is there more in the death of a whole race than of one single 78 The PhilosopJiical Regimen. animal ? Fear not, the whole is not likely to suffer. Nor canst thou suffer, if thou art towards the whole as thou oughtst to be. What is there, then, to fear ? and for whom ? Whenever the fancy is strongly at work about the ancients and reviving something or other of that kind, remember that these things are already come to their period. The day is spent and only a twilight remains. Something else may arise in after ages, but that must be a new thing, and from new seeds. This stock that thou wouldst graft upon is decayed and sunk. Are not the laws, manners, customs, rites, abolished and sunk ? Are not the languages dead ? or how preserved ? in what books ? what fragments I how corrupted, and every day growing more so ? Or what if the books remain a while longer ; who are the O 3 readers ? What has been the reason that either of the languages have been so long preserved ? and what is now become of the first and noblest ? Therefore all those other thoughts are senseless. Romans ! Greeks ! Fables, tales, obsolete stories. Tell us of some late war ; the history of our kings; matches between crowns; titles, pretensions, nobility, barons, counts, dukes, palatines; church affairs, Reformations, Protestant and Papist, Turk and Christian. This is our present foundation ; these are the affairs that concern the world. But, as for Greeks and Romans, what are they, and how do these names sound ? Remember this as often as thou appliest to anything of the ancients and their story, and see that thou art not elevated, nor, by yielding at first, be afterwards transported and hurried away. For what is this but building a foundation for disturbance, and accusation of Providence ? If I am contented that the ancients should have been but are not ; if I am contented that the ancients should have been ancients, and the moderns, moderns; if it be indifferent to me when these remaining books perish, which must perish within a very little time; if it be enough to me that I have that which serves to guide and conduct me in life, knowing that all depends upon myself: in this disposition I may safely read, otherwise I may perchance learn other matters and improve in other ways; but (what is most absurd and ridiculous) I shall unlearn that for the sake of which I read, and for which alone I have; recourse to the ancients. Human Affairs. 79 If it be a certain sort of pleasure that engages and ties thee to the ancients, set aside the library, for it is plain, this is but little better than romances (for these too are read for pleasure and serve for discourse and entertainment). If it be for the benefit of thy mind, and the sake of a certain philosophy, remember what that philosophy taught and what those persons themselves said of this matter, and what they would say (if now present) to one thus anxious and thus concerned for their memory and fame. Man ! what is this to thee ? Either thou knowest those principles to be true and art satisfied in thy own reason concerning them, or not. If not satisfied, what is it thou admirest or seekest ? If satisfied, let us hear, concerning what ? That the universe is justly administered, that the things belonging to me are in my own power ; the rest nothing. But how, therefore, are these ancients a concern ? They are extinct. Let them be so. Were they not to die at some time or another ? Was it not necessary that they themselves should first die, and shortly after their memories ? Or what if their memory die not as yet, must it not die at another time ? What difference whether now or then ? Where is the harm of this, or of any of those other deaths or changes '. Whose opinion shall we take as to this matter ? Theirs or the vulgar ? What is fame, therefore, in their opinion ? What are changes and successions, the decay and perishing of men, and memories of men l . Remember, therefore, either this that I have learned is an idle story, and so the ancients are nothing, or, it' I am convinced of anything, it is of this : That ancients and moderns are all alike ; for, this is no concern of mine, or in my power. Remember that of Marcus applied in another way : Ku6 tTepov /mev Xo'yoi' >//x/V ecrTiv oiicetoTaTov av@p. What if even the winter and decay * EinH. />/>., Bk. I., c vi., jJ.'VJ. 82 The Philosophical Regimen. of mankind ? IK it ever winter in the whole ? Is not the universe always new and entire and flourishing I Does not all tend to the prosperity and welfare of that ? And is not everything suitable to the perfection of that mind which presides and governs it ? But these changes and vicissitudes do not please me, nor can I find the beauty of them. See, then, what idea or apprehension tliou hast of beauty and agreeableiiess in other things: and whether the chiefest beauties, the chiefest o graces arise not from change and vicissitude. What is music '*. What is one note prolonged { Nothing more dissonant and odious. But seek the changes and vicissitudes, and those too the most odd and various ones : and here it is where harmony arises. Mix even a dissonance after a certain manner and the music is still more excellent: and in the management of these dissonances is the sublime of the art. What is dance but a like succession of motions diversified, of which not one single one would continue graceful if viewed by itself and out of this change, but which taken as they are joined together and depending on OIK- another, form the highest grace imaginable. Such, therefore, is that other chorus and harmony : such is the dance (like what the poets feign) of the hours and days: such are the seasons, ages, revolutions of the world : the flourishing and decline of mankind ; the nations that arise and sink : the inventions, languages, letters, arts, sciences, rites, mysteries, manners, customs, laws, governments: and in the midst of this ore, sometimes a vein of purer kind, sometimes a season of more than ordinary knowledge and light, sometimes a more than common production : an effort of Nature (as we may properly speak with relation to any particular nature) carrying things to the highest pitch and producing sometimes a body of more than ordinary stature and perfection, like that of a Milo, so at oilier times a mind such as the mind of Socrates. Why is it more unnatural that this should decline again, than that the breed of bodies should decline ' If it be ridiculous, considering the body and make of man, to wonder that all men should not be as Milo, and not rather that anyone of such strength as Milo should have been known : how much more ridiculous is it, considering such an animal as man, and what he holds of the brute, to wonder that he should so often resemble the brute ; and not rather Human Affairs. 83 wonder that he should find out his other relation and be a God '{ For, what else is he, who, being conscious of the Divine Govern- ment, accompanies it and joins himself to it ? How ridiculous is it, considering man such as he truly is, to wonder that such and so many parts of the earth should be barbarian and savage, and not rather that there should have been other nations so wise, knowing, and polite ? Why wonder at the huts and cabins of Indians, and not rather at the cities, manners, and government of other nations ? Why at other governments more imperfect, and not rather at the perfection of such a one as Sparta ? Consider, therefore, for what is all this concern ? Is it for the world, or for thyself ? If for the world, fear not, the world will be governed as it should be, nor can anything there go amiss. If it be for thyself this is thy own work, and in thy own power, nor can anything here go amiss, if thou thyself pleasest. See, therefore, that thy affection be but right, and all is right. But, if thou wishest either for times or seasons or places ; if thou wouldst correct the order of the world, and have things to be other than they are ; thy affection is wrong, and in the midst of all this reading and this pursuit of philosophy, thou art thyself no better than an idiot. Beware never to compound with any of those thoughts concerning human affairs, as if likely to be more prosperous, as if the age were to be restored, antiquity again acted; other Dions, other Phocions, other Catos, other Academys, another Porch, and whatever dreams of this kind thou art used to fall into, on reading anything ancient. Instead of this, suppose everything the most contrary. Take always the reverse : nations such as the Goths ; monarchies such as the Persian and other Eastern ones; superstitions such as Egyptian, &c. Consider all of that other kind as extinct, and so ever to remain. For it' once the opei$ [desire] be towards reviving anything of this kind ; if once thou dost begin building and laying foundations, there is no end. And if it happens thou art encouraged by some imaginary success, the thing grows worse ; the right and steady views are more and more lost, and the affairs of the