THE 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 SIR THOMAS FITZOSBORNE, 
 
 ON 
 
 SEVERAL SUBJECTS. 
 
 TO WHICH IS PREFIXED 
 
 A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 
 WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. 
 
 TRANSLATOR OF THE LETTERS OF CICERO, PLL\Y, &c. 
 
 Absentis pigiius araicitiae. Mart. 
 
 THE FOURTEENTH EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LACKINGTON, ALLEN, AND CO.; F. C. ANH J. RIVINGTON- 
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 Printed by S, Hamilton, Weybridge, Surrey. 
 1S14. 
 
0f 
 
THE CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Memoir of the Author xi 
 
 Letter I. To Clytander. 
 Concerning enthusiasm ..... 1 
 
 Letter II. To Philotes. 
 On portrait-painting ..... 5 
 
 Letter III. To Palamedes. 
 Reflections on the Roman triumphs . . .10 
 
 Letter IV. To Philotes. 
 On his travels . . . , . .16 
 
 Letter V. To Clytander. 
 On the veneration paid to the ancients , .19 
 
 Letter VL To Orontes. 
 The character of Varus 22 
 
 Letter VII. To Hortensius. 
 
 Returning hiyn thanks for a present of brawn : 
 with an account of the author's manner of cele^ 
 brating tlie feast . , . , . .26 
 
 Letter VIII. To Clytander. 
 
 In favour of a particular Profvidence . . 27 
 
 Letter IX. To Timoclea. 
 A panegyric upon riddles . . . .35 
 
 Letter X. To Phidippus. 
 Reflections upon friendship . . . .40 
 
 a2 
 
iv CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Letter XI. To Hortexsius. 
 Against modem Latin poetry . . . .45 
 
 Letter XIL To Amasia. 
 With a tale 50 
 
 Letter XIII. To Philotes. 
 Written in a fit of the spleen . . . .55 
 
 Letter XIV. To Orontes. 
 
 Concerning the neglect of oratorical numbers. Ob- 
 servations upon Dr. TiUolson's siyle. The care 
 of the ancient orators xmth respect to numerous 
 composition, stated and recommended . .58 
 Letter XV. To Cleora. 66 
 
 Letter XVI. To Philotes. 
 
 Against cruelty to insects . . . , .68 
 
 Letter XVII. To the Same. 
 Upon his marriage ...... 72 
 
 Letter XVI II. To Hortensius. 
 Refections upon the passion of fame . . -74 
 
 Letter XIX. To Cleora. 
 Rallying her taste for mystical and romance icriters 'J9 
 
 Letter XX. To Euphronihs. 
 Observations upon some passages in Mr. Pope's sr 
 
 translation of the Iliad . . . .82 
 
 Letter XXI. To Cleora. D2 
 
 Letter XXII. To Palemon. 
 Jgainst suicide ...... 95 
 
 Letter XXin. To Clytander. 
 
 Concerning his intentions to marry. The character 
 of Amasia , 101 
 
CONTENTS. V 
 
 Page 
 Letter XXIV. To Orontes. 
 
 On metaphors . . . . . .104 
 
 Letter XXV. To Philotes. II7 
 
 Letter XXVL To Phidippus. 
 Reflections on generosity . . . . .119 
 
 Letter XXVIL To Sappho, 
 a young lady of thirteen years of age . . 123 
 
 Letter XXVIIL To Phidippus. 
 Rejlectiuns npon the sentiments of the ancients con- 
 cerning friendship . . . . .125 
 
 Letter XXIX. To the Same. 
 Upon grace in icriting . . . . .130 
 
 Letter XXX. To Clytander. 
 
 Concerning the love of our country . . .134 
 
 Letter XXXL To Palamedes. 140 
 
 Letter XXXIL To the Same. 
 Tlie attthor^s resolutions to continue in retirement 142 
 
 Letter XXXIIL To Palemon. 
 The character of Hortensia . . . 145 
 
 Letter XXXIV. To Hortensius. 
 Concerning self-reverence . . . .151 
 
 Letter XXXV. To Cleora. 
 ff'ith an ode upon their wedding-day . . .154 
 
 Letter XXXVI. To Clytander. 
 
 Reasons for the author's retirement : — a description 
 of the situation of his villa .... 159 
 
 Letter XXXVI I. To Hortensius. 
 Concerning the style of Horace in his moral writings 1 63 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Letter XXXVIII. To the Same. 
 
 Concerning the great variety of characters among 
 mankind. The singular character of Stihtes . 172 
 
 Letter XXXIX. To Phidippus. 
 Concerning the criterion of taste . . .176 
 
 Letter XL. To Palamedes. 
 
 The character of Mezentius . . . .183 
 
 Letter XLI. To Oronies. 
 The comparative merit of the two sexes considered 186 
 
 Letter XLII. To Palemon. 
 
 Tteflections upon the various revolutions in the mind 
 of man, ivith respect both to his speculative no- 
 tions, and his plans of happiness . . .192 
 
 Letter XLIII. To Euphronius. 
 Objections to some passages in Mr. Pope's transla- V 
 
 tion of the Iliad . . . . . .195 
 
 Letter XLIV. To Palamedes. 
 
 Against visitors by profession . . . ^ .214 
 
 Letter XLV. To Hortensius. 
 Rejlections npmi fame, with respect to the small 
 number of those whose approbation can be consi- 
 dered as conferring it . . . . .216 
 
 Letter XL VI. To Clytander. 
 Concerning the reverence due to the religion of one's 
 cmmtry ....... 218 
 
 Letter XLVII. To Cleora, . 225 
 
 Letter XLVin. To Euphronius. 
 Tlie public advantages of icell-directed satire. The ^ 
 moral qualifications requisite to a satirist . 227 
 
CONTENTS. Vii 
 
 Page 
 Letter XLIX. To Palamedes. 
 
 On his approaching marriage . . . .230 
 
 Letter L. To Euphronius. 
 Upon good-sense ...... 232 
 
 Letter LL To Palemon. 
 The author's morning rejections . . . 235 
 
 Letter LIL To Euphronius. 
 Some passages in Mr. Pope's translation of the 
 Iliad compared ivith the versions of Denham, 
 Dryden, Congreve, and Ticket . . . 240 
 
 Letter LIII. To Orontes. 
 
 Reflections upon seeing Mr. Pope's house at Bin- 
 field . . . . , . . . .263 
 
 Letter UV. To Phidippus. 
 Tfie character of Cleanthes . . . . 268 
 
 Letter LV. To Euphronius. 
 Concerning weariness of life .... 270 
 
 Letter LVL To Timoclea. 
 
 With a fable in the style of Spenser . , .274 
 
 Letter LVII. To Clytander. 
 Concerning the use of the ancient mythology iii mo- 
 dern poetry 282 
 
 Letter LVIII. To Euphronius. 
 Occasioned by the sudden death of a friend . 289 
 
 Letter LIX. To Hortensius. 
 
 On the delicacy of every author of genius f ivith re- 
 spect to his own performances . , . 292 
 
 y 
 
vlii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Letter LX. To Pa lemon. 
 All account of tlie author's happiness in his retire- 
 ment ........ 297 
 
 Letter LXL To Euphronius, 
 
 Rejlections upon style 300 
 
 Letter LXIL To Orontes. 
 The character of Timoclea .... 305 
 
 Letter LXIIL To the Same. 
 Concerning the art of verbal criticism; a specimen 
 of it applied- to an epigram of Swift . ,308 
 
 Letter LXIV. To Philotes. 
 
 From Tunbridge 314 
 
 Letter LXV. To Orontes. 
 Concerning delicacy in relieving the distressed .317 
 
 Letter LXVL To Cleora. 319 
 
 Letter LXVIL To Euphronius. 
 Onthedeathandcharacterof the author's father . 322 
 
 Letter LXVIIL To Philotes. 
 Reflections on the moral character of mankind . 326 
 
 Letter LXIX. To the Same. 
 Concerning the difficulties that attend our specula- 
 tive inquiries. Mr. Boyle's moderation instanced 
 and recommended . . . . .329 
 
 Letter LXX. To Palamedes. 
 
 In disgrace 335 
 
 Letter LXXJ. To PriiLOTES. 
 The author's inability to do justice to the character 
 ofEusebes ....... 339 
 
CONTENTS. Ix 
 
 Page 
 Letter LXXII. To the Sams. 
 Tlie auihor's situation of mind on the loss of a 
 friend . . . . . . .342 
 
 Letter LXXIIL To Palamedes. 
 On thinking 345 
 
 Letter LXXIV. To Orontes. 
 
 Reflections on the advantages of conversation : with 
 a translation of the celebrated Dialogue concern- 
 ing the rise and decline of eloquence among the 
 Romans ....... 351 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 / 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 It has frequently been remarked that biogra- 
 phical anecdotes rarely abound in the circle 
 described by literary characters, who, lost in 
 the fascinating wilds of speculation and fancy, 
 or immersed in the laborious investigations of 
 science, avoid the tumultuous business and 
 pleasures of society, which alone tend, in any 
 great measure, to vary and chequer the scenes 
 of human life. That this was or was not the 
 case with the subject of the present memoir, 
 we are not prepared peremptorily to assert ; 
 but the rich legacy which he has bequeathed 
 to us, gives rise most reasonably to the con- 
 clusion, that he was a man devoted to letters, 
 and a lover of the secretum ite?\ If he had no 
 humble and industrious, idolizing and vigilant 
 
Xll 
 
 attendant, no Boswell to pursue his steps, like 
 a shadow, and to record all his weaknesses and 
 virtues, we have no reason to complain, for 
 we have something still better. — The best of 
 an author is his works, and these we possess. 
 Here we have the gold without alloy. His 
 writings are the temple of the Graces, who, 
 to use the language of an ingenious commen- 
 tator, *' can give that certain happiness of 
 manner, which we all understand, yet no one 
 is able to express ; which often supplies the 
 place of merit, and without which merit itself 
 is imperfect." 
 
 WilHam Melmoth, Esq. late of Bath, was 
 the eldest son of an eminent lawyer of the 
 same name, and member of the honourable 
 society of Lincoln's Inn. His father, who was 
 born in the year 1666, exercised his profes- 
 sion, as we learn, " with a skill and integrity, 
 which nothing could equal but the disinterest- 
 ed motive that animated his labours. He 
 often exerted his distinguished abilities, yet 
 refused the reward of them, in defence of the 
 mdoWf the father less y and him that had none to 
 help him. His admirable treatise on The great 
 Importance of a religious Life, deserves to be 
 held in perpetual remembrance. In a word, 
 few ever passed a more useful, none a more 
 blameless life. He died in 1743.** 
 
Xlll 
 
 Under the tuition of his venerable father, 
 and with the advantage of his good example, 
 it is not difficult to suppose that he greatly 
 improved in every estimable quality ; and 
 though we are deprived, through his advanced 
 age, of all information from the companions 
 of his earlier years, we may safely conjecture, 
 that they were so w ell husbanded, and sedu- 
 lously applied to the acquisition of literature 
 and science, as to lay a solid foundation for 
 that maturity and distinction in taste and 
 judgment, which he afterwards displayed. He 
 is said to have been as amiable and eno-ag-ins: 
 
 DC? o 
 
 in his progress to manhood, as he certainly 
 became respectable and even worthy of reve- 
 rence in the later stages of his protracted 
 existence. 
 
 Of his juvenile and domestic habits, w^hether 
 of a grave or sprightly deportment, and whether 
 his education was public or private, at what 
 seminary he studied, or to what particular 
 master he owed his classical taste, little is cor- 
 rectly known. The first indications of his fu- 
 ture excellence have probably perished with 
 the friends of his youth, w^hom he survived. 
 The public's principal acquaintance with 
 him, therefore, is through the medium of his 
 works. 
 
XIV 
 
 About five and twenty years have elapsed 
 since a publication, entitled " Liberal Opi- 
 nionSf^* issued from the press, under the as- 
 sumed name of Courtney Melmoth, and was 
 commonly ascribed to our author. Their dis- 
 cernment, however, is not to be envied, who 
 could mistake the masterly and philosophical, 
 the refined and useful emanations of an en- 
 lightened intellect, for the transient produc- 
 tions of that anonymous author. 
 
 WiUiam Melmoth, Esq. so far from giving 
 the least countenance to the loose dogmas in- 
 dustriously propagated by the modern school 
 of infidelity, asserts his belief of Christianity, 
 in the genuine spirit which she inspires, and 
 honestly and unequivocally, in several parts 
 of his writings, * avows a preference for the 
 religious establishment of his native country. 
 