world not answering o these other narrow, fond and mistaken views, nature is sure to be accused ; many things complained of, many lamented, the world pitied, mankind pitied, thou thyself pitied. All is full of calamity, 84 The Philosophical Regimen. all wretched, poor, disastrous, ruinous ; for so in reality all is, with respect to thyself, whilst thy mind is in this state, and thy thoughts such as these. In what way can this be otherwise, whilst thou affectest that which is out of thy power and not belonging to thee ? whilst thou affectest otherwise than as nature affects ? whilst thou thinkest anything excellent, but what the mind and wisdom of the whole judges to be so? If the wisdom of the whole would have it thus, I also would have it thus, and not otherwise. If otherwise, I am no longer free ; I am no longer that generous and exalted mind, which aims at that which is excellent, at that which is best ; which aims so as not to be frustrated, but always successful and prosperous ; which is never constrained, never unwillingly submits to Deity, never merely submits but accompanies and applauds. But how accompany or how applaud that to which I am not perfectly reconciled ? that which I think sad and dismal, severe or hard ? How is it, therefore, when I esteem any of these changes severe or hard '{ How is it when either plagues or earthquakes, or any of those other things ruinous to mankind, appear thus ? How if the loss of letters or sciences be feared, or anything of this kind which may happen in the world, be looked upon as sad and grievous, where will my freedom be t Where my applause ? How shall I be pious ? how generous ? how unhappy ? Or, if I am miserable, arid tremble, and am dejected, what signifies it what the subject is ? Am I less a slave *. am I less mean ? Resolve, therefore, never to allow anything to such thoughts but introduce always their contraries. Consider the fall, death, extinction of the ancients ; themselves long since, and now their memories ; or if of this kind something still remain, it is about to perish ; oblivion is at hand. Why not now, as well as a little later ? But must then; nothing of this kind arise a^ain in time .' O r"> Perhaps never, or if ever, not till after many changes and revolutions; perhaps millions of ages ere the same again; first Greece, as before Socrates, then Socrates and followers. How many ages ere such a nation, such a language be formed as that of Greece f . And afterwards how long amidst physiologers and sophists ' How many ages ere a certain superstition sink '. What if the age remain still as it is '. What though it be yet worse, and that hereafter all be barbarous, as in those, other Human Affairs. 85 nations ? What though even this remain not, but that the whole earth be depopulated ? But must the world, then, perish thus ? What world ? Mankind. So that the world, then, is this one kind or species ; if this kind be lost, the world is lost. If this animal lose its intelligence, there will be no more intelligence in the universe. How ? Will there be no nature, no elements, no conversion, change or renewal of things, no new or different forms arising, nothing remaining of what was before ? No sun, no planets, no heavenly bodies ? Or, though these remain, shall we say, however, that there are no intelligences or minds remaining ? Are human bodies of such kind that intelligence is confined to these, and can nowhere lodge besides ? What if a worm should happen to have intelligence, would he not reason better ? But I know men, and other intelligences I know nothing of. So, hadst thou been a worm, thou hadst conferred only with worms, and must it have followed that there were no wiser beings, no men, no Deities, or Supreme Deity ? If it be true that there is such a supreme and sovereign mind, and that all is according to that mind, then all is right. Why talk to us of other minds ? What matter is it where they reside, and how the sovereign mind has disposed them ; whether in these bodies, or in the others ; whether at one time rather than at another '{ If thou hast a mind thyself, lie thankful that it has fallen to thee ; make the use of it that thou shouldst do, and this is enough. What is it to thee that other portions of matter of the same form have it or have it not ? That of the many other thou knowest only OIK; particular species has it ? Or that amongst these only a few have it, and this only at certain times and in certain periods ? Why not lament because the beasts ire sensible only and not rational '. Why not because the plants are only vegetative, and neither sensible nor rational ' Why not this as well as to lament that man is not otherwise rational than as nature has made him to be, and that this species seldom can afford a mind.* Is it not much it ever could afford On fie roioiJTot/ i^vtyxav Kapnov tv avdpoairivfl qiavoiq. [Hut berause they (the gods) have produced in the human mind that fruit. -Ejiict. />Mf., Bk. 1., c. iv., Sj :VJ.] 86 The Philosophical Regimen. one ? Is it not much that in such a body, such senses, such engagements to a low and brutal part there should be a way left to liberty, magnanimity, and a mind, such as can know its origin, and be one with that supreme mind of the whole ? Therefore, remember thy privilege and advantage : what it is to have mind ; and that as for all those thoughts, concerning what shall become of the world or of the age, all this is senseless, and to think after this manner is in reality to be without a mind* Again. 1 See of what nature those impressions are that are made from outward things and the circumstances of the world But a little while since, when thou hadst retired to thy studies, and thy thoughts were employed on those latter ages, the people and men of those times, and on the affairs of mankind and of the world in general, thou hadst little or no concern (more than what was right) for those poorer and more inconsiderable interests of home occasions, household and family businesses, town and country affairs, 110 not even for that which is called thy country, in the largest, vulgar sense. So little was all this, and even the whole state of Europe and of the world, as it now stands in comparison with what it once was, when learning, virtue, philosophy, flourished, and liberty was known and enjoyed. It was with respect to those more glorious times that all the regret and trouble arose. It was here the shocks were strongest. It O was philosophy, liberty, d-Hclotf*. Of late it has happened that reading has been set aside. Other duties called : the care of a father, brother, sister, a family, servants. Now, it is here again that disturbance arises; here are the present hindrances, the crosses, disappointments, re-jolts: and from those of the other sort thou art free. Now, what can be more mean and poor >. that thou shouldst thus be cured of one of these dispositions by the other, and yet not by reason ! Dost thou not see that thou art not only a slave to the present, but a slave in reserve too to those other tilings by that time thou hast broken again from these present masters, to return to those ? How comes it that all is not at present as it *This when in Holland, from .July, IG^S, to April, 10*9. 'St. Giles, Dec., 1G99. Human Affairs. 87 was but some months since with relation to these affairs { Hadst thou not a family then as now ? the same friends, relations, country, as now ? and was not the care and concern the same ? But it was not an anxious care, it was then as it ought to be. These things were little, narrow, poor, vile, and perishing. And are they changed since then ? Is it not still barbarity, Goths. Or, what thinkest thou now at this present of titles nobility, barons, counts, now that thou art placed amongst them ? l Are they become new things f . Are the ancients out of date ? Are these the only times, the only men ? Is lineage or family a concern ? Is the State a concern ? Was it to have been so, though thou hadst lived even then and in those governments 1 How therefore, even now and in these '( But, wilt thou not set aside the thoughts both of those and these '. Wilt thou not remember another family, in which thou art included ? Another state and magistracy, arid other economy, other laws, another birth and derivation ?* What thou art worthy of, and what are the things beneath thee ? If these things sink away in thy memory and the impressions of those other prevail, if thou canst not be present at once with these things and with those, it remains, then, either that thou shouldst wholly retire, or, in the phrase of a pious writer, be present as though not present, act as though not acting, use as though not using : but as one concerned about another use, the attention being still elsewhere and to other things, firmly fixed, never suspended, never interrupted by any attention to ought else. And if other matters cannot be carried on upon these terms; if this lower degree of attention will not serve for outward things; if on this account there be less ability, less dexterity, less management (as needs must where there is less presence of mind): be it so. Thou canst do no better, and this is as it should be; for it is not thy design to quit thy chief part for any other; or for the esteem of such as these, to lose all esteem with (Jod and with thyself. Observe how that no sooner does the mind set itself to reform or bring anything in order in outward affairs (a house, 1 Shaftesbury became an Karl in 1(>!J ( J. * cf. Ejii'-f. EiK-ft., c. xiii. 88 The Philosophical Regimen. family, public, relation, friend,) but straightway an earnest- ness and hope arises ; and a certain perfection in the thing managed (not the management) is that which is aimed at and becomes the end. This is the opegt*? [desire]. Here it perpetually grows. Hence frustration, loss, disturbance ; and how should it be otherwise whilst this. perfection is dreamt of and the bent is hitherward <* Is this the perfection to be sought after ? Are these the subjects of such a bent and application ? Is not all this ruinous, and never to be made otherwise ? Yet see what fancy makes of it when once thou settest about any of these things with any earnestness or remarkable intention ? What perfections ! What projects for duration and stability ! What proposals ! What ends ! How therefore trust thyself ? how venture out to reforma- tions, settlements, economies ? See the danger of this, see what every moment occurs in the least things. Therefore begin (as* ordered) at the least things. Is it a plant thou cherishest ? Remember it is a plant, the seasons must injure it ; it must wither, it must die. Is it another plant (a human one), a servant, child ? Is it not the same ? Must not the seasons have power over it ? the age, customs, manners, opinions ? Must it not partake of the common distemper ? Or wouldst thou KdKiav /u.tj em: KUK'UIV [have badness not to be badness, Epict. Ench., c. xiv.j. If not, then what are these but TT/JO? KaOap/mara [suitable for outcasts] ? What art thou rectifying. Opinions! 1 ' No, for they will still retain their own. How then should they act, but according to these '. what fruit should they bear but according to their stock * Is it not ridiculous to look for other ? Change the stock, engraft other f> CT opinions. I cannot. Then suffer the plant to bear as is natural to it, and be not angry that the bramble should be the bramble and not the rose. But why are there no more, roses ? This is not the season, let- that content thef. When it is good for the universe, the universe will in due season produce them again. In the meanwhile, be thou the rose, and instead of murmuring, admire that at such a season of the world, an}- sound opinions should have fallen to thy share, and that it should have been in thy power to produce * Eftirf.. Dinr., Bk. TI., c. viii., und <:. xvii., $ 11. Human Affairs. 89 any fruit of that kind. Meya9 o Oeos, &c. Epict. Disc., Bk. I., c. xvi., 17. Remember the aloes plant (which thou didst see in Holland), of which not one in a hundred makes a shoot ; nor that one perhaps in a hundred years. But then, how vast, how mighty a plant ! Remember this when thou thinkest of Socrates or any such, and say not of the age why does it not produce oftener ? For this is being angry at the aloes. Fool ! dost thou understand the nature of the aloes ? or (what is fat- more) dost thou understand the nature of the whole ? Observe the course of attention l as applied to human affairs : how from the suspending the attention of one sort, the other attention prevails, so as to cut off the retreat to that first ; from a small attention at first, to an earnest application with hope and desire ; from thence to a general scheme and plan of affairs, contriving, building:, setting out ; and from hence an idea O* O ' O * of symmetry, order, perfection. In what ? 'Ei/ TOIOVTW ovv o'0&> Km puTTto Km TO. the dependence arid consequences '. how it shall be with mankind at one time, and how at another !* But what if it were ill for mankind: is it therefore ill for the whole { Or ought the interest and good of the whole to give way, be set aside, or passed, for such a creature as man and his affairs >. Are the laws of the universe on this account to be annulled, the government of the universe subverted, and the constitution destroyed '. For thus it must be, if any one cause be removed ; and thus the whole (which is one concatenation), must necessarily be rendered imperfect, and hence totally perish. What if a Solon or Lycurgus had said he if tku.*, wouldst 90 Necessity. 91 thou have resisted his will ? Would thou have withstood the legislator ? Wouldst thou have broken his model for the sake of some one thing that thou perhaps mightst fancy better / Or wouldst thou have presumed to have stopped so much as for one moment the promulgation and sanction of those laws on which the welfare of Athens or Sparta depended ? But what is Athens or Sparta compared with this other city ? What is Solon or a Lycurgus in respect of that other law-giver ? And darest thou yet murmur ? Barest thou yet repine ? Quicquid corrigere wt iicfus [what is a crime to amend. Horace, Bk. I., Ode 24.] And, knowing this, wilt thou still meditate remedies, and correct what is passed ? Now, instead of this, see what thy part, and remember the *precept given. For, were we to go back so as to act over again that which is passed, being conscious as we now are of what the ruler has willed, our part would be to will the very same and to co-operate even towards those very things which at present are against nature, and which it is our part to strive against. If I were conscious (says f Epictetus) of what was decreed me, and could be certain of what were to happen before it happened, I would will that and that only ; suppose it sickness ; suppose it infamy ; suppose it death. At present, since I know not the utmost will of nature, I pursue the design and intention of it, as in my particular nature is shown me ; I repel injury ; I decline sickness ; I decline untimely and violent death. But if I knew how this was to be controlled ; if I knew what else was appointed: I would turn to this ; and this should be the object of my aim ; this I would affect, and nothing but this. But (says one) it may thus happen, that I may also will that I be wicked. Not if there were a possibility left of its being any otherwise ; but if no possibility, I will however be pious and good (that is to say I will be happy) as long as is allowed me, as long as I possibly can be so. If I cannot be so the moment that follows, at least I will remain so this present moment that precedes, and will join my applause to what God has for the best decreed. For to will against that which is best, and to will * Epirti'tn* /)<>., Bk. IT., c. x., ;">. t In the words of Chrysippus, Efnrf. Diw., Bk. IT., c. vi., $ 9. 92 The Philosophical Regimen. what is impossible, what else were this but to be wicked and miserable ? Now that every creature should seek its good and not its misery, is necessary in itself ; nor can it be supposed the will of God that a creature should do otherwise than thus, for this is contradictory and consequently impossible even witli God. So that my will towards virtue is irrefragable and immutable ; but towards life, death, poverty, riches, and all other exterior things it is variable upon occasion. And I am ready to will any of these, not merely when necessary and unavoidable, but when it depends still upon my own will whether it shall be thus or not. Where, therefore, is it that I place the good of man ? Where else but in his will ? If it be so constituted as to receive whatever is sent, all is well ; if it resist, there it is that calamity arises. And thus wickedness and misery have the same foundation. But, if I separate these, and think misery one thing and vice another ; if I think piety and virtue may live one way and happiness another; if I suppose either pleasure or riches, or life, or any outward thing to be my good, and find myself deprived of these, disappointed, urged, constrained, where will be my piety ? In what way can I acquiesce in that which is my ill ? In what way can I will against my good .