 Our author, according to the best informa- 
 tion, was of Emanuel's College, Cambridge ; 
 but how long he studied at that university, or 
 whether he took any degree, is uncertain. 
 From one of his letters t in this collection, it 
 would appear that his life had commenced by 
 mixing more or less with the active world in 
 
 * See Laelius, or an Essay on Friendship, Remark 68, 
 page 318; and Letters 8 and 46 of Fitzosborne. 
 t Letter 36. 
 
XV 
 
 a public character, possibly in the same pro- 
 fession which his father had previously pur- 
 sued with so much honour. His motives for 
 relinquishing this situation, and adopting one 
 more retired and consonant to his own incli- 
 nations and habits, are briefly, but explicitly 
 stated, and afford a very satisfactory apology 
 forhischoice. "How,indeed,"sayshe, "could 
 a man hope to render himself acceptable to 
 the various parties which divide our nation, 
 who professes it as his principle, that there is 
 no striking wholly into the measures of any, 
 without renouncing either one's sense or one's 
 integrity ; and yet, as the world is at present 
 constituted, it is scarce possible, I fear, to do 
 any good in one's generation (in public life I 
 mean), without listing under some or other of 
 those various banners, which distinguish the 
 several corps in these our political warfares." 
 In the same letter, as well as in others, he 
 expatiates with evident complacency on the 
 peculiar felicities, which arise from the posses- 
 sion and exercise both of the social and con- 
 jugal virtues. His villa, which he has de- 
 scribed with so much picturesque taste and 
 elegance, was probably the spot where his 
 first nuptials took place, and he retreated into 
 the country, fortunately emancipated, as one 
 of his feelings must have conceived, from all 
 
XVI 
 
 the turmoil and dissension incident to party 
 contest. His domestic comforts are not ob- 
 scurely specified in a preceding letter, where 
 he breathes those manly sentiments, which so 
 well become the head of a family. It is writ- 
 ten, as we presume, on the anniversary of 
 their marriage, and addressed to Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, under the feigned name of Cleora. He 
 there alludes to several passages in his private 
 history, which none but such as knew it inti- 
 mately can explain. He speaks particularly 
 of a musical instrument, for the use of a young 
 lady, whom he calls Tarminta ; and probably 
 his grand-niece, at that time, as it would seem, 
 recently entered on the practice of music, ce- 
 lebrates the day by the composition of an ap- 
 propriate ode, and concludes with a rapturous 
 encomium on wedded love. 
 
 From this beautiful and romantic situation 
 in the vicinity of Shrewsbury, where he first 
 selected his rural sequestration, he removed, 
 it would appear, to Bath. Here he had the 
 misfortune to lose Mrs. Melmoth, of whom, 
 in his letters, he frequently speaks in such rap- 
 tures, and to vv^hom he repeatedly avows the 
 strongest attachment. Soon after her death, 
 however, he married a miss Ogle, of an Irish 
 family. It is reported that he was precipi- 
 tated into this match by a gigantic Hibernian 
 
XVll 
 
 cousin of the lady, and that a scene in the 
 Iiish Widow originated in the incident. It 
 is, notwithstanding, well known, that she 
 proved herself highly deserving of his esteem, 
 by an affectionate and dutiful attention to him 
 on every occasion. 
 
 He was grievously afflicted, even at a great 
 age, by violent attacks of the stone and gravel, 
 which rendered walking so painful to him, that 
 he was confined for several years to his own 
 house, and never went abroad but when car- 
 ried in a sedan-chair. For ten or twelve years, 
 however, before his death, by persevering in 
 the regular use of mephitic water, he latterly 
 recovered even an active use of his locomo- 
 tive powers. It is not surprising that these 
 dilapidations of nature, connected with a long 
 series of intense study, which w ears the mind 
 as much, at least, as labour impairs the body, 
 rendered him, in old age, very petulant, and 
 easily provoked. Yet such were his domestic 
 virtues, and the goodness of his heart, that, 
 though often cross, he was never implacable, 
 and generally retained his servants until death 
 put an end to their mutual dependence. 
 
 Mr. Melmoth resided in Bath for the last 
 thirty years of his life, and died at Bladud's 
 Buildings, in that city, in 1799, aged 89, full 
 of years and good works. He was of middle 
 
 b 
 
XVlil 
 
 stature, and very thin. His eyes were of a 
 lively cast, and his face discovered strong lines 
 of thought. From a very wrinkled counte- 
 nance, occasioned, perhaps, by much deep and 
 intense thought, he exhibited, even before he 
 was an old man, extraordinary marks of age. 
 He was a person of exemplary piety, and stern 
 integrity, *' incorruptaJideSy niidciqiie Veritas ;^^ 
 and his writings are not a greater ornament to 
 literature, than his whole life v/as honourable 
 to human nature. 
 
 Happily circumstanced as he seems to have 
 been during tlie better part of the flower of 
 his days ; far from the noisy world, and richly 
 stored wuth literature and science, he was not 
 idle, though retired; nor lost that time in 
 dissipation or luxury which he denied to the 
 pursuit of honour and ambition. His studies, 
 indeed, manifestly prove that his life, if not 
 laborious, was dedicated to ingenious research 
 and fruitful contemplation. 
 
 Our author's literary dehiit appeared in an 
 essay On active and retired Life, in an Epistle 
 to Henry Coventry, Esq. which was printed 
 in 1735. It was afterwards inserted in Dods- 
 ley's Collection^ and contains some good pas- 
 sages, and many beautiful lines. His versifi- 
 cation, however, is not equal to his prose : and, 
 notwithstanding his youth when this poem was 
 
XIX 
 
 published, he seems to have declined a pur- 
 suit from which his good sense taught him to 
 expect no distinguished success. 
 
 Several passages in his Fitzosborne's Let- 
 ters demonstrate that he was accustomed to 
 canvass with himself the difference between 
 an active and retired life ; and how much bet- 
 ter he thought the one accommodated to his 
 plan of happiness than the other, will be seen 
 by a reference to Letters thirty-tw^o and fifty. 
 
 English literature was not a little enriched, 
 and the history of Roman manners elucidated, 
 by his elegant version of the Epistles of Pliny 
 the Younger, which appeared in 1753. The 
 pupil of Quintilian was the most polite and 
 agreeable writer of his time. He moved in 
 the highest sphere of society ; was intimate 
 with all the most eminent men of that period; 
 possessed the readiest access to all circles, and 
 citizens of every description, and, wdth these 
 advantages, such powers of intelligence and 
 observation as enabled him to make the best 
 use of whatever he heard or saw. None of his 
 contemporaries appear to us so full of anec- 
 dote, or picture the private as well as the pub- 
 lic life of the Romans so accurately as Pliny. 
 Although he v\rote w^ith great purity, consi- 
 dering the date of his compositions, he is still 
 not fy(?,(i from that meretricious refinement, 
 
 b2 
 
XX 
 
 vvliich then marked the degeneracy of Koman 
 taste, both in letters and manners. The style 
 of the translation of these Epistles would, on 
 the contrary, have passed the ordeal of the 
 chastest periods of our language, when Addi- 
 son, Swift, and Bolingbroke xixed the standard 
 of its simplicity and elegance. The notes to 
 this version are judicious, learned, and amu- 
 sing. 
 
 In tlie same, or about the beginning of the 
 subsequent year, followed his translation of 
 Cicero's familiar Epistles to several of his 
 Friends, with Remarks. With the critical, 
 literary, and philosophical excellencies of the 
 former, they are far more historical, political, 
 and professional. AVritten on the eve of a 
 momentous revolution in the empire of the 
 world, and while the minds of men were startled 
 and laboured under repeated presages of that 
 stupendous event, they are replete with in- 
 terest, observation, and instruction. The au- 
 thor himself was a conspicuous actor in these 
 important scenes, in which his several corre- 
 spondents alsoperformed their respectiveparts. 
 Mr. Melmoth, according to his advertisement, 
 prefers them to those particularly addressed to 
 Atticus, *' as they show the author of them in 
 a greater variety of connexions, and afford an 
 .opportunityof considering him in almost every 
 
XXI 
 
 possible point of view." His comments on 
 them few will read without profit, and none 
 without pleasure. 
 
 An elegant translation of Cato, or an Essay 
 071 Old Age ; and LceUus, or an Essay on Friend- 
 ship, both with Re7narks, were produced suc- 
 cessively, in 1777. Nothing was ever written 
 in a style of more exquisite reasoning, or more 
 refined and animated ilhistration, than these 
 two incomparable performances. As far as 
 the different genius of a dead and living lan- 
 guage v/ould permit, it is allowed that our 
 translator has done him ample justice. The 
 Reiv.arks on each, doubling the quantity of the 
 original, are critical, biographical, and expla- 
 natory, and disclose such a fund of Roman 
 antiquities, as must be eminently useful and 
 acceptable to every classical student. 
 
 Besides a few temporarv productions in 
 verse and prose, which were, as usual, anony- 
 mous and fugitive, his contributions to the 
 World, in which, it is said, he had some share, 
 and the letters in this volume, he published an 
 answer to the attack of Jacob Briant, Esq. on 
 the opinion of our author concerning the per- 
 secution of the Christians under the emperor 
 Trajan. He proves unexceptionably that this 
 circumstance, horrid as it was, originated not 
 in any antipathy conceived against the truths 
 
XXll 
 
 which they believed, but in the laws of the 
 constitution or established police of the state, 
 against practices deemed by them indispensa- 
 ble to a general profession of their religion. 
 Memoirs of a late eminent Advocate, which he 
 doubtless intended as a tribute of filial duty, 
 was also wTitten and edited by him, at a very 
 late period of life. Here we perceive the same 
 composure of mind and the same unaffected 
 sim.plicity which distinguished all his pre- 
 ceding pieces ; but, to use the language of 
 Longinus, 5j%a tt;; (Tfo^'fOT'Tjrof, the fire and ge- 
 nius of his earlier exertions are no longer ap- 
 parent. 
 
 Fitzosbor?ie's Letters * presented to the pub- 
 lic in this elegant impression, we mention last, 
 though among the first of his works, as they 
 form that portion of them to which our Me- 
 moir more particularly belongs. He was pro- 
 bably pleased with this disguise, under which 
 he might with modesty speak familiarly of his 
 own concerns, as well as of those of his friends. 
 It divested him of feelings that would other- 
 wise, to a certain degree, have repressed the 
 freedom of his remarks, and laid him under 
 such a restraint as must have contracted his 
 conception, and cramped his expression. The 
 fiction was harmless, and he has rendered it 
 
 ••■ First printed in 1742. 
 
XXlll 
 
 useful. These letters, treating chiefly of ob- 
 jects with which the heart is most conversant, 
 have always had their admirers. The various 
 domestic scenes, the tranquil felicities of pri- 
 vate life, the harmonies of social fellowship 
 and concord, the occurrences of the day, the 
 interest w^e are all made to feel and participate 
 in the enjoyments of one another, and the in- 
 definite number of nameless circumstances, 
 to which the affections of none are altogether 
 insensibly, are the various strings on which 
 these letters touch, and with which our hearts 
 are for ever in unison. These delicacies, uni- 
 formly directed to the best moral purposes, 
 impart such a charm to all he utters, and 
 stamp such a value on his writings, as we 
 rarely meet with in the compositions of other 
 men. One of the best letters in the whole 
 collection, though merely introductory to our 
 author's translation of the celebrated, but, as 
 he calls it, anonymous dialogue on oratory, is 
 replete with obsenations of great and public 
 importance. We are not aware that this beau- 
 tiful fragment of antiquity has been transfused 
 into English by any former writer, but here 
 it appears with peculiar elegance, and exhibits 
 specimens of the purest eloquence and the 
 soundest wisdom. The translator has, indeed, 
 
XXIV 
 
 arranged his letters in such a manner, as to 
 render them altogether im.perfect without it; 
 and, to many readers of a particular cast, it 
 may probably be deemed the most valuable 
 part of the volume. The tract entitled de 
 Oratorihus, she de caussis corriqjtce eloqiien- 
 tice dialogiis, has been ascribed to Tacitus, 
 Quintilian, and Suetonius; but it was the opi- 
 nion of Mr. ]\Ielmoth that it was the produc- 
 tion of Pliny the Younger, and it is to be la- 
 mented that his promise " one day or other to 
 attempt to prove it in form," was never ful- 
 filled. On this subject Lipsius and M. Brotier 
 will be consulted with advantage. Mr. Mur- 
 phy, as much attached to Tacitus as Mr. Mel- 
 moth to Pliny, gives it to his favourite, in the 
 notes to his version of the Dialogue. 
 