* See what it is to wish earnestly against anything that is likely to happen, whatever it be (as either loss of fame, friends, family, or country). For suppose that according to the course of things, it shall happen contrary to thy wish (the scheme of nature and the universal design being perhaps contrary to thy own scheme and particular design) wouldst thou undo this if in thy power '{ wouldst thou wish it should otherwise happen than as supreme goodness has ordered it ' Or, /* it not xiifnr.mc (/oudncHti tlmf o/y/r/'x / Ask thyself but this question, and see if thou canst go on with such a head-strong desire and propensity, such an o/^/v [desire] or t-KK\ia,- e/V eXevOepiuv, /uera ?, KHI <\\o^, K. what did an Athens and Sparta '. Will the people be even better .' Shall we have a juster or more virtuous than the one: a politer, more civilized, than the other ' Can there come an empire of greater 94 The Philosophical Regimen, power than that of Rome ? or emperors better than some of those who governed successively for a certain time ? And yet how was it even at that time ? And what followed afterwards ? Pmetorian band ; empire by auction ; destruction, prey, ravage ; arts, letters, sciences perishing ; misery, superstition, anarchy, barbarity, Goths. See on the other side Thucydides and his state of Greece, and yet what better I What more to be expected or hoped than what he represents ? What better state of liberty, of letters, arts, sciences, philosophy and virtue than in that and the next succeeding age ? But be it so. I would have this age again, this situation of C7 O affairs, this face of things. And how knowest thou what that is which may soonest bring it on ? or bring on what is bent or likest to this state, the best thou knowest ? How knowest thou whether the present hasty growth of the power 1 thou fearest, as universal monarchy coming on, may not be the best means of breaking it '. and whether a present check may not perhaps give it a stronger though slower growth over man- kind ''. or that this attempt so easily crushed may not give greater caution to a new attempter, and a better occasion of oppressing the world less apprehensive of such a power and thinking it time enough to confederate when it is too late:' What of such a Prince as the present Suede, had he known a Xenophon, or been bred as Alexander, or C;esar ? What a use could be made of modern religion did a leader know the use of it, yet free and unentangled by it ? What a foundation for military virtue, and an empire ; were discipline known '. How much mischief from the best causes; 1 What uncertainties! what opera- tions of causes ! what contrariety of effects ! How wish ? how hope ' how prescribe or dictate to Providence what present state '. what future '. what change in governments '. what in religion ( what as to these Gothic models in either '. How knowest thou how the rise or fall of a en-tain superstition may operate? whether it be best it should fall or not fall '. in part, or altogether '. whether it can stand in part, it' not altogether '. How has the Greek language been preserved hitherto, and to what must it still ho owing '. Destruction of letters by the Ottomans, Mahomet, 1 France. Necessity, 95 Believers. What from that seed scattered ? What from that military and spiritual joint-power, if once a great prince or two successively ? What of the Jews, if again collected ? the power of such a mark as circumcision, their numbers, other nations circumcised, a Messias conqueror, a new Cyrus, Christian or Jewish, a Tamerlane. On the one side hierarchy, modern religion, letters : on the other, Scythians, Goths, barbarity, no letters. From superstition, atheism ; from atheism, superstition, a wilderness, abyss, darkness, perplexity, loss. And what is all this to thee ? why darkness ? why perplexity, or loss, but because thou wilt thyself ? What is there here but natural, most natural, good, sovereignty, good and best ? Enough, enough. Commit this to the mind that governs and knows how to govern in this other world ; and govern thou thy own, govern what is committed to thee, what concerns thee, and what thou art capable of. Wouldst thou be a Phaeton, and take the reins (suppose) but for a day or two '. Or, thinkest thou that thou shouldst make better work if this government were laid upon thy shoulders ? O, the Atlas ! O, the Hercules ! What a world should we have from thy managing wast thou to manage or bear it for a while ! And wilt thou manage it ? Wilt thou, then, be setting thy shoulders to it and heaving ? ~ / O Bravely done ; to it again ; another lift and it will do. Now the age ! Lean to this side and now to that. Bring it to rights. Now it runs right. Rule I Fly ! Anon the game will be up. Right : for so it will be. It is almost up already. The business of life i.s well nigh over, and thou art still at rub' and fly ! Man ! what is all this '. Away ! Come to thyself and be in earnest. Be once a man yet before thou diest. " O, the world ! the world ! What will become of the world '. The poor world ! sad world ! and was there ever such a world t 1 " Fool ! was there ever any other world > was it ever other than it is^ Where is the world going * Nowhere, but there where it has gone a thousand and a thousand times : the earth round tlu: sun, or the. sun round the earth, annual, diurnal, eternal. Hither and thither, and hither ar the world's sake. What world '. Saturn, Jupiter, the planets 96 The Philosophical Regimen. and their circles ? Fear not ; they will go as they stand. And if these greater and including circles hold but their order, I warrant thee (man !) these inward ones (the circles and revolu- tions of this planet of thy own) will go well enough, and as they should go, both for the planets' sake, and for the rest of the system. Fear then for thy own sake if thou pleasest, but for the world there is care taken, the administration is good. Do not thou father thy own wretched fears on it, and place thy selfishness and low-spiritedness to so wrong an account. The Universal Monarchy coining. 1 Must it never come \ Has it not come already more than once or twice in a few ages '. a Caesar, Alexander, Cyrus. And how many before Cyrus > How many Alexanders, forgotten long since ? How many Caisars are past ? and how many more yet to come, within the same periods of time I But (alas ! in my time ! Man ! What is thy time f . Why not in thy time ? Will it be worse for the world in thy time than in any other ? But I must make my endeavour. I would stop it. So would I a plague or earthquake, if I knew how. Tell me how I should stop it, but not by any means, not at any rate, not at the loss of my integrity, my sincerity, truth, modesty, my good will towards men, and my obedience to Deity. For, let this other matter happen as it will, or let it come when it will, I am resolved to be as well satisfied with Providence then, as I am now. But, in what way this satisfaction is brought about : in what way such a- mind is acquired, and how preserved ; by what discipline and regimen ; what, studies, what order of life, what rules : this thou well knowest. And wouldst thou break these rules ? Right, and for honesty's sake he a villain ! For what is it to be a villain What is it to have neither faith nor conscience ( A mind to which there is no trust ' A will to which the supreme will is no rule ] To hate men, and to murmur at Providence '. What wouldst thou '. That which is for the good of the world. Who knows what is good, what best for it ( Who should know but the Providence that looks after it '. And what is it that this Providence would have me do '. Fight against 1 The dread that Louis X I V. would establish a universal monarchy is here meant. Necessity. 97 itself ? Oppose and thwart ? No, but accompany, applaud. Why act then, or why do anything against the course of things ? Because I know not as yet the course of things, because Providence has not declared : for, when that has declared, I declare with it, and am of its side ; thus I would have it to be, and not otherwise. Ruin is coming ! What ruin ? Of the world ? the real world ? the whole universal world ? No, but of my part of the world, and that which to me is the whole world. Be it so. But is thy world a world by itself, or is it dependent on the other world ? Dependent. And by what order does the ruin come ? By what other than that which governs the world is its support and safety ? Let it come then, for if it did not, what would become of the world indeed ? Universal Monarchy ! Remember the real, universal monarchy, the good, the wise, the just, the excellent, the divine. What monarchy but this ? What is there that can happen out of this ? contrary to this ? or otherwise than by the universally advantageous salutary laws of this at once both absolute monarchy and absolute equal and most perfect commonwealth ? Thou wishest well to the world (thou sayest). Why sigh then ? why groan, repine, and mourn ? Is it for something out of the world ? No, but for something in the world, otherwise than as happens according to the laws, interest, and government of the world. This is wishing ill, not well to the world. Thou wishest well to the world. Come on then ; let us see the trial. Is it a tooth ? an eye ? a leg, or an arm ? Give it to the world ; surrender it with a good heart ; resign it rof? b\ois in favour of the constitution and laws that establish it. Is it a relation, brother, friend ? an estate, a country ? Let us see what country thou art of, and what thy world is : whether thou art truly a citizen of the world, or, as they say, a mere worldling ? Tied to a place, a corner, carcass, and things belonging. What is it ? A station in the public; good. But it goes ill with it. With what? With the public, where thou hast