 Notwithstanding the constitutional diffi- 
 dence and reserve of this amiable writer, and 
 his invincible reluctance to solicit public at- 
 tention, he was not entirely overlooked even 
 by the most fashionable and celebrated lite- 
 rary characters of his day. We find him an 
 occasional visitor at the late Mrs. Montague's, 
 who lost no opportunity of enhancing her own 
 popularity by that of her guests. With other 
 wits, who sparkled at the levee of that lady, 
 he was also sometimes seen ; and all who knew 
 
XXV 
 
 or conversed with him there, or elsewhere, ac- 
 knowledge his politeness both as a gentleman 
 and a scholar. 
 
 The siliy flippancy with which Mrs. Piozzi 
 mentions her dislike of him in a letter to Dr. 
 Johnson,* and the doctor's contumelious coin- 
 cidence in his reply, siio more et modo^ reflect 
 no credit on the judgment or good manners 
 of either, and rather improve than detract 
 from the reader's opinion of the polished and 
 imassuming genius of our author. The repu- 
 tation of Mr. Melmoth v\'as not to be depre- 
 ciated by the scandal or jealousy of this pre- 
 sumptuous school. The most respectable of 
 his contemporaries bore witness to his worth 
 as a man, and his merit as a writer. He is 
 even mentioned by a celebrated satirist, 
 *' whose charifj/ exceedeth not,''^ with com- 
 
 * See Boiwell's Life of Johnson, vol. i. p. 457'. " Yes- 
 terday evening," says she, " was past at IMrs. Montague's. 
 There was Mr. Melmoth. I do not like him though, nor 
 he me. It was expected we should ha\e pleased each 
 other. He is, however, ju5t tory enough to hate the 
 bishop of Peterborough for his whiggisra, and whig enough 
 to abhor you for toryism. Mrs. Montague tlattered him 
 finely J so he had a good afternoon of it." Johnson re- 
 turned this answer : " From the autlior of Fitzosborne's 
 Letters I cannot think myself in much danger. I met him 
 only once, about thirty years ago, and, in some small dis- 
 pute, reduced him to a whistle. Having never seen hin^. 
 since, that is the last impresiion.' 
 
XXVI 
 
 mendable veneration. " William Melmotli, 
 Esq." according to the Pursuits of Literature y 
 " a most elegant and distinguished writer near 
 half an age with every good man's praise. His 
 translation of Cicero and Pliny will speak for 
 him, while Roman and English eloquence can 
 be united. Mr. Melmoth is a happy example 
 of the mild influence of learning on a culti- 
 vated mind, I mean of that learning which is 
 declared to be the aliment of youth, and the 
 delight and consolation of declining years. 
 Who would not envy this * Fortunate Old 
 Man * his most finished translation and com- 
 ment on Tully*s Cato ? or rather, who w^ould 
 not rejoice in the refined and mellowed plea- 
 sures of so accomplished a gentleman and so 
 liberal a scholar ?'* 
 
 The traveller, Mr. Coxe, whose tour it 
 would seem was originally communicated to 
 our author, begins his work by addressing 
 him in these respectful terms : " I am per- 
 suaded that I shall travel with much greater 
 profit to myself, when I am thus to inform 
 you of all I have seen ; as the reflection that 
 my observations are to be communicated to 
 you, will be one means of rendering me more 
 attentive and accurate in forming them." 
 The concluding words of his last edition are 
 still more aifectionate and emphatical. We 
 
XXVI 1 
 
 forbear, however, to transcribe them, as well 
 as the honourable testimony of many others, 
 which it seems unnecessary to repeat. He 
 has long been removed from this bustling 
 scene, and is alike insensible to good or ill 
 report. AVere it otherwise, his gratification 
 must be great indeed, since few writers con- 
 tinue to receive and deserve so much com- 
 mendation. Distinguished as he is in all his 
 labours, his talents are peculiarly prominent 
 in the letters here presented to the world. To 
 the composition of this delightful and instruc- 
 tive work, he brought his genius in its hap- 
 piest mood, and exerted in its execution " the 
 whole strength of his clear, unclouded facul- 
 ties." But time and experience have given 
 judgment in the case, and all our praise, how- 
 ever merited, is at best superfluous. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 ON 
 
 SEVERAL SUBJECTS, 
 
 LETTER I. 
 To Clytander. 
 
 Sept. 1739. 
 
 I ENTIRELY approvc of your design: but 
 whilst I rejoice in the hope of seeing Enthu- 
 siasm thus successfully attacked in her strong- 
 est and most formidable holds, I would claim 
 your mercy for her in another quarter; and 
 after having expelled her from her religious 
 dominions, let me entreat you to leave her in 
 the undisturbed enjoyment of her civil posses- 
 sions. To own the truth, I look upon enthu- 
 siasm, in all other points but that of religion, 
 to be a very necessary turn of mind ; as indeed 
 it is a vein which Xature seems to have marked 
 
 li 
 
with more or less strength in the tempers of 
 most men. No matter what the object is, 
 whether business, pleasures, or the fine arts ; 
 whoever pursues them to any purpose, must 
 do so con amove; and enamoratos, you know, 
 of every kind, are all enthusiasts. There is in- 
 deed a certain heightening faculty which uni- 
 versally prevails through our species ; and we 
 are all of us, perhaps, in our several favourite 
 pursuits, pretty much in the circumstances of 
 the renowned knight of La Mancha, when he 
 attacked the barber's brazen bason for Mam- 
 brino's golden helmet. 
 
 What is Tully's aliquid immensum hijinitum- 
 .giie, which he professes to aspire after in ora- 
 tory, but a piece of true rhetorical Quixotism r 
 Yet never, I will venture to affirm, would he 
 have glovved with so much eloquence, had he 
 been warmed with less enthusiasm. I am per- 
 suaded, indeed, that nothing great or glorious 
 was ever performed, where this quality had not 
 a principal concern ; and as our passions add 
 vigour to our actions, enthusiasm gives spirit to 
 our passions. I might add too, that it even 
 opens and enlarges our capacities. Accord- 
 ingly, I have been informed, that one of the 
 great lights of the present age never sits down 
 to study, till he has raised his imagination by 
 the power of music. For this purpose he has a 
 
band of instruments placed near his library, 
 which play till he finds himself elevated to a 
 proper height; upon which he gives a signal, 
 and they instantly cease. 
 
 But those high conceits which are suggested 
 by enthusiasm, contribute not only to the plea- 
 sure and perfection of the fine arts, but to most 
 other effects of our action and industry. To 
 strike this spirit, therefore, out of the human con- 
 stitution, to reduce things to their precise phi- 
 losophical standard, would be to check some of 
 the main wheels of society, and to fix half the 
 world in an useless apathy. For if enthusiasm 
 did not add an imaginary value to most of the 
 objects of our pursuit ; if fancy did not give 
 them their brightest colours, they would gene- 
 rally, perhaps, wear an appearance too con- 
 temptible to excite desire : 
 
 Weary'd we should lie down in death. 
 This cheat of life would take no more. 
 
 If you thought fame but empty breath, 
 I Phillis but a perjur'd whore. Prior, 
 
 In a word, this enthusiasm for which I am 
 pleading is a beneficent enchantress, who never 
 exerts her magic but to our advantage, and only 
 deals about her friendly spells in order to raise 
 imaginary beauties, or to improve real ones. 
 The worst that can be said of her is, that she is 
 a kind deceiver and an oblidnty flatterer. Let 
 
 o o 
 
 B 2 
 
me conjure you then, good Clytander, not to 
 break up her useful enchantments, which thu&- 
 surround us on every side; but spare her 
 harmless deceptions in mere charity to man- 
 kind. I am, &c. 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 To Philotes. 
 
 I SHOULD not have suffered so long an interval 
 to interrupt our correspondence, if my expedi- 
 tion to Euphronius had not wholly employed me 
 for these last six weeks. I had long promised 
 to spend some time M'ith him before he em- 
 barked with his regiment for Flanders ; and as 
 he is not one of those Hudibrastic heroes who 
 choose to run away one day, that they may live 
 to fight another, I was unwilling to trust the 
 opportunity of seeing him, to the very precari- 
 ous contingency of his return. The high enjoy- 
 ments he leaves behind him, might indeed be a 
 pledge to his friends that his caution would at 
 least be equal to his courage, if his notions of 
 iionour were less exquisitely delicate. But he 
 will undoubtedly act as if he had nothing to 
 hazard ; though at the same time, from the ge- 
 nerous sensibility of his temper, he feels every 
 thing that his family can suffer in their fears for 
 his danger. I had an instance, whilst I was in 
 his house, how much Euphronia's apprehen- 
 sions for his safety are ready to take alarm 
 upon every occasion. She called me one day 
 
into the gallery, to look upon a picture which 
 was just come out of the painter's hands ; but 
 the moment she carried me up to it, she burst 
 out into a flood of tears. It was drawn at the 
 request, and after a design of her father, and 
 is a performance which does great honour to the 
 ingenious artist who executed it. Euphronius 
 is represented under the character of Hector 
 when he parts from Andromache, who is per- 
 sonated in the pfece by Euphronia; as her sis- 
 ter, who holds their little boy in her arms, is 
 shadowed out under the figure of the beautiful 
 nurse with the young Astyanax. 
 
 I was so much pleased with the design in this 
 uncommon family-piece, tiiat I thought it de- 
 served particular mention ; as I could wish it 
 were to become a general fashion to have all 
 pictures of the same kind executed in some such 
 manner. If, instead of furnishing a room with 
 separate portraits, a whole family were to be 
 thus introduced into a single piece, and repre- 
 sented under some interesting historical subject, 
 suitable to their rank and character ; portraits, 
 which are now so generally and so deservedly 
 despised, might become of real value to the 
 public. By this means history- painting would 
 be encouraged among us, and a ridiculous va- 
 nity turned to the improvement of one of the 
 most instructive, as well as the most pleasing, 
 
of the imitative arts. Those \vho never contri- 
 buted a single benefit to their own age, nor will 
 ever be mentioned in any after-one, might by 
 this means employ their pride and their expense 
 in a way, which might render them entertaining 
 and useful both to the present and future times. 
 It would require, indeed, great judgment and 
 address in the painter, to choose and recommend 
 subjects proper to the various characters which 
 would present themselves to his pencil ; and un- 
 doubtedly we should see many enormous absur- 
 dities committed, if this fashion were univer- 
 sally to be followed. It would certainly, how- 
 ever, afford a glorious scope to genius; and 
 probably supply us. in due time, with some 
 productions which might be mentioned with 
 those of the most celebrated schools. I am 
 persuaded, at least, that great talents have been 
 sometimes lost to this art, by being confined to 
 the dull, though profitable, labour of senseless 
 portraits ; as I should not doubt, if the method 
 I am speaking of were to take effect, to see 
 that very promising genius, who, in consequence 
 of your generous offices, is now forming bis 
 hand by the noblest models in Rome, prove a 
 rival to those "reat masters whose works he is 
 
 o 
 
 studying. 
 
 It cannot, I think, be denied, that the pre- 
 vailing fondness of having our persons copied 
 
out for posterity, is, in the present application 
 of it, a most absurd and useless vanity ; as, in 
 general, nothing affords a more ridiculous scene, 
 than those grotesque figures which usually line 
 the mansions of a man who is fond of display- 
 ing his canvass- ancestry: 
 
 Good Heav'n! that sots and knaves should be so vain. 
 
 To wish their vile resemblance may remain ; 
 
 And stand recorded, at their own request. 
 
 To future times a libel or a jest. Dryden. 
 
 You must by no means, however, imagine that 
 i absolutely condemn this lower application of 
 one of the noblest arts. It has certainly a very 
 just use, when employed in perpetuating the 
 resemblances of that part of our species, who 
 have distinguished themselves in their respec- 
 tive generations. To be desirous of an ac- 
 quaintance with the persons of those who have 
 recommended themselves by their writings or 
 their actions to our esteem and applause, is a 
 very natural and reasonable curiosity. For 
 myself, at least, I have often found much satis- 
 faction in contemplating a well-chosen collec- 
 tion of the portrait kind, and comparing the 
 mind of a favourite character, as it was either 
 expressed or concealed in its external linea- 
 ments. There is something likewise extremely 
 animating in these lively representations of ce- 
 lebrated merit: and it was an observation of 
 
9 
 
 one of the Scipios, that he could never view 
 the figures of his ancestors without findins his 
 bosom glow with the most ardent passion of 
 imitating their deeds. However, as the days 
 of exemplary virtue are now no more, and we 
 are not, many of us, disposed to transmit the 
 most inflaming models to future times; it would 
 be but prudence, methinks, if we are resolved 
 to make posterity acquainted with the per- 
 sons of the present age, that it should be by 
 viewing them in the actions of the past. Adieu, 
 I am, 8:c. 
 