no part in it ( What hast thou to do then '. Or where thou hast a part : what hast thou to do then, but mind that part f . But that part sutt'ers. How? A name, a reputation, an interest lost. So are other names lost, other interests, how many good men defamed ' 98 The Philosophical Regimen. How many reputations injured ? Memories abused ? But this is mine. How is it thine ? Say then, thou wretch : say the truth ; that it is because it is (as thou sayest) thine. This is thy trouble. This is thy concern ; for as to the public it is the same, and as to thy part the same still. For if it be to bear ignominy and reproach for the public, this is a part still, and one of the noblest of parts. " 8a,-eL,M<>d., Bk. VII., 36.] What disturbs ? The public interest. How can the public (the real public) suffer ? But my private interest right. But how comes it that a name or an opinion (viz., another's opinion, not thy own) should be thy interest ? Man ! trouble not thy head. In the higher public all is well ; if not, why toil in this lower wretched one ? All is according to the interest it ought to be. And as for thy own interest: if thou wilt, it may be the same, and in the same prosperous condition; if not, see who is in fault. A reputation is lost and what then ? My service in the public and what then ? O that the public should have such a loss in me ! Admirable ! But say it more rightly. O that this should happen which for the good of the real public is best should happen ! O that I should lose and be a sufferer where there is no loss or sufferance ; but where, if I please, I may profit and make advantage. IIo'crat/9 //()/ 6 (inav \pv(ri7nrov$, Trocrovv Sftwr/oaTety, TTOCTOIA' "ETn/m/Toi^ KaTcnre-TruKe : [How many a Chrysippus, Socrates, and Epictetus have sunk in the gulf of time:' M r. Anroy, TOV ayaOov, K(U SIKUIOV, KU.} K/ /cat rav-rrjv (3oi'iQeiav ', [" But my country, you say, as far as it depends on me, will be without my help. I ask again, what help do you mean ?" Epict. Encli., c. xxiv., 4.] Remember the politic, admired novelist, and esteemed patriot of former times; on every piece of news a great tftiny ! and how ridiculous at last this came to be ; how it appeared to thyself, even at that early time. How therefore should it appear now ? Priamus and his kingdom destroyed a great thing ! -The city consumed, the storks' nests burnt a great thing ! Achilles is angry, a Prince has the confederacy ; Patroclus is dead, and now Achilles great things ! But remember indeed where the great thing lies, and what is truly a Great Thing.* To the grave legislators, orators, authors, advisers, and politic dealers, Aristotelians, Machiavellians, memoir readers or writers, Gothic or ancient modellers, or collectors; with all that din of state dogmatists, prescribers, moralizers, exhorters, praisers, censurers, such as the 1) -- t's, the Fl -- r's, M -- th's, L -- 's, &c. Remember <5 I\TUTOI vo/xoOeTm, [O, beloved legislators. Ej>. ])/,w. II., c. i., 25] and add to this fancy such an accosting as this in imagination : " Most noble physician of the state and inward man ! great judge of morals ! dispenser of happiness, wisdom, and sovereign health to mankind ! Your hand, 1 entreat you, that I may once feel your pulse, for with you doubtless all is sound and well : at least you yourself know whatever is otherwise and can straightway apply the remedy. " How now, doctor, what have we here '. a fever ! convulsions ! and you yourself ignorant of this '. A hectic ! a catarrh ! an ulcer ! scabs and running ! and all this overlooked '. Is this * cf. Ki>l<-t. J)-im-i,urxt x, l>k. L, c. x.xviii. 100 Political Affairs. 101 (O noble physician !) thy own bodily state ? Is it thus under thy gown ? within doors, thus ? thus with thee in the family ? thus with domestics ? Pelle decwus ? [Pers. Sat. IV., xiv.] And dost thou come abroad thus adorned, thus specious and imposing on us and on thyself ? for on thy own domestics, or those who know thee, thou canst not impose. Physician cure thyself, or let us see, at least, such prescriptions as thou followest thyself. Let us see the effect of these in thyself, and then talk to us, then prescribe. Otherwise Di te, Dawnasippe, Deaeque Veram ol) concilium donent tonsore [" May the gods and goddesses, Damasippus, present you with a barber for your wise counsel.". Hvr., Sat. Bk. II., iii., lines 16-17.] Remember that, I for my part, have a better than Damasippus to go to. But that in this age there lives not so much as a Damasippus, a quack or empiric, in this method or of this regimen, therefore the more need of strictness. See by experience the excellency of that rule : M^ -rrepi avQpwTTwv i/^eyon-e? // eiraivovvres >/ arvyKpivovTes [Converse not about men as blaming them or praising them or comparing them. Epict. Enck., c. xxxiii., 2], arid so ovSeva \fseyei, ov&eva faivei [blames no one, praises no one.] For remember in Lord P 's case (as just above a yreat tiling !} How ? In what ? Brave yes, furious, foaming at mouth, a wild boar. Wise, learned astrology, legends and superstition beyond modern. How in the nursery ? how with servants ? wife ? children ? how formerly at a court ? How many ways hast thou happened to see in this very person, what this greatness is, thou so much admirest by whiles I But this is for the sake of virtue and my country. See, therefore, what thou makest of thyself whilst acting thus (as thou sayst) for virtue and thy country * How subjected ? how depressed ' how made a slave \ an admirer of men and things : things outward : play-things : nothings. Is this virtue '. Is this thy service '. But enough. Be this so no more. Be but thou virtuous thyself, and go tin- way towards it that is shown thee. Let others go theirs: thou thy own. Let others praise the virtuous, that can praise and dispraise so cheaply, and at their ease. But for thy own part, be contented not to praise so much as virtue itself and Buppi-i [courage]. Be not afraid that by this thou shalt betray virtue or 102 The Philosophical Regimen. seem the less a virtuous or honest man, if need be. Though what need ? What besides being so ? What is seeming in the case ? Remember the same busy actor in politics at every meeting, "Well ! where are we ( " So for many years, at last how nauseous { So at this hour that many more years are past, were he to be heard, would it not be the same still ' " Well ! where are we '. " With what pleasure is this said by all those lovers of novelty, revolutions, changes, political schemes, and State transactions * " Come let us sit down (now that we are by ourselves) and consider how tilings stand, and whereabouts we are. How well o would this be in another way ? In a way not thought of, though much truer \ How well would it be if he brought this delight, this curiosity, this inquiry homewards, and to a place more nearly touching us than either our country, or town, or family {No. But how goes the world > Ridiculous ! How should it go { How, but as it lias ever gone and ever will i Just the same, the very same. But what of that '. And what though it went otherwise ? Art thou the leader of it ? Art thou respon- sible ? Is it thy charge \ Assigned to thee { THINE and at thy peril ? How goes the world ? Xo matter ; but how go I { This is a matter, and the only matter. This is of concern. This mine, and at my peril. How do I govern { The world { -No. But how do I govern MYSELF I How do matters stand with me { ~ No. But how do I stand with matters { Are matters burden- some ''. Tliaiik myself. They needed not to have been so. Does the world go cross { How cross { Should the world follow me, or I the world ? Is it the world that is wrong, or am 1 wrong { See which ! Whither away ? Hello ! ho ! What chase is this ? What a pursuit art thou a r" O is this sport '{ Is it the play ? the game and management, only' the chessmen, cards { at \\^nn\ ol Kvfioi ; [the counters, the dice. K/tirf. Dlxc., Bk. II., c. v.. 8]. Why then these pangs, these reachings '. Is not this earnest '. Hast thou forgotten OTI on vei 7rp<]yfi.., r^ / Bk. III., c. x.. IS]. Stop therefore in this career. Wonder not at the saying; but say often with thyself, and render it familial': that in fill this, an honest man should be as Political Affairs. 