10 
 
 LETTER HI. 
 To Palamedes. 
 
 July 4, 1739. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fine things you al- 
 lege in favour of the Romans, I do not yet 
 find myself disposed to become a convert to 
 your opinion : on the contrary, I am stiil obsti- 
 nate enough to maintain that the fame of your 
 admired nation is more dazzling than solid, 
 and owing rather to those false prejudices 
 which we are early taught to conceive of 
 them, than to their real and intrinsic merit. 
 If conquest indeed be the genuine gloly of a 
 state, and extensive dominions the most in- 
 fallible test of national virtue ; it must be ac- 
 knovvledged that no people in all history have 
 so just a demand of our admiration. But if 
 we take an impartial view of this celebrated 
 nation, perhaps much of our applause may 
 abate. When we contemplate them, for in- 
 stance, within their own walls, what do we see 
 but the dangerous convulsions of an ill-regu- 
 lated policy? as we can seldom, I believe, con- 
 sider them with respect to foreign kingdoms, 
 without the utmost abhorrence and indignation. 
 
11 
 
 But there is nothing which places these sons 
 of Romulus lower in my estimation, than their 
 unmanly conduct in the article of their tri- 
 umphs. I must confess, at the same time, that 
 they had the sanction of a god to justify them 
 in this practice. Bacchus, or (as Sir Isaac 
 Newton has proved) the Egyptian Sesostris, 
 after his return from his Indian conquests, 
 gave the first instance of this ungenerous cere- 
 mony. But though his divinity was confessed 
 in many other parts of the world, his example 
 does not seem to have been followed till we 
 find it copied out in all its insolent pomp at 
 Rome. 
 
 It is impossible to read the descriptions of 
 these arrogant exhibitions of prosperity, and not 
 to be struck with indignation at this barbarous 
 method of insulting the calamities of the un- 
 fortunate. One would be apt, at the first 
 glance, to suspect that every sentiment of hu- 
 manity must be extinguished in a people, who 
 could behold with pleasure the moving in- 
 stances, which these solemnities afforded, of 
 the caprice of fortune ; and could see the high- 
 est potentates of the earth dragged from their 
 thrones to fill up the proud parade of these un- 
 generous triumphs. But the prevailing maxim 
 which ran through the whole system of Roman 
 politics was, to encourage a spirit of conquest ; 
 
and these honours were evidently calculated to 
 awaken that unjust principle of mistaken pa- 
 triotism. Accordingly, by the fundamental laws 
 of Rome, no general was entitled to a triumph, 
 unless he had added some new acquisition to 
 her possessions. To suppress a civil insur- 
 rection, however dangerous ; to recover any 
 former member of her dominions, however im- 
 portant; gave no claim to this supreme mark 
 of ambitious distinction. For it was their no- 
 tion, it seems (and Valerius Maximus is my 
 authority for saying so), that there is as much 
 difference between adding to the territories of a 
 commonwealth, and restoring those it has lost, 
 as between the actual conferring of a benefit, 
 and the mere repelling of an injury. It was 
 but of a piece, indeed, that a ceremony con- 
 ducted in defiance of humanity, should be 
 founded in contempt of justice ; and it was 
 natural enough that they should gain by op- 
 pression, what they were to enjoy by insult. 
 
 If we consider Paulus iEmilius, after his 
 conquest of Macedonia, making his public en- 
 try into Rome, attended by the unfortunate 
 Perseus and his infant family; and at the same 
 time reflect upon our Black Prince, when he 
 passed through London with his royal captive, 
 after the glorious battle of Poictiers ; we can- 
 not fail of having the proper sentiments of a 
 
13 
 
 Roman triumph. What generous mind who 
 saw the Roman consul in all the giddy exulta- 
 tion of unfeeling pride, but would rather (as to 
 that single circumstance) have been the de- 
 graded Perseus, than the triumphant iEmilius? 
 There is somethino; indeed in distress that re- 
 fleets a sort of merit upon every object which 
 is so situated, and turns off our attention from 
 those blemishes that stain even the most vicious 
 characters. Accordingly, in the instance of 
 which I am speaking, the perfidious monarch 
 was overlooked in the suffering Perseus ; and a 
 spectacle so affecting checked the joy of con- 
 quest even in a Roman breast. For Plutarch 
 assures us, when that worthless, but unhappy, 
 prince was observed, together with his two sons 
 and a daughter, marching amidst the train of 
 prisoners, nature was too hard for custom, and 
 many of the spectators melted into a flood of 
 tears. But with what a generous tenderness 
 did the British hero conduct himself upon an 
 occasion of the same kind ? He employed all 
 the artful address of the most refined humanity, 
 to conceal from this unhappy prisoner every 
 thing that could remind him of his disgrace ; 
 and the whole pomp that was displayed upon 
 this occasion, appeared singly as intended to 
 lighten the weight of his misfortunes, and to do 
 honour to the vanquished monarch. 
 
14 
 
 You will remember, Palamedes, 1 am only 
 considering the Romans in a political view, and 
 speaking of them merely in their national cha- 
 racter. As to individuals, you know, I pay 
 the highest veneration to many that rose up 
 amongst them. It would not, indeed, be just to 
 involve particulars in general reflections of any^ 
 kind : and I cannot but acknowledge, ere I 
 close my letter, that though, in the article I 
 have been mentioning, the Romans certainly 
 acted a most unworthy part towards their pub- 
 lic enemies, yet they seem to have maintained 
 the most exalted notions of conduct with re- 
 spect to their private ones. That noble (and, 
 may I not add, that Christian) sentiment of 
 Juvenal, 
 
 •minuti 
 
 Semper et infirmi est animi exiguique voluptas, 
 Ultio 
 
 was not merely the refined precept of their more 
 improved philosophers, but a general and po- 
 pular maxim among them : and that generous 
 sentiment, so much and so deservedly admired 
 in the Roman orator, Non p(Enitet me mortales 
 inimicitias, sempiternas amicitias habere, was, 
 as appears from Livy, so universally received 
 as to become even a proverbial expression. 
 Thus Sallust iikevidse, 1 remember, speaking of 
 the virtues of the ancient Romans, mentions it 
 
15 
 
 as their principal characteristic, that upon all 
 occasions they showed a disposition rather to 
 forgive than revenge an injury. But the false 
 notions they had embraced concerning the glory 
 of their country, taught them to subdue every 
 affection of humanity, and extinguish every 
 dictate of justice, which opposed that destruc- 
 tive principle. It was this spirit, however, in 
 return, and by a very just consequence, that 
 proved at length the means of their total de- 
 struction. Farewell. I am, &c. 
 
16 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 To Philotes. 
 
 July 4, 1743. 
 
 Whilst you are probably enjoying blue skies 
 and cooling grots, I am shivering here in the midst 
 of summer. The molles sub arbore sonmi, the 
 spduncce vivigue lacus, are pleasures which we 
 in England can seldom taste but in description. 
 For in a climate, where the warmest season 
 is frequently little better than a milder sort 
 of winter, the sun is much too welcome a guest 
 to be avoided. If ever we have occasion to 
 complain of him, it must be for his absence: at 
 least I have seldom found his visits trouble- 
 some. You see I am still the same cold mortal 
 as when you left me. But whatever warmth I 
 may want in my constitution, I want none in 
 my affections ; and you have not a friend who 
 is more ardently yours than I pretend to be. 
 You have indeed such a right to my heart from 
 mere gratitude, that I almost wish I owed you 
 less upon that account, that I might give it 
 vou upon a more disinterested principle. How- 
 ever, if there is any part of it which you can- 
 not demand in justice, be assured you have it 
 
17 
 
 bv affection ; so that, on one or other of these 
 titles, you may always depend upon me as 
 wholly yours. Can it be necessary after this to 
 add, that I received vour letter with singular 
 satisfaction, as it brought me an account of your 
 welfare, and of the agreeable manner in which 
 you pass your time ? If there be any room to 
 wish you an increase of pleasure, it is perhaps, 
 that the three virgins you mention, were a few 
 de<Trees handsomer and younser. But I would 
 not desire their charms should be heightened, 
 were I not sure they will never lessen your re- 
 pose; for knowing your stoicism, as I do, I dare 
 trust your ease with any thing less than a god- 
 dess : and those females, I perceive, are so far 
 removed from the order of divinities, that they 
 seem to require a considerable advance before I 
 could even allow them to be so much as women. 
 It was mentioned to me the other day, that 
 there is some probability we may see you in 
 England by the winter. When I considered only 
 my private satisfaction, I heard this with a very 
 sensible pleasure. But as 1 have long learned 
 to submit my own interests to yours, I could no\ 
 but regret there was a likelihood of your being 
 so soon called off from one ©f the most advan- 
 tageous opportunities of improvement that can 
 attend a sensible mind. An ingenious Italian au- 
 thor of your acquaintance compares a judicious 
 
 c 
 
IS 
 
 traveller to a river, \vhich increases its stream 
 the farther it flows from its source; or to certain 
 springs, which, running through rich veins of 
 mineral, improve their qualities as they pass 
 along. It were pity then you should be check- 
 ed in so useful a progress, and diverted from a 
 course, from whence you may derive so many 
 noble advantages. You have hitherto, I ima- 
 gine, been able to do little more than lay in ma- 
 terials for your main design. But six months 
 now, would give you a truer notion of \vhat is 
 worthy of observation in the countries through 
 tihich you pass, than twice that time when you 
 were less acquainted with the languages. The 
 truth is, till a man is capable of conversing with 
 ease among the natives of any country, he can 
 never be able to form a just and adequate idea 
 of their policy and manners. He who sits at a 
 play without understanding the dialect, may in- 
 deed discover which of the actors are best dress- 
 ed, and how well the scenes are painted or dis- 
 posed ; but the characters and conduct of the 
 drama must for ever remain a secret to him. 
 Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
1.9 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 To Clytander. 
 
 If I had been a party in the conversaticHi you 
 mention, I should have joined, I believe, with 
 your friend in supporting those sentiments you 
 seem to condemn. 1 will venture indeed to ac- 
 knowledge, that I have long been of opinion, the 
 moderns pay too blind a deference to the an- 
 cients; and though I have the highest venera- 
 tion for several of their remains, yet I am in- 
 clined to think they have occasioned us the loss 
 of some excellent originals. They are the pro- 
 per and best guides, I allow, to those who have 
 not the force to break out into new paths. But 
 whilst it is thought sufficient praise to be their 
 followers, genius is checked in her flights, and 
 many a fair tract lies undiscovered in the bound- 
 less regions of imagination. Thus, had Virgil 
 trusted more to his native strength, the Romans, 
 perhaps, might have seen an original epic in their 
 language. But Homer was considered by that 
 admired poet as the sacred object of his first 
 and principal attention ; and he seemed to think 
 it the noblest triumph of genius, to be adorned 
 with the spoils of that glorious chief. 
 
 q £ 
 
 v/ 
 
20 
 
 You will tell me, perhaps, that even Homer 
 himself was indebted to the ancients ; that the 
 full streams he dispensed, did not flow from his 
 own source, but were derived to him from an 
 higher. This, I acknowledge, has been asserted; 
 but asserted without proof, and, I may venture 
 to add, without probability. He seems to have 
 stood alone and unsupported; and to have stood, 
 for that very reason, so much the nobler object 
 of admiration. Scarce, indeed, I imagine, would 
 his works have received that hidi regard which 
 was paid to them from their earliest appearance, 
 had they been formed upon prior models, had 
 they shone only with reflected light. 
 
 But will not this servile humour of subjecting 
 the powers of invention to the guidance of the 
 ancients, account, in some degree at least, for 
 our meeting with so small a number of authors 
 who can claim the merit of being originals ? Is 
 not this a kind of submission, that damps the 
 fire and weakens the vigour of the mind ? For 
 the ancients seem to be considered by us as so 
 many guards to prevent the free excursions of 
 imagination, and set bounds to her flight. Whereas 
 they ought rather to be looked upon (the few, I 
 mean, who are themselves originals) as encou- 
 ragements to a full and uncontrolled exertion 
 of her faculties. But if here or there a poet has 
 courage enough to trust to his own unassisted 
 
21 
 
 reach of thought, his example does not seem so 
 much to incite others to make the same adven- 
 turous attempts, as to confirm them in the hum- 
 ble disposition of imitation. For if he succeeds, 
 he immediately becomes himself the occasion of 
 a thousand models : if he does not, he is pointed 
 out as a discouraging instance of the folly of re- 
 nouncing those established leaders which anti- 
 quity has authorized. Thus invention is de- 
 pressed, and genius enslaved : the creative power 
 of poetry is lost ; and the ingenious, instead of 
 exerting that productive faculty which alone can 
 render them the just objects of admiration, are 
 humbly contented with borrowing both the ma- 
 terials and the plans of their mimic structures. 
 I am, Sec. 
 
2a 
 
 * 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 To Orontes. 
 
 March 10, 1729. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, wherein mankind 
 are more frequently mistal^en, than in the judg- 
 ments which they pass on each other. The 
 stronger lines, indeed, in every man's character, 
 must always be marked too clearly and distinct- 
 ly to deceive even the most careless observer ; 
 and no one, I am persuaded, was ever esteemed 
 in the general opinion of the world as highly de- 
 ficient in his moral or intellectual qualities, who 
 did not justly merit his reputation. But I speak 
 only of those more nice and delicate traits which 
 distinguish the several degrees of probity and 
 good sense, and ascertain the quantum (if I may 
 so express it) of human merit. The powers of 
 the soul are so often concealed by modesty, dif- 
 fidence, timidity, and a thousand other acciden- 
 tal affections ; and the nice complexion of her 
 moral operations depends so entirely on those 
 internal principles from whence they proceed ; 
 that those who form their notions of others by 
 casual and distant views, must unavoidably be 
 
23 
 
 ied into very erroneous judgments. Even Oron- 
 teSj with all his candour and penetration, is not, 
 I perceive, entirely secure from ajistakes of this 
 sort; and the sentiments you expressed in your 
 last letter concerning Varus, are by no means 
 agreeable to the truth of his character. 
 
 It must be acknowledged at the sjame time, 
 that Varus is an exception to all general rules : 
 neither his head nor his heart are exactly to be 
 discovered by those indexes, which are usually 
 supposed to point directly to the genius and 
 temper of other men. Thus with a memory that 
 will scarce serve him for the common purposes 
 of life, with an iraadnation even more slow than 
 his memory, and with an attention that could 
 not carry liim through the easiest proposition in 
 Euclid ; he has a sound and excellent under- 
 standing, joined to a refined and exquisite t^ste. 
 But the rectitude of his sentiments seems to arise 
 less from reflection than sensation ; rather from 
 certain suitable feelings which the objects that 
 present themselves to his consideration instantly 
 occasion in liis mind, than ti'om the energy of 
 finy active faculties which lie is capable of ex- 
 erting for that purpose. His conversation is un- 
 ^nteitaining : for though he talks a great deal, 
 all that he utters is delivered with labour an.d 
 
24 
 
 hesitation. Not that his ideas are really dark 
 and confused ; but because he is never content- 
 ed to convey them in the first words that occur. 
 Like the orator mentioned by Tully, metiiens ne 
 *vitiosum coUigeret, etiam verum sangidnem de- 
 per^debat, he expresses himself ill by always en- 
 deavouring to express himself better. His read- 
 ing cannot so properly be said to have rendered 
 him knowing, as not ignorant : it has rather en- 
 larged, than filled his mind. 
 
 His temper is as singular as his genius, and 
 both equally mistaken by those who only know 
 him a little. If you were to judge of him by his 
 general appearance, you would believe him in- 
 capable of all the more delicate sensations ; 
 nevertheless, under a rough and boisterous be- 
 haviour, he conceals a heart full of tenderness 
 and humanity. He has a sensibility of nature, 
 indeed, beyond what I ever observed in any 
 other man ; and I have often seen him affected 
 bv those little circumstances, which would make 
 no impression on a mind of less exquisite feel- 
 ings. This extreme sensibility in his temper in- 
 fluences his speculations as well as his actions ; 
 and he hovers between various hypotheses M'ith- 
 out settling upon any, by giving importance to 
 these minuter difficulties which would not be 
 
25 
 
 strong enough to suspend a more active and vi- 
 gorous mind. In a word, Varus is in the num- 
 ber of those whom it is impossible not to ad- 
 mire or not to despise; and at the same time 
 that he is the esteem ot" all his friends, he is 
 the contempt of all liis acquaintance. Adieu. 
 I am, &c. 
 
26 
 LETTER VIL 
 
 To HORTENSIUS. 
 
 Your excellent brawn wanted no additional re- 
 commendation to make it more acceptable, but 
 that of your company. However, though I can- 
 not share it with my friend, I devote it to his 
 memory, and make daily offerings of it to a cer- 
 tain divinity, whose temples, though now well- 
 nigh deserted, were once held in the highest ve- 
 neration : she is mentioned by ancient authors 
 under the name and title of Diva Amicitia. 
 To her I bring the victim you have furnished 
 me with, in all the pomp of Roman rites. 
 Wreathed with the sacred vitta, and crowned 
 •with a branch of rosemary, I place it on an altar 
 of well-polished mahogany, where I pour liba- 
 tions over it of acid wine, and sprinkle it with 
 flour of mustard. I deal out certain portions to 
 those vvho assist at this social ceremony, remind- 
 ing them, with an Hoc age, of the important bu- 
 siness upon which they are assembled; and con- 
 clude the festival with this votive couplet : 
 
 Close as this brawn the cirling fillet binds. 
 May friendship's sacred bands unite our minds! 
 
 Farewell. I am. &c. 
 
27 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 To Clytander. 
 
 July 2, 1736. 
 
 You must have been greatly distressed indeed, 
 Clytander, when you thought of calling oie in 
 as your auxiliary, in the debate you mention. Or 
 was it not rather a motive of generosity which 
 suggested that design? and you were willing, 
 perhaps, I should share the glory of a victory 
 which you had already secured. Whatever T/owr 
 intention was, 7mne is always to comply with 
 your requests ; and I very readily enter the lists, 
 when I am at once to combat in the cause of 
 truth and on the side of my friend. 
 
 It is not necessary, I think, in order to esta- 
 blish the credibility of a particular Providence, 
 to deduce it (as your objector, I find, seems to 
 require) from known and undisputed facts. I 
 should be exceedingly cautious in pointing out 
 any supposed instances of that kind ; as those 
 who are fond of indulging themselves in deter- 
 mining the precise cases wherein they imagine 
 the immediate interposition of the Divinity is 
 discoverable, often run into the weakest and 
 most injurious superstitions. It is impossible 
 
2$ 
 
 indeed, unless we "svere capable of looking 
 through the whole chain of things, and of view- 
 ing each effect in its remote connexions and 
 final issues, to pronounce of any contingency, 
 that it is absolutely and in its ultimate tenden- 
 cies either good or bad. That can only be known 
 by the great Author of nature, who comprehends 
 the full extent of our total existence, and sees 
 the influence which every particular circum- 
 stance will have in the general sum of our hap- 
 piness. But though the peculiar points of divine 
 interposition are thus necessarily, and from the 
 natural imperfection of our discerning faculties, 
 extremely dubious; yet it can by no means from 
 thence be justly inferred, that the doctrine of a 
 particular Providence is either groundless or 
 absurd : the general principle may be true, 
 though the application of it to any given pur- 
 pose be involved in very inextricable difficul- 
 ties. 
 
 The notion, that the material world is govern- 
 ed by general mechanical laws, has induced 
 your friend to argue, that " it is probable the 
 Deity should act by the same rule of conduct in 
 the intellectual; and leave moral agents entirely 
 to those consequences which necessarily result 
 from the particular exercise of their original 
 powers." But this hypothesis takes a question 
 for granted, which requires much proof before 
 
29 
 
 it can be admitted. The grand principle which 
 preserves this system of the universe in all its 
 harmonious order, is gravity, or that property 
 by which all the particles of matter mutually tend 
 to each other. Now this is a power which, it is 
 acknowledged, does not essentially reside in 
 matter, but must be ultimately derived from the 
 action of some immaterial cause. ^Vhy there- 
 fore may it not reasonably be supposed to be 
 the effect of the divine agency, immediately and 
 constantly operating for the preservation of this 
 wonderful machine of nature ? Certain, at least, 
 it is, that the explication which sir Isaac New- 
 ton has endeavoured to give of this wonderful 
 phaenomenon, by means of his subtil ether, has 
 not afforded universal satisfaction : and it is the 
 opinion of a very great writer, who seems to 
 have gone far into inquiries of this abstruse 
 kind, that the numberless effects of this power 
 are inexplicable upon mechanical piinciples, or 
 in any other way than by having recourse to a 
 spiritual agent, who connects, moves, and dis- 
 poses all things according to such methods as 
 best comport with his incomprehensible pur- 
 poses. 
 
 But successful villany and oppressed virtue 
 are deemed, I perceive, in the account of your 
 friend, as powerful instances to prove, that the 
 Supreme Being remains an uninterposing spec- 
 
30 
 
 tator of what is transacted upon this theatre of 
 the world. However, ere this argument can 
 have a determining weight, it must be proved 
 (which yet, surely, never can be proved) that 
 prosperous iniquity has all those advantages in 
 reality, which it may seem to have in appear- 
 ance; and that those accidents which are usually 
 esteemed as calamities, do in truth, and in the 
 just scale of things, deserve to be distinguished 
 by that appellation. It is a noble saying of the 
 philosopher cited by Seneca, that " there cannot 
 be a more unhappy man in the world, than he 
 who has never experienced adversity. '^ There 
 is nothing, perhaps, in which mankind are more 
 apt to make false calculations, than in the article 
 both of their own happiness and that of others; 
 as there are few, I believe, who have lived any 
 time in the world, but have found frequent occa- 
 sions to say, with the poor hunted stag in the 
 fable, who w^as entangled by those horns be had 
 but just before been admiring; 
 
 O tne infelicem ! qui nunc demum intelligo, 
 
 Ut ilia mihi profuerint quae despexeram, 
 
 Et quae laudaram quantum luctiis liabuerint ! 
 
 PaiED. 
 
 If we look back upon the sentiments of past 
 ages, we shall find the opinion for which I am 
 contending has prevailed from the remotest ac- 
 
51 
 
 count of tirtie. It must undoubtedly have en- 
 tered the world as early as religion herself; since 
 all institutions of that kind must necessarily be 
 founded upon the supposition of a particular 
 Providence. It appears indeed to have been 
 the favourite doctrine of some of the most dis- 
 tinguished names in antiquity. Xenophon tells 
 us, when Cyrus led out his army against the 
 Assyrians, the word which he gave to his sol- 
 diers was, ZETS 5:tmmaxo2 kai hfemxin, "Ju- 
 piter the defender and conductor :" and he re- 
 presents that prince as attributing success, even 
 in the sports of the field, to Divine Providence. 
 Thus, likewise, Timoleon (as the author of his 
 Life assures us) believed every action of mankind 
 to be under the immediate influence of the gods: 
 and Livy reriiatk's of the first Scipio Africanus, 
 that he never undertook any important affair, 
 either of private or public concern, without 
 going to the Capitol in order to implore the as- 
 sistance of Jupiter. Balbus the Stoic, in the 
 dialogue on the nature of the gods, expressly 
 declares for a particular providence : and Cicero 
 himself, in one of his orations, imputes that su- 
 perior glory which attended the Roman nation, 
 singly to this animating persuasion. But none 
 of the ancients seem to have had a stronger im- 
 pression of this truth upon their minds, than the 
 immortal Homer. Every .page in the works of 
 
32 
 
 that divine poet will furnish proofs of this obser- 
 vation. I cannot, however, forbear mentioning 
 one or two remarkable instances, which just 
 now occur to me. When the Grecian chiefs 
 cast lots which of them should accept the chal- 
 lenge of Hector, the poet describes the army as 
 lifting up their eyes and hands to heaven, and 
 imploring the gods that they would direct the 
 lot to fall on one of their most distinguished 
 heroes : 
 
 Zsv Tiars^, tj A/avra Xap^£(v, ij Tuhog viovy 
 H avrov Bao-jAijo. TfoXu^^va-oio Muktjvij;.* 
 
 So likewise Antenor proposes to the Trojans 
 •the restitution of Helen, as having no hopes, he 
 tells them, that any thing would succeed with 
 them after they had broken the faith of treaties : 
 
 vvv ofJtja TTicrTa 
 
 And indeed Homer hardly ever makes his heroes 
 
 * The people pray with lifted eyes and hands. 
 And vows like those ascend from all the bands : 
 Grant, thou Almighty, in whose hand is fate, 
 A worthy champion for the Grecian state : 
 This task let Ajax or Tydides prove. 
 Or he, the king of kings, belov'd of Jove. Pope. 
 
 t The ties of faith, the sworn alliance broke. 
 Our impious battles the just gods provoke. Pope. 
 