103 free and easy as a knave. Grant it otherwise, and see how long the honest man will hold honest. For what is knavery but narrowness ? inyxelf, that is to say, my purse against the, public purse, my family against the public family, and what difference between this, and my tuition or commonwealth against the world? my country burs acjainxt the universal bnvs? my fancy ayainst the Divine decree, ? Remember how many have been and are every day knaves for their country : some of whom nothing else perhaps would have made knaves. Themistocles against an Aristides and against a Phocion ; even a Phocion himself, perhaps, in some decree against the grave and good Xenocrates, his fellow- ambassador ; the elder Cato as in opposition to the younger. In these latter days, the DeWitts, the disposition of a Mr. F r, thy old acquaintance. The Dutch patriot, the English patriot, the Scotch. The contests about trade, precedency, honour, the flag, England, mistress of the world ! giving laws to the world ! and such like speeches. But go now and tell us of justice, fnith, honesty, the public ! The excellent public ! the noble public- spirits ! Remember too what Socrates says in Plato of such as these, how pleasant a mockery, and how handsomely culled knaves, oav KaTopQuxri Xe'yoi'Te? TroAAa . . . ut]3ev etdoTes tav Xeyoua-iv, ['' in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what they say. Plato, Meno., 99 C.] ; and also the words of Socrates in the Apology, ei/ yap 'tcrre, rf> avSpes ' AOrjvaiot . . . on yap e9 evavTiov/j-evos, &c. [" for 1 am certain, men of Athens, that no man who goes to war with you or any other multitude, honestly struggling against the commission of unrighteousness and wrong in the state, will save his life."- 31 E.] FRIENDS. Why .silent J 1 why thus reserved and deeply thoughtful ? why these looks, this cloud ? Why not ? Tis rigid, 'tis severe. Am I severe ? Nay, but to yourself. Is it then that you pity me ? Know you my case so well ? Or, say, why is it that you pity ? Why am I thus far a concern to you ? why thus prefer my friendship ? For virtue. Know you then how this matter stands with me, or how I came by such a thing (if such a thing I have :*), on what terms and by what tenure I hold this character and quality by which it seems I hold your friendship. Or, if honesty be not indeed a quality of such great worth or rarity, why esteem me for this alone ? But we would not have it to be alone ; we would have other qualities besides. As what, for instance ? As of a jester, tiddler, dancer ? No, but of a good companion. Who are better companions than these ? who are those they call good companions ? and of what character ? Are they indeed friends ? are the men of wit, the entertainers of company, the story-tellers, the raisers of mirth, friends { or of a friendly character \ How reconcile this ? How is it that these qualities shall be made to agree ? But it is sad to see this countenance, thoughtfulness, reserve. Say, then, suppose it were indeed a tiddler, but of the better sort, a Corel li perhaps, or some other master in that way, or in sculpture, or in painting. Or what if instead of a fiddler, a philosopher (as was once the way) were kept in the great family as an appurtenance, a historiographer, mathe- matician, rhetorician, linguist, would yon expect this service from him ! this entertainment '. Would you expect that such a one should be company '. Or would you be angry and think it strano-e that such a one should muse, or plod, or for the most t~* L part keep silence ? No, but on the contrary, wen; such a one ever so backward in company, dull, heavy, stupid (if you will), without attention to the ordinary discourse, his eyes ever and anon fixed, and his Friends. 105 whole figure often like one half -a wake or in a dream, would not this be far from strange or ill-taken ? Would it not rather be looked on as natural, in no way disagreeable, but the contrary, and in truth agreeable to such a character ? How else could you expect the genius in whatever kind ? How else the music ? the good composition ? the good ordering ? the design and masterly hand ? 80, here, in {mother science and mastership. How else the music { the good ordering ? the life ? the friend ? Or is this nothing '( No art ? no science at all ? an accident < a thing of course '( a bit of temper, education, birth ? a matter of no concern, no care ''. " Forgive me, my good friends, I love you too well to hearken to you, and though but for your own sakes alone, shall take better care." Oi/ AiArtreAet /ULOI ovoe 77; Tro'Aet ovoe TOIS 0tAoi? cnroXecrai KO.I TroXiTtjv ayaQov /cat <> dm-mf. this is doubly false and monstrous, as it is corrupt and perfidious. Witness that shame thou once didst observe of the highly esteemed patriot and man of virtue of these times, how, when in gay company he shrunk from one of the best men living and his good friend, because of the mean habit he wore, as likewise did the friends of Socrates when he came abroad in the habit ! of which Marcus speaks. And remember that same man's behaviour when once at an inn out of town in company with another young man of the same rank with thvsclf. What an example ! what precepts of virtue, continence, temperance! and what passion he fell into on seeing us two so reserved and backward ! Now return to the harangues and treatises; tell me of liberty, country, mankind, r^ / 1 Mm-. An //., M-,l.. XI., Jj l'S, Friends. 107 schemes, models ; write, speak, exhort. These are the declaimers. Wilt not thou hearken and admire, concur and be led ? Remember also another gentleman of the same character and equal renown when talking of love affairs at the table of Atticus (the Atticus of this last age). How well he was reproved and ridiculed by a Lucullus and another great one of the same character that sat by. How much better these ? though these were professed Epicureans, in the secret of the sect, one of them with exquisite learning as well as wit. What are all these and all else, then, but rd TroXiriKa ravru, Km, o>9 oierai, ^Aocro'^Ko? TrpciKTiKit av0pu)7reia, /nu^wv /xecrru [those persons engaged in political affairs and who imagine themselves philosophers ; mere mutterers ! Mar. Aur., Med., Bk. IX., 29]. And what other conversations dost thou seek ? what other discourses hope for ? what other friends expect ( what friends proof against these tables ? what friends not turned, guided, governed by these tables and table-talks ? And is it this that moves thee ? Do these move thee who are themselves moved by this and such as this is ? Try, then ; be once again the table-talk ; make it when absent, keep it up and reign in it when present. Approve thyself anew to these table-judges and before these great tribunals that decide characters, distribute fame, reputation, praise, honour, and dishonour. Be well with these, that thy friends may hear well of thee, and not be ashamed any more 011 thy account, as one given over, censured, or slighted. Go in again as formerly amongst these and hear the noble and wished for sound of j/dJ? avOpurrros, lepidurn <-i> where ? Not there, it' here. Rival beauties. Antagonist ideas. Order against order; opposition. If this a Koarjjios, that a chaos, and vice-rersd. The idea of order here in these tilings. Why once admitted ? why borne with ( why endured '. What order '. and in what '. T>;Ai'-t. Diw. I V ., c. ii., Ufp'i 2uu7Tfpio/jr On familiar intercourse]. Small Possessions. Ill What a noble praise, that of the Roman that he never built ! For so was it said of Scipio, and esteemed as a continence equal to that other famous part in story. Whenever these outward managements go heavily, and thou art ready to bemoan thyself that it is not with thee as with others ; that the things do not prosper nor flourish as with others ; that thy family suffers, thy relations suffer, thy friends, clients, dependents suffer through thy inaptness, inactiveness, and insufficiency in these matters, imagine that thou thus spokest to them (and so speak indeed, but within thyself and in thy own hearing only) : " My good friends ! I do for you as I can, and all I can, and would satisfy you all if so I could. I mind these concerns for you, an estate for you, and do the best I can for you and for my country. But if minding, indeed, an estate such as you would have me mind, and together with it something besides which you mind not, it happens that I succeed not so well with an estate as you who mind an estate only and nothing else, you must not wonder at, or blame me for it." But let them wonder arid blame on : 'tis natural, they must do so. As to tlic tlivni\i$ creavTOV. eirei TOI Kai TVJV i/(rtv av crou, xal TO j3ou\r}/ma Taur>?9 e^lXeiy. [" For thou lovest not thyself, since it' thou didst, thou wouldst love thy nature and her will." Mar. Aurel., Ned., Bk. V., 1.] How unaccountable it is to live so as always to reprove one's self for the same things ? How senseless and unreasonable always to want to be set right I How ridiculous is it to lose * the way that lies before one, and ever and anon, as it' in a strange world, to ask " where am I ? " Resolve, therefore, never to forget thyself. How long is it that thou wilt continue thus to act two different parts and be two different persons ? Call to mind what thou art ; what thou hast resolved and entered upon ; recollect thyself wholly within thyself. Be one entire and self-same man ; and wander not abroad, so as to lose sight of the end ; but keep that constantly in view both in the least concerns and in the greatest ; in diversions, in serious affairs ; in company, and alone ; in the day time and at night. Let neither ceremony, nor entertainment in discourse, nor pleasantry, nor mirth amongst friends, nor anything of this kind, be the occasion of quitting that remem- brance, or of losing that fixed attention. But what will my carriage be in company ? How shall I appear in conversation '. Dangerous consequences ! But of what kind >. lest I be called ill-bred : a good companion. But is it not better I should deserve the name of friend '. Is it not a better thing to be just, to have integrity, faith, innocency, to be a man, and j- a lover of men '. And on what this depends thou well knowst. But if I suffer not myself to be at all transported, how shall I act with forwardness and concern in the public or for a friend '- If it be a part not consistent with the preservation of a character, it is never to be undertaken. If it be consistent, but *<-f. .!