33 
 
 succeed (as his excellent translator justly ob- 
 serves) unless they have first offered a prayer 
 to heaven. " He is perpetually," says Mr. 
 Pope, " acknowledging the hand of God in all 
 events, and ascribing to that alone all the victo- 
 ries, triumphs, rewards, or punishments of men. 
 The grand moral laid down at the entrance of 
 his poem, Aio; o' srsxusro .Sa;.-*;, T/w xvill of God 
 was fulfilled, runs through his whole work, and 
 is, with a most remarkable care and conduct, 
 put into the mouths of his greatest and wisest 
 persons on every occasion." 
 
 Upon the whole, Clytander, we may safely 
 assert, that the belief of a particular providence 
 is founded upon such probable reasons as may 
 well justify our assent. It would scarce there- 
 fore be wise to renounce an opinion, which af- 
 fords so firm a support to the soul in those sea- 
 sons wherein she stands' most in need of assist- 
 ance, merely because it is not possible, in ques- 
 tions of this kind, to solve every difficulty which 
 attends them. If it be highly consonant to the 
 general notions of the benevolence of the Deity 
 (as highly consonant it surely is), that he should 
 not leave so impotent a creature as man, to the 
 single guidance of his own precarious faculties ; 
 who would abandon a belief so full of the most 
 enlivening consolation, in compliance with those 
 metaphysical reasonings which are usually cal- 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 culated rather to silence, than to satisfy, an 
 humble enquirer after truth ? Who indeed would 
 wish to be convinced, that he stands unguarded 
 by that heavenly shield, which can protect him 
 against all the assaults of an injurious and ma- 
 levolent world? The truth is, the belief of a par- 
 ticular providence is the most animating per- 
 suasion that the mind of man can embrace; it 
 gives strength to our hopes, and firmness to our 
 resolutions ; it subdues the insolence of prospe- 
 rity, and draws out the sting of affliction. In 
 a word, it is like the golden branch to which 
 Virgil's hero was directed, and affords the only 
 secure passport through the regions of darkness 
 and sorrow. I am, &c. 
 
35 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 To Tijmoclea. 
 
 July 29, 174S. 
 It is with wonderful satisfaction I find 3-011 are 
 grown such an adept in the occult arts, and that 
 you take a laudable pleasure in the ancient and 
 ingenious study of making and solving riddles. 
 It is a sciencej undoubtedly, of most necessary 
 acquirement, and deserves to make a part in the 
 education of both sexes. Those of yours may 
 by this means very innocently indulge their usual 
 curiosity of discovering and disclosing a secret ; 
 •whilst such amongst ours who have a turn for 
 deep speculations, and are fond of puzzling them- 
 selves and others, may exercise their faculties 
 this way with much private satisfaction, and 
 without the least disturbance to the public. It 
 is an art indeed, which I would recommend to 
 the encouragement of both the universities, as it 
 affords the easiest and shortest method of con- 
 veying some of the most useful principles of 
 logic, and might therefore be introduced as a 
 very proper substitute in the room of those dry 
 systems, which are at present in vogue in those 
 
56 
 
 places of education. For, as it consists in dis- 
 covering truth under borrowed appearances, it 
 might prove of wonderful advantage in every 
 branch of learning, by habituating the mind to 
 separate all foreign ideas, and consequently pre- 
 serving it from that grand source of error, the 
 being deceived by false connexions. In short, 
 Timoclea, this your favourite science contains 
 the sum of all human policy ; and as there is no 
 passing through the world without sometimes 
 mixing with fools and knaves; who would not 
 choose to be master of the enigmatical art, in 
 order, on proper occasions, to be able to lead 
 aside craft and impertinence from their aim, by 
 the convenient artifice of a prudent disguise? It 
 was the maxim of a very wise prince, that " he 
 who knows not how to dissemble, knows not 
 how to reign :" and I desire you would receive 
 it as mine, that " he who knows not how to 
 riddle, knows not how to live." 
 
 But besides the general usefulness of this art, 
 It will have a further recommendation to all 
 true admirers of antiquity, as being practised by 
 the most considerable personages of early times. 
 It is almost three thousand years ago since 
 Samson proposed his famous riddle so well 
 known ; though the advocates for ancient learn- 
 ii)!>- must forcvive me, if in this article I attribute 
 
27 
 
 the superiority to the moderns : for if we may 
 judge of the skill of the former in this profound 
 art, by that remarkable specimen of it, llie ge- 
 niuses of those early ages were by no means 
 equal to those which our times have produced. 
 But, as a friend of mine has lately finished, and 
 intends very shortly to publish, a most curious 
 work in folio, wherein he has fully proved that 
 important point, I will not anticipate the plea- 
 sure you will receive by perusing his ingenious 
 performance. In the mean while let it be re- 
 membered, to the immortal glory of this art, that 
 the wisest man, as well as the greatest prince 
 that ever lived, is said to have amused himself 
 and a neighbouring monarch in trying the 
 strength of each other's talents in this way; se- 
 veral riddles, it seems, having passed between 
 Solomon and Hiram, upon condition that he 
 who failed in the solution should incur a certain 
 penalty. It is recorded likewise of the great 
 father of poetry, even the divine Homer himself, 
 that he had a taste of this sort; and we are told 
 by a Greek writer of his life, that he died with 
 vexation, for not being able to discover a riddle, 
 which was proposed to him by some fishermen 
 at a certain island called lo. 
 
 I am inclined to think, indeed, tliat the an- 
 cients in general were such admirers of this art, 
 as to inscribe riddles upon their tombstones, and 
 
38 
 
 that not satisfied with puzzling the world in their 
 life- time, they bequeathed enigmatical legacies 
 to the public after their decease. My conjecture 
 is founded upon an ancient inscription, which I 
 will venture to quote to you, though it is in 
 Latin, as your friend and neighbour the antiqua- 
 rian will, I am persuaded, be very glad of obli- 
 ging you with a dissertation upon it. Be pleased 
 then to ask him, whether he does not think that 
 the following inscription favours my sentiments : 
 
 VIATORES. OPTIMI. 
 
 HIS. NVGIS. GllYPHIS. AMBAGIBVSQVE. 
 
 MEIS. CONDONARE. POSCIMUS. 
 
 However this may be, it is certain that it was 
 one of the great entertainments of the pastoral 
 life, and therefore, if for no other reason, highly 
 deserving the attention of our modern Arcadians. 
 You remember, I dare say, the riddle which the 
 shepherd Dametas proposes to JVIaenalcas in 
 Dryden's Virgil : 
 
 Say where the round of heav'n, which all contains. 
 To tliree short ells on earth our sight restrains : 
 Tell that, and rise a Phoebus for thy pains. 
 
 This aenigma, which has exercised the guesses 
 of many a learned critic, remains yet unexplain- 
 ed ; which I mention, not only as an instance of 
 the wonderful penetration which is necessary to 
 render a man a complete adept in this most 
 
39 
 
 noble science, but as an incitement to you to 
 employ your skill in attempting the solution. — 
 And now, Timoclea, what will your grave friend 
 say, who reproached you, it seems, for your 
 riddUng genius, when he shall find you are thus 
 able to defend your favourite study by the lofty 
 examples of kings, commentators, and poets ? 
 I am, &c. 
 
40 
 
 LETTER X. : 1 
 
 To Phidippus. 
 
 Hardly, I imagine, were you in earnest, when 
 you required my thoughts upon friendship: for 
 to give you the truest idea of that generous in- 
 tercourse, may I not justly refer you back to the 
 sentiments of your own heart? I am sure, at 
 least, I have learned to improve my own no- 
 tions of that refined affection, by those instances 
 which I have observed in yourself; as it is frorh 
 thence 1 have received the clearest conviction, 
 that it derives all its strength and stability from 
 virtue and good sense. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, a quality more uncom- 
 mon in the world, than that which is necessary 
 to form a man for this refined commerce : for 
 however sociableness may be esteemed a just 
 characteristic of our species; Jriendlmess, I am 
 persuaded, will scarce be found to enter into its 
 general definition. The qualifications requisite 
 to support and conduct friendship in all its 
 strength and extent, do not seem to be suffi- 
 ciently diffused among the human race, to ren- 
 der them the distinguishing marks of mankind ; 
 
41 
 
 unless generosity and good sense should be al- 
 lowed (what they never can be allowed) univer- 
 sally to prevail. On the contrary, how few are 
 in possession of those most amiable of endow- 
 ments? bow few are capable of that noble ele- 
 vation of mind, which raises a man above those 
 little jealousies and rivalships that shoot up in 
 the paths of common amities? 
 
 We should not, indeed, so often hear com- 
 plaints of the inconstancy and falseness of friends, 
 if the world in general were more cautious than 
 they usually are, in forming connexions of this 
 kind. But the misfortune is, our friendships are 
 apt to be too fonvard, and thus either fall off 
 in the blossom, or never arrive at just maturity. 
 It is an excellent piece of advice, therefore, that 
 the poet Martial gives upon this occasion : 
 
 Tu tantum inspice, qui nomis paratur. 
 An po8sit fieri vetus sodalis. 
 
 Were I to make trial of any person's qualifi- 
 cations for an union of so much delicacy, there 
 is no part of his conduct I would sooner single 
 out, than to observe him in his resentments. 
 And this, not upon the maxim frequently ad- 
 vanced, " that the best friends make the bitter- 
 est enemies," but on the contrary; because I 
 am persuaded, that he who is capable of being 
 
a bitter enemy, can never possess the necessary 
 virtues that constitute a true friend. For must 
 he not want generosity (that most essential prin- 
 ciple of an amicable combination) who can be 
 so mean as to indulge a spirit of settled revenge, 
 and coolly triumph in the oppression of an ad- 
 versary? Accordingly there is no circumstance 
 in the character of the excellent Agricola, that 
 gives me a higher notion of the true heroism of 
 his mind, than what the historian of his life 
 mentions concerning his conduct in this particu- 
 lar instance. E.v iracundia (says Tacitus) nihil 
 supererat ; secretum et silentium ejus non timeres* 
 His elevated spirit was too great to suffer his re- 
 sentment to survive the occasion of it; and those 
 who provoked his indignation had npthing to ap- 
 prehend from the secret and silent workings of 
 unextinguished malice. But the practice, it 
 must be owned, (perhaps I might have said the 
 principle too,) of the world runs strongly on the 
 side of the contrary disposition ; and thus, in op- 
 position to that generous sentiment of your ad- 
 mired orator, which I have so often heard you 
 quote with applause, our friendships are mortal, 
 whilst it is our enmities only that never die. 
 
 But though judgment must collect the mate- 
 rials of this goodly structure, it is affection that 
 gives the cement; and passion as well as reason 
 
Is 
 
 should concur in forming a firm and lasting coa- 
 lition. Hence, perhaps, it is, that not only the 
 most powerful but the most lasting friendships 
 are usually the produce of the early season of 
 our lives, w hen we are most susceptible of the 
 warm and affectionate impressions. The con- 
 nexions into « hich we enter in any after period, 
 decrease in strength, as our passions abate in 
 heat; and there is not, I believe, a single in- 
 stance of a vigorous friendship that ever struck 
 root in a bosom chilled by years. How irre- 
 trievable then is the loss of those best and fairest 
 acquisitions of our youth ? Seneca, taking notice 
 of Augustus Caesar's lamenting, upon a certain 
 occasion, the death of Maecenas and Agrippa, 
 observes, that he, who could instantly repair the 
 destruction of whole fleets and armies, and bid 
 Rome, after a general conflagration, rise out of 
 her ashes even with more lustre than before; 
 was yet unable, during a whole life, to fill up 
 those lasting vacancies in his friendship: a re- 
 flection which reminds me of renewing my so- 
 licitations, tliat you would be more cautious in 
 hazarding a life which I have so many reasons 
 to love and honour. For whenever an accident 
 of the same kind shall separate (and what other 
 accident can separate) the happy union which 
 has so long subsisted between us; where shall 
 
44 
 
 I retrieve so severe a loss? I am utterly indis- 
 posed to enter into new habitudes, and extend 
 the little circle of my friendships : happy if I 
 may but preserve it firm and unbroken to the 
 closing moment of my life ! Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
45 
 LETTER XL 
 
 To HORTENSIUS. 
 