/,//-. An ,!., P,k. IV., $ -ifi. t of. Natural Affection. 112 Self. 113 with another person and not with thee, because thou hast less strength, why undertake a part beyond thy reach ? For, first, thou art sure to act ungracefully, nauseously, affectedly, and so as to spoil what thou undertakest ; and, in the next place, this is certain, that if thou forgettest thyself, thou wilt forget thy duty, and instead of acting for virtue, act for something else very different, as following thy own passion and irrational bent. But this continual application is tedious and burdensome. Must there be no moments of rest, no indulgence, nor any relaxa- tion ? It is here thou mayst truly cry out, ou yap ^Ae?? aeavrov [thou lovest not thyself. Mar. Aur. Med., Bk. V., 1]. It is here that thou mayst justly say, thou knowest not how to love thyself, or thy own good. What else is there in the world that can give content but this ? What else can save from misery ? And to neglect this, to be faint, to be remiss, or to give over here : what else is it but to be cruel towards thyself ? See how it is with others who place their interest and good in other things. See the covetous, the vain, the ambitious, the effeminate : which of these is thus negligent and forgetful of himself ? When is it that the one is weary of thinking of his wealth, the other of his credit and esteem, the other of his power and grandeur, the other of his person and what belongs to it ? Take any of these in any circumstances, in any company, engaged in any affairs. It is still easy to observe that they are not so taken out of themselves, but that they still look towards their end. They join with others, they interest themselves and enter into other concerns, but still there is a reserve. Another thing is at the bottom, and the respect is elsewhere. Their manners show it and their actions, gesture, and tone of voice even where they most desire to hide it. Nothing is more apparent to one who narrowly observes. How true and just a pattern is this, and how deserving of imitation, in another way. Shall those objects, such as they are, be able thus to allure and attract, and shall not virtue be as prevalent I Are sociable actions and a life according to nature less to be esteemed ? Or are they things less beautiful in themselves ? Shall he that is a virtuoso, a sculptor, a painter, a musician, an architect, or any one that truly loves his art or science, be wholly taken up with this, be wholly this and nothing else; and shall virtue alone be K 114 The Philosophical Regimen. that which fails its student ? Shall he that follows this be the least zealous ? and shall his art be of less moment with him, less attractive, less enchanting ? Yet what number, what propor- tion, what harmony, symmetry, or order is equal to that which is here ? Know, therefore, what thy art is, and how it is to be adhered to ; and remember that every action, even the slightest, which is not done according to it, is both wrong and tending to the destruction of the art itself. How long wilt thou continue thus to abuse thyself ? Remember that thou hast now no longer any time given thee, but that if hereafter thou shalt again relapse, the thing caiinot but prove fatal. Thou hast given way ; thou hast fallen, and repented. How often has this been ? And yet still thou hast engaged, still sallied out, and lived abroad, still prostituted thyself and committed thy mind* to chance and the next comer, so as to be treated at pleasure by every one, to receive impressions from everything, and machine-like to be moved and wrought upon, wound up and governed exteriorly, as if there were nothing that ruled within or had the least control. At length thou hast retired. Thou art again in possession of thyself, and mayest keep so, as thou art come as it were into a new world, and art free of former ties ; unless of thy own accord thou voluntarily and officiously renewest them and art willing to begin where thou didst leave oft'. Know, therefore, that when thou returnest to the same objects, if presently thou art tempted into the least feeling of that former commotion, then indeed all is lost, thou art overpowered, and canst no longer command thyself. Remember what thou dost carry in thy breast; remember those former inflammations and how suddenly all will take fire when once a spark gets in ; remember the fuel within and those unextinguished passions which live but as in the embers. Think of that impetuous, furious, impotent temper, and what trust is to be given to it. This, too, remember, that as in certain machines that are fastened by many wedges, though they be made ever so compact and firm by this means, yet if one wedge be loosened the whole frame shakes ; so, with * J-Jjiicf. Eitrh., c. xxviii. Self. 115 respect to the mind, it is not merely in one passion that the mischief is received, but in all ; it is not one spring that loses its accord, but all. Thus warned and in this different situation of mind approach those things anew, and beware lest thou tread awry ; /x^ TO tj-yeju-oviKov /^Xco//-//? TO creavrod [take care not to injure your own ruling faculty. Ej>ict. EncJt., c. xxxviii.] But what will my friends say ? how will they find me disposed to them ? how shall I bear their altered countenances and their dislike of me ? Go then, and be again a jester, and tell stories, act, and be indus- triously ridiculous, for, what is that thou callest wit or humour ? what is the whole of that sort of conversation ? Is this thy service with thy friends ? is it thus thou wouldst be felt ? But if I enter not affectionately and with warmth into their concerns, if I feel not, so as to be in some degree animated, with what effect can I speak or act ? how assist them by admonition, by reproof, by commendation and exhorting? For without being touched and moved in a certain degree, nothing of this can be gracefully practised, or is to be undertaken. True. Neither is this the time. Leave that for hereafter; when matters within shall be better established and right habits confirmed. The question at present is not, whether they shall be good ; but whether than tltywlf shalt be of any worth or not. But, how shall I be of aid to others ? of what use shall I be ? O, folly ! as if it were not apparent that if thou but continuest thus, and art able to persevere, thy example alone (when thou least regardest it) will be of more service than all that thou canst do whilst thou retainest thy selfishness, thy meanness, and subjection, which thou canst not otherwise shake off but by this course. Thou wouldst serve thy country. Right. But consider withal an'/ot] x. a P aKT *iP a crew, &c. [Begin by prescribing some character to yourself. Epict. EnrJt., c. xxxiii., ].] Remember the Isthmian and Olympic exercises and what resembles this within, OTI vvv 6 aycov, Ka\ >'/Stj TrapecrTi TO. 'OAi'/uTna [that now is the contest, now the Olympic games. EncJi., c. H., 2.] Not merely upon great occasions that come seldom ; but here, immediately, in that which every minute offers and gives oppor- tunity, as eating, talk, story, argument, the common entertain- ment, mirth and laughing, voice, gesture, action, countenance : in * Viz. : 1, a-iuTTT] [Silence. E]>i<-t. Ench., c. xxxiii., $ 2j. 2, ye\wr P.TJ TroXvr [Not much laughter. Ibid., c. xxxiii., 4]. Self. 117 all these the trial is the same and at hand. Seek the occasion, tempt, provoke. Every victory here is great and consider- able. Let not foolish fancy diminish this and make it seem little and ridiculous, but remember the end and to what this tends. Grant it be hard to deny what seems so natural, so inviting and alluring ; but remember how much more solidly pleasing, how much more satisfaction, the consciousness of such a victory. Not only this, but remember withal the agreeableness of the very exercise itself after a certain way when once a strong habit is established, and the mind in a good station, a good bent. Nor is this only proper to philosophy ; but amongst the other sorts of mankind, those who can advantageously command themselves in any particular, or are used to hardiness and labour, take not a little delight in this sort of exercise and love to try their strength. How much more one who knows his good, and pursues a right end ? O It is ridiculous to admire a generous behaviour, incorrupti- bleness, magnanimity ; and at the same time to admire any of those outward things by the contempt of which these first are framed and have being. Therefore, either these internal matters, the * o/oym of virtue, and the f sacred recesses of the mind, are worthy of admiration or they are not. If they are not then cease to admire in this way. If they are, then seek to admire in that other. A celebrated beauty ! a palace ! seat ' gardens ! pictures ! Italy ! a feast ! a carnival ! how do these concern thee \ If thou admirest anv of these, as being * ~ taken with them and wishing for them, what is become cf temperance, continence, and those other virtues ? and where is that honesty, faith, justice, magnanimity grounded on them * Ji' thou art sound and free, and if the charm and allurement of these exterior things reach thee not, why dost thou then make of thyself one of the admirers, and imitate what thou disapprovest { Js it for company '. is it in complaisance '. is it that thou mayst be admired as a judge '. All this is monstrous. Forbear, therefore, wholly this kind of way. For there is here * Mar. Ain-'-f. M<>L, lik. ITT., SJ G. t Sanctosque recessus mentis. PITS. Sat. TT., line 73. 118 The Philosophical Regimen. neither modesty, decency, nor simplicity in any degree. Nor can the mind be loner safe in such a way. Remember that it is impossible to admire with others, and to admire at the same time what thou desirest should be the chief subject of thy veneration and esteem. If those things are magnified, these presently seem little. If the affairs abroad grow entangling and considerable ; the affairs at home grow awkward and wearisome. If others are courted and cultivated, self is forgot. How r nol>l<>, maynijicent, <1., Bk. IV., :}()]. Consider (wheresoever at any time thou coinest to thy work heavily and with regret, as parting hardly with other matters and quitting other pursuits), which one thing of all those in life thou hast not often in some disposition or another been superior to, and a conqueror of '. Is it venery and amours with women ? How often hast thou detested this, even in those former 120 The Philosophical Regimen. times, so as to wish firmly thou hadst neither appetite that way, nor anything of that kind to give disturbance ? Is it a house and seat, buildings and work of that kind ? How often hast thou sickened of it ? and in those days too, what disquiets ? what disgusts ? Or is it, last of all (for here I reckon the chief thing lies), the plays, diversions, talk, story-telling, secrets, confidences, and whatever else makes up that sort of conversation, which thou art so fond of with a certain set of friends ? Remember here how often thou hast been ready to renounce this for good and all ; and to break off even this correspondence and way of life, when circumstances seemed to require it, as family affairs, public, envy of certain persons, apostacy and corruption. Now, if melancholy, if anger and disgust, if satiety, weariness, and other such passions were able to make thee despise these matters of outward dependence, so as to set thee free ! how much more ought a right disposition and consciousness to do the same ? How shameful is it to be so laborious, active, and indefatig- able in other employments of several kinds ; and here alone to faint where the concern is highest, noblest, and most generous ? If thy country were in war, and the charge of an army conferred on thee by the people, what labour wouldst thou not undergo ? If a magistracy, the same : what application, what pains, to acquit thyself well in it ? what bent and continual attention of the mind ? how wouldst thou be animated, how affected ? Yet, notwithstanding this, see how thou behavest elsewhere ; and in the highest concern of all, how weakly, how miserably affected ! But what charge or what consulship is equal to that charge thou hast in hand ? What is the commonwealth, the senate, or people in respect of that authority which lias enjoined this duty and given thee this trust to discharge ] In the mean- while, how are those other trusts to be discharged '. how be a friend, a brother, or any of those other relations faithfully, entirely, incorruptly ? What is fidelity ''. What is constancy, integrity, incorruption ? And on what do these depend ( What miserable subjects are those in which thou hast been so long busied and taken up, and which have left such impressions behind I a neat house, garden, seat, apartment, pictures, trees, fabrics, models, design, and ordering. Remember Self. 121 to distinguish. Is it to please thyself, stand by, alone, look upon this, and admire it ? Or is it that others may ? What others ? Consider only who. Are they the common people who repine at it, and justly ? Are they the rich who are rivals in these matters, and see with envy and detraction ? Are they men of business and employment ? They have no relish for things of this kind, and admire something else which is in their own way, and what they are used to. Are they, therefore, a few friends for whom all this is reserved ? O, folly ! Is this the way of serving them ? Are these the studies on their behalf ? Remember also this : that by so much as they are better people, so much the less have they any admiration of these matters. Thus the preparation must be for the worse sort, or for none at all. But what if all the world were to admire ? What if all of this kind were in the highest perfection with thee ? Is there not cause of shame ? " Behold ! See these additional ornaments which are mine, and belong to me ! See these rewards of virtue ! these marks of justice, integrity, honesty, and a good mind ! Who are they that can show such ? With whom are these to be found ? Add also : Who are the fittest to procure the most of these ? what are the fittest measures both to obtain and to preserve these ? and who are the most able and the most deserving in this way ? What is the neglect and contempt of these a sign of ? and what does the love or liking of these prognosticate ? "- If such be the case, why admit this cheat and delusion * win- introduce it under specious names } . a private; retreat, a study, gardening, planting. But this is philosophical. So is anatomy, botany, chemistry. But what sort of men arc those that here excel { What are those anatomists, physicians, chemists, and in a word all those other naturalists, that converse with nature (as they say) and study it ' What are their thoughts of nature { What minds have they ' Are they not rather the very worst, and the furthest o1f from any true sense or feeling :* What was Epicurus with his garden '. And who was ever more taken with this than he '. All this is hollow, unsound, rotten, corrupt. He who truly studies nature and lives with nature, needs not either a garden, or wood, or sea, or rocks, to contemplate and admire. A dunghill or heap of any seeming vile and horrid matter is 122 The Philosophical Regimen. equal, nay superior, to any of those pretended orderly .structures of things forced out of their natural state. He that sees not the beauty of corruption, can see nothing \\\ generation or growth ; and he who has not always before him and can kindly and benignly view the incessant and eternal change and conversion of things one into another, will in the midst of his gardens and other artifices oftener arraign and disparage nature than applaud and accompany her. Therefore, impose no longer on thyself. These may be good employments for others ; they are better than cards or dice ; better than the common pastimes ; better than the common useless conversations, and what they call company. Therefore, if thy choice be amongst these, take this which is rather the best of the sort, But if thou hast other employments for thy mind, if thou hast other subjects of thy affection, raid if the whole force of thy will is required else- where, be not so rash and foolish, as to spend that force on other subjects, and thus to lose thy nerve sinews and spirit where they are so much required. Watch strictly when the fancy runs out upon any notable design or outward piece of work. Hoc cmt in rot IK ; modim (Hji'i, tire. [This used to be my wish, a bit of land Hor., Sat. II., (5, 1], and pnulum sllrttc, [just a little wood], and merely concha mill* pv.i't, [a shell of pure salt. Hor., Sat. I., 3, 14]. How rotten is all this. And yet how covered over. How speciously clothed and lurking under a certain mask ? How hard still to detect it upon every occasion ? But endeavour, notwithstanding, to bring it forth into the light, examine the idea, bring it to the test. See how it will bear. Is it virtue, or has it anything in common with virtue? Does it come under the will, or is it foreign and of another province ? Is it my good as a rational creature, as a man, as a student, and as OIK- that seeks to improve in a certain course? Is it a help and advancement in this sense, or is it a r<'nioravTacri