 August 12, 1742. 
 If any thing could tempt me to read the Latia 
 poem you mention, it would be your recom- 
 mendation. But shall I venture to own, that I 
 have no taste for modern compositions of that 
 kind? There is one prejudice which always re- 
 mains with me against them, and which I have 
 never yet found cause to renounce : no true ge- 
 nius, I am persuaded, would submit to write 
 any considerable poem in a dead language. A 
 poet who glows with the genuine fire of a warm 
 and lively imagination, will find the copiousness 
 of his own native English scarce sufficient to 
 convey his ideas in all their strength and energy. 
 The most comprehensive language sinks under 
 the weight of great conceptions ; and a pregnant 
 imagination disdains to stint the natural growth 
 of her thoughts to the confined standard of 
 classical expression. An ordinary genius, in- 
 deed, may be humbly contented to pursue words 
 through indexes and dictionaries, and tamely 
 borrow phrases from Horace and Virgil ; but 
 could the elevated invention of Milton, or the 
 
46* 
 
 brilliant sense of Pope, have ingloriously sub- 
 mitted to lower the force and majesty of the 
 most exalted and nervous sentiments, to the 
 scanty measure of the Roman dialect? For co- 
 piousness is by no means in the number of those 
 advantages which attend the Latin language ; as 
 many of the ancients have both confessed and 
 lamented. Thus Lucretius and Seneca com- 
 plain of its deficiency with respect to subjects 
 of philosophy ; as Pliny the younger owns he 
 found it incapable of furnishing him with proper 
 terms, in compositions of wit and humour. But 
 if the Romans themselves found their language 
 thus penurious, in its entire and most ample 
 supplies; how much more contracted must it be 
 to us, who are only in possession of its broken 
 and scattered remains ? 
 
 To sav truth, I have observed in most of the 
 modern Latin poems which I have accidentally 
 run over, a remarkable barrenness of sentiment, 
 and have generally found the poet degraded into 
 the parodist. It is usually the little dealers on 
 Parnassus, who have not a sufficient stock of 
 genius to launch out into a more enlarged com- 
 merce with the Muses, that hawk about these 
 classical gleanings. The style of these per- 
 formances always puts me in mind of Harle- 
 quin's snufF, which he collected by borrowing a 
 pinch out of every man's box he could meet? 
 
47 
 
 and then retailed it to iiis customers under the 
 pompous title of tahac de milk Jieurs. Half a 
 line from Virgil or Lucretius, pieced out with a 
 bit from Horace or Juvenal, is generally the 
 motley mixture which enters into compositions 
 of this sort. One may apply to these jackdaw 
 poets with their stolen feathers, what Martial 
 says to a contemporary plagiarist : 
 
 Stat contra, dicitque tibi tua pagina : Fur es. 
 
 This kind of theft, indeed, every man must 
 necessarily commit, who sets up for a poet in a 
 dead language. For to express himself with 
 propriety, he must not only be sure that every 
 single word which he uses is authorized by the 
 best writers ; but he must not even venture to 
 throw them out of that particular combination 
 in which he finds them connected : otherwise 
 he may run into the most barbarous solecisms. 
 To explain my meaning by an instance from 
 modern language : the French words aj^ene and 
 rive, are both to be met with in their approved 
 authors ; and yet if a foreigner, unacquainted 
 with the niceties of that lana;ua2;e, should take 
 the liberty of bringing those two words together, 
 as in the following verse, 
 
 Sur la rive du fleuve amassant de I'arene ; 
 
 he would be exposed to the ridicule, noc only of 
 the critics, but of the most ordinary mechanic 
 
48 
 
 in Paris. For the idiom of the French tongue 
 will not admit oi the expression su?^ la rive du 
 Jleuve, but requires the phrase sur le hard de la 
 riviere ; as they never say amasser de I'arene, but 
 du sable. The same observation may be ex- 
 tended to all languages, whether living or dead. 
 But as no reasonings from analogy can be of 
 the least force in determining the idiomatic pro- 
 prieties of any language whatsover ; a modern 
 Latin poet has no other method of being sure 
 of avoiding absurdities of this kind, than to take 
 vi'hole phrases as he finds them formed to his 
 hands. Thus, instead of accommodating his 
 expression to his sentiment, (if any he should 
 have,) he must necessarily bend his sentiment to 
 his expression, as he is not at liberty to strike 
 out into that boldness of style, and those unex- 
 pected combinations of words, which give such 
 grace and energy to the thoughts of every true 
 genius. True genius, indeed, is as much dis- 
 covered by style, as by any other distinction ; 
 and every eminent writer, without indulging any 
 unwarranted licences, has a language which he 
 derives from himself, and which is peculiarly 
 and literally his own. 
 
 I would recommend therefore to these empty 
 echoes of the ancients, which owe their voice to 
 the ruins of Rome, the advice of an old philo- 
 sopher to an affected orator of his times : Vivt 
 
4.9 
 
 moribus pr^teritis^ said he, loquere ^verbis prce- 
 sentibus. Let tliese poets form their conduct, 
 if they please, by the manners of the ancients ; 
 but if they would prove their genius, it must be 
 by the language of the moderns. I would not 
 however have vou imagine, that I exclude all 
 merit from a qualification of this kind. To be 
 skilled in the mechanism of Latin verse, is a 
 talent, I confess, extremely worthy of a peda- 
 gogue; as it is an exercise of singular advan- 
 tage to his pupils. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
so 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 To Amasia. 
 
 Ally '6, 1744. 
 If good manners will not justify my long silence, 
 policy at least will : and you must confess, there 
 is some prudence in not owning a debt one is 
 incapable of paying. I have the mortification 
 indeed to find myself engaged in a commerce, 
 which I have not a sufficient fund to support, 
 though I must add, at the same time, if you ex- 
 pect an equal return of entertainment for that 
 which your letters afford, I know not where you 
 will find a correspondent. You will scarcely at 
 least look for him in the desert, or hope for any 
 thing very lively from a man who is obliged to 
 seek his companions among the dead. You 
 who dwell in a land flowing with mirth and 
 good-humour, meet with many a gallant occur- 
 rence worthy of record : but what can a village 
 produce, which is more famous for repose than 
 for action, and is so much behind the manners 
 of the present age, as scarce to have got out of 
 the simplicity of the first? The utmost of our 
 humour rises no higher than punch ; and all 
 that we know of assemblies, is once a year round 
 
51 
 
 our May-pole. Thus unqualified, as I am, to 
 contribute to your amusement, I am as much at 
 a loss to supply my own ; and am obliged to 
 have recourse to a thousand stratagems to help 
 me off with those lingering hours, which run so 
 swiftly, it seems, by you. As one cannot always, 
 you know, be playing at push-pin, I sometimes 
 employ myself with a less philosophical diver- 
 sion ; and either pursue butterflies, or hunt 
 rhymes, as the weather and the seasons permit. 
 This morning not proving very favourable to 
 my sports of the field, I contented myself u ith 
 those under covert ; and as I am not at present 
 supplied with any thing better for your enter- 
 tainment, will 3'ou suffer me to set before you 
 some of my game ? 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd, 
 And heatlien gods were all the taste. 
 Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will 
 To take the air on Ida's hill. 
 It chanc'd, as once with serious ken 
 He view'd from thence the ways of men. 
 He saw (and pity touch'd his breast) 
 The world by three foul fiends possest. 
 Pale Discard there, and Follij vain. 
 With haggard Flee, upheld tlicir reign. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 Then forth he sent his summons high. 
 And caird a senate of the sky. 
 Round as the winged orders prest, 
 Jove thus his sacred mind exprest : 
 " Say, which of all this shining train 
 Will Virtues conflict hard sustain ? 
 For see ! she drooping takes her flight, 
 While not a god supports her right." 
 He paus'd — when from amidst the sky, 
 JVU^ Innocence, and Harmony, 
 With one united zeal arose, 
 The triple tyrants to oppose. 
 That instant from the realtns of day, 
 With genVous speed they took their way ; 
 To Britain's isle direct their car, 
 And enter'd with tlie ev'ning star. 
 
 Beside the road a mansion stood, _ 
 
 Defended by a circling wood. 
 Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend, 
 In hopes, perchance, to find a friend. 
 Nor vain their hope ; for records say 
 Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away. 
 They urge the travTier's common chance, 
 And ev'ry piteous plea advance. 
 The artful tale that JVit had feign'd, 
 Admittance easy soon obtain'd. 
 
 The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place; 
 Three blooming daughters added grace. 
 
53 
 
 ■ The first, with gentlest manners blest, 
 And temper sweet, each heart possest; 
 Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame . 
 And soft Amasia was her name. 
 In sprighth^ sense and polish'd air, 
 What maid with Mira might compare? 
 \yhile Lucia's eyes, and Lucia's lyre. 
 Did unresisted love inspire. 
 
 Imaijine now the table clear. 
 And mirth in ev'ry face appear : 
 The song, the tale, the jest went round. 
 The riddle dark, the trick profound. 
 Thus each admiring and admir'd, 
 The hosts and sjuests at length retir'd : 
 When Jflt thus spake her sister-train : 
 " Faith, friends, our errand is but vain — 
 Quick let us measure back the sky ; 
 These nymphs alone may well supply 
 7 Fit. Innocence, and Harmony T 
 
 You see to what expedient solitude has re- 
 duced me, when I am thus forced to string 
 rhymes, as boys do birds' eggs, in order to while 
 away my idle hours. But a gayer scene is, I 
 trust, approaching, and the day will siiortly, I 
 hope, arrive, when I shall only complain that it 
 steals away too fast. It is not from any improve- 
 ment in the objects which surround me, tliat I 
 
54 
 
 expect this wondrous change; nor yet that a 
 longer familiarity will render them more agreea- 
 ble. It is from a promise I received, that Amasia 
 will visit the hermit in his cell, and disperse the 
 gloom of a solitaire by the cheerfulness of her 
 conversation. What inducements shall I men- 
 tion to prevail with you to hasten that day? Shall 
 I tell you, that I have a bower over-arched with 
 jessamine? that I have an oak which is the fa- 
 vourite haunt of a dryad ? that I have a planta- 
 tion which flourishes with all the verdure of 
 May, in the midst of all the cold of December? 
 Or, may I not hope that I have something still 
 more prevailing with you than all these, as I can 
 with truth assure you, that I have a heart which 
 is faithfully yours, &c. 
 
55 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 To Philotes. 
 
 Among all the advantages which attend friend- 
 ship, there is not one more valuable than the 
 liberty it admits in laying open the various 
 affections of one's mind, without reserve or dis- 
 guise. There is something in disclosing to a 
 friend the occasional emotions of one's heart, 
 that wonderfully contributes to soothe and allay 
 its perturbations, in all its most pensive or 
 anxious moments. Nature, indeed, seems to 
 have cast us with a general disposition to com- 
 munication : though at the same time it must 
 be acknowledged, there are few to whom one 
 may safely be communicative. Have I not 
 reason, then, to esteem it as one of the most 
 desirable circumstances of my life, that I dare, 
 without scruple or danger, think aloud to Phi- 
 lotes ? It is merely to exercise that happy pri- 
 vilege, I now take up my pen ; and you must 
 expect nothing in this letter but the picture of 
 my heart in one of its splenetic hours. There 
 are certain seasons, perhaps, in every man's 
 life, when he is dissatisfied with himself and 
 every thing around him, without being able to 
 
56 
 
 give a substantial reason for being so. At least 
 I am unwilling to think, that this dark cloud, 
 which at present hangs over my mind, is pecu- 
 liar to my constitution, and never gathers in any 
 breast but my own. It is much more, however, 
 my concern to dissipate this vapour in myself, 
 than to discover that it sometimes arises in 
 Others : as there is no disposition a man would 
 rather endeavour to cherish, than a constant 
 aptitude of being pleased. But my practice 
 will not always credit my philosophy ; and I 
 find it much easier to point out my distemper 
 than to remove it. After all, is it not a morti- 
 fying consideration, that the powers of reason 
 should be less prevalent than those of matter ; 
 and that a page of Seneca cannot raise the 
 spirits, when a pint of claret will? It might, 
 methinks, somewhat abate the insolence of 
 human pride to consider, that it is but increasing 
 or diminishing the velocity of certain fluids in 
 the animal machine, to elate the soul with the 
 gayest hopes, or sink her into the deepest de- 
 spair; to depress the hero into a coward, or 
 advance the coward into a hero. It is to some 
 such mechanical cause I am inclined to attri- 
 bute the present gloominess of my mind : at 
 the same time I ^\ill confess, there is something 
 in that very consideration which gives strength 
 to the fit, and renders it so much the more dif- 
 
57 
 
 ticult to throw off. For, tell me, is it not a 
 discouraging reflection to find one's self seri'ile 
 (as Shakspeare expresses it) to ex'ery skyey in- 
 Jiuence, and the sport of every paltry atom ? to 
 owe the ease of one's mind not only to the dis- 
 position of one's own body, but almost to that 
 of every other which surrounds us ? AdiecT. 
 I am, &c. 
 
58 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 To Orontes, 
 
 The passage you quote is entirely in my senti- 
 ments. I agree both with that celebrated 
 author and yourself, that our oratory is by no 
 means in a state of perfection ; and, though it 
 has much strength and solidity, that it may yet 
 be rendered far more polished and affecting. The 
 growth, indeed, of eloquence, even in those coun- 
 tries where she flourished most, has ever been 
 exceedingly slow. Athens had been in posses- 
 sion of all the other polite improvements, long 
 before her pretensions to the persuasive arts 
 were in any degree considerable ; as the earliest 
 orator of note among the Romans did not appear 
 sooner than about a century before Tully. 
 
 That great master of persuasion, taking notice 
 of this remarkable circumstance, assigns it as an 
 evidence of the superior difficulty of his favourite 
 art. Possibly there may be some truth in the 
 observation: but whatever the cause be, the fact, 
 I believe, is undeniable. Accordingly, eloquence 
 has by no means made equal advances in our 
 own country, with her sister arts ; and though 
 we have seen some excellent poets, and a few 
 
59 
 
 good painters rise up amongst us, yet I know 
 not whether our nation can supply us with a 
 single orator of deserved eminence. One can- 
 not but be surprised at this, Avhen it is consider- 
 ed, that we have a profession set apart for the 
 purposes of persuasion ; and which not only af- 
 fords the most animating and interesting topics 
 of rhetoric, but wherein a talent of this kind 
 would prove the hkeliest, perhaps, of any other 
 to obtain those ambitious prizes which were 
 thought to contribute so much to tiie successful 
 progress of ancient eloquence. 
 
 Among the principal defects of our English 
 orators, their general disregard of harmony has, 
 I think, been the least observed. It would be 
 injustice indeed to deny that we have some per- 
 formances of this kind amongst us, tolerably mu- 
 sical : but it must be acknowledged at the same 
 time, that it is more the effect of accident than 
 design, and rather a proof of the power of our 
 language, than of the art of our orators. 
 
 Dr. Tillotson, who is frequently mentioned as 
 having carried this species of eloquence to its 
 highest perfection, seems to have had no sort of 
 notion of rhetorical numbers ; and may I ven- 
 ture, Orontes, to add, without hazarding the im- 
 putation of an affected singularity, that I think 
 no man had ever less pretensions to genuine ora- 
 tory, than this celebrated preacher? If any thing 
 
60 
 
 could raise a flame of eloquence in the breast of 
 an orator, there is no occasion upon which, one 
 should imagine, it would be more likely to break 
 out, than in celebrating departed merit: yet the 
 two sermons which he preached upon the death 
 of Mr. Gouge and Dr. Whichcote are as cold and 
 languid performances as were ever, perhaps, pro- 
 duced upon such an animating subject. One 
 cannot indeed but regret, that he, who abounds 
 with such noble and generous sentiments, should 
 want the art of setting them off with all the ad- 
 vantages they deserve; that the sublime in mo- 
 rals should not be attended with a suitable ele- 
 vation of language. The truth however is, his 
 words are frequently ill-chosen, and almost al- 
 ways ill-placed ; his periods are both tedious and 
 unharmonious; as his metaphors are generally 
 mean, and often ridiculous. It were easy to 
 produce numberless instances in support of this 
 assertion. Thus in his sermon preached before 
 Queen Anne, when she was Princess of Den- 
 mark, he talks of squeezing a parable, thrusting 
 religion by, driving a strict bargain with God, 
 sharking shij'ts, &c. ; and speaking of the day of 
 judgment, he describes the world as cracking 
 about our ears. I cannot however but acknow- 
 led'^e, in justice to the oratorical character of 
 this most valuable prelate, that there is a noble 
 simplicity in some few of his sermons ; as his 
 
^1 
 
 excellent discourse on sincerity deserves to be 
 mentioned with particular applause. 
 
 But to show his deficiency in the article I am 
 considering at present, the following stricture 
 will be sufficient, among many others that might 
 be cited to the same purpose. " One might be 
 apt," says he, " to think at first view, that this 
 parable was orei' done, and wanted something of 
 a due decorum; it being hardly credible, that a 
 man after he had been so mercifully and gene- 
 rously dealt zvithal, as upon his humble request 
 to have so huge a debt so freely forgiven, should, 
 whilst the memory of so much mercy was fresh 
 upon him, even in the very next moment, handle 
 his fellow-servant, who had made the same hum- 
 ble request to him which be had done to his 
 Lord, with so much roughness and cruelty, for 
 so inconsiderable a sum." 
 
 This whole period (not to mention other ob- 
 jections which might justly be raised against it) 
 is unmusical throughout; but the concluding 
 members, which ought to have been particularly 
 flowing, are most miserably loose and disjointed. 
 If the delicacy of Tully's ear was so exquisitely 
 refined, as not always to be satisfied even when 
 he read Demosthenes ; how would it have been 
 offended at tlje harshness and dissonance of so 
 unharmonious a sentence ! 
 
6^ 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, throws our eloquence at a 
 greater distance from that of the ancients, than 
 this Gothic arrangement; as those wonderful 
 effects, which sometimes attended their elocu- 
 tion, were, in all probability, chiefly owing to 
 tlieir skill in musical concords. It was by the 
 charm of numbers, united with the strength of 
 reason, that Tully confounded the audacious 
 Catiline, and silenced the eloquent Hortensius. 
 It was this that deprived Curio of all power of 
 recollection, when he rose up to oppose that 
 great master of enchanting rhetoric : it was this, 
 in a word, made even Cajsar himself tremble ; 
 nay, what is yet more extraordinary, made Caesar 
 alter his determined purpose, and acquit the man 
 he had resolved to condemn. 
 
 You will not suspect that I attribute too much 
 to the power of numerous composition, when 
 you recollect the instance which Tully produces 
 of its wonderful effect. He informs us, you 
 naay remember, in one of his rhetorical treatises, 
 that be was himself a witness of its influence, as 
 Carbo was once haranguing to the people. When 
 that orator pronounced the following sentence, 
 patris dictum sapiens, tevieritas Jilii cdmpi^obd- 
 vitj it was astonishing, says he, to observe the 
 general applause which followed that harmonious 
 close. A modern ear, perhaps, would not be 
 
€3 
 
 much affected upon this occasion ; and, indeed, 
 it is more than probable, that we are ignorant of 
 the art of pronouncing that period with its ge- 
 nuine emphasis and cadence. We are certain, 
 however, that the music of it consisted in the 
 dichoree with which it is terminated : for Cicero 
 himself assures us, that if the final measure had 
 been changed, and the words placed in a differ- 
 ent order, their whole effect would have been 
 absolutely destroyed. 
 
 This art was first introduced amons the Greeks 
 by Thrasymachus, though some of the admirers 
 of Isocrates attributed the invention to that ora- 
 tor. It does not appear to have been observed 
 by the Romans till near the times of Tully, and 
 even then it was by no means universally re- 
 ceived. The ancient and less numerous man- 
 ner of composition, had still many admirers, who 
 were such enthusiasts to antiquity as to adopt 
 her very defects. A disposition of the same kind 
 may, perhaps, prevent its being received with 
 us ; and while the archbishop shall maintain his 
 authority as an orator, it is not to be expected 
 that any great advancement will be made in this 
 species of eloquence. That strength of under- 
 standing likewise, and solidity of reason, which 
 is so eminently our national characteristic, may 
 add somewhat to the diflSculty of reconciling us 
 
64 
 
 to a study of this kind ; as at first glance it may 
 seem to lead an orator from his grand and prin- 
 cipal aim, and tempt him to make a sacrifice of 
 sense to sound. It must be acknowledged, in- 
 deed, that in the times which succeeded the dis- 
 solution of the Roman republic, this art was so 
 perverted from its true end, as to become the 
 single study of their enervated orators. Pliny 
 the younger often complains of this contemptible 
 affectation ; and the polite author of that elegant 
 dialogue which, with very little probability, is at- 
 tributed either to Tacitus or Quintiiian, assures 
 us it was the ridiculous boast of certain orators 
 in the time of the declension of genuine eloquence, 
 that their harangues were capable of being set to 
 music, and sung upon the stage. But it must 
 be remembered, that the true end of this art I 
 am recommending, is to aid, not to supersede 
 reason ; that it is so far from being necessarily 
 effeminate, that it not only adds grace but 
 strength to the powers of persuasion. For this 
 purpose Tully and Quintiiian, those great mas- 
 ters of numerous composition, have laid it down 
 as a fixed and invariable rule, that it must never 
 appear the effect of labour in the orator; that 
 the tuneful flow of his periods must always seem 
 the casual result of their disposition ; and that 
 it is the highest offence against the art, to weaken 
 
€5 
 
 liie expression, in order to give a more musical 
 tone to the cadence. In short, that no unmean- 
 ing words are to be thrown in merely to lill up 
 the requisite measure, but that they must still 
 rise in sense as they improve in sound. I am, 
 
66 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 To Cleoua. 
 
 August 11, 1738. 
 
 Though it is but a few hours since I parted 
 from my Cleora ; 3'et I have already, you see, 
 taken up my pen to write to her. You must 
 not expect, however, in this, or in any of my 
 future letters, that I say fine things to you ; 
 since I only intend to tell you true ones. My 
 heart is too full to be regular, and too sincere 
 to be ceremonious. I have changed the man- 
 ner, not the style of my former conversations : 
 and I write to you, as I used to talk to you, 
 without form or art. Tell me then, with the 
 same undissembled sincerity, what effect this 
 absence has upon your usual cheerfulness? as 
 I will honestly confess on my own part, that I 
 am too interested to wish a circumstance, so 
 little consistent with my own repose, should be 
 altogether reconcileable to yours. I have at- 
 tempted, however, to pursue your advice, and 
 divert myself by the subject you recommended 
 to my thoughts : but it is impossible, I per- 
 ceive, to turn off the mind at once from an 
 
67 
 
 object, which it has long dwelt upon with plea- 
 sure. My heart, like a poor bird which is 
 hunted from her nest, is still returning to the 
 place of its affections, and after some vain ef- 
 forts to fly off, settles again where all its cares 
 and all its tenderness are centered. Adieu. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 LETTER XVr. 
 
 To Philotes. 
 
 August 20, 1739, 
 I FEAR I shall lose all my credit with you as a 
 gardener, by this specimen which I venture to 
 send you of the produce of my walls. The 
 snails, ^indeed, have had more than their share 
 of my peaches and nectarines this season : but 
 will you not smile when I tell you, that I deem 
 it a sort of cruelty to suffer them to be destroy- 
 ed ? I should scarce dare to acknowledge this 
 weakness (as the generality of the world, no 
 doubt, would call it) had I not experienced, by 
 many agreeable instances, that I may safely lay 
 open to you every sentiment of my heart. To 
 confess the truth then, I have some scruples 
 with respect to the liberty we assume in the 
 unlimited destruction of these lower orders of 
 existence. I know not upon what principle of 
 reason and justice it is, that mankind have 
 founded their right over the lives of every Gi^ea- 
 ture that is placed in a subordinate rank of 
 being to themselves. \Vhatever claim they may 
 have in right of food and self-defence, did they 
 extend their privilege no farther than those 
 
 i 
 
69 
 
 articles would reasonably carry them, number- 
 less beings might enjoy their lives in peace, who 
 are now hurried out of them by the most wan- 
 tori and unnecessary cruelties. I cannot, in- 
 deed, discover why it should be thought less 
 inhumane to crush to death a harmless insect, 
 whose single offence is that he eats that food 
 which nature has prepared for its sustenance ; 
 than it would be, w ere I to kill any more bulky 
 creature for the same reason. There are few 
 tempers so hardened to the impressions of hu- 
 manity, as not to shudder at the thought of the 
 latter ; and yet the former is universally prac 
 tised without the least check of compassion. 
 Tiiis seems to arise from the gross error of sup- 
 posing, that every creature is really in itself 
 contemptible, which happens to be clothed with 
 a body infinitely disproportionate to our own ; 
 not considering that great and little are merely 
 relative terms. But the inimitable Shakspeare 
 would teach us, that 
 
 .... the poor beetle, that we tread upon. 
 In corp'ral suff 'ranee feels a pang as great 
 As when a giant dies. 
 
 And this is not thrown out in the latitude of 
 poetical imagination, but supported by the dis- 
 coveries of the most improved philosophy : for 
 there is every reason to believe that the sensa- 
 
 4 
 
70 
 
 tions of many insects are as exquisite as those 
 of creatures of far more enlarged dimensions ; 
 perhaps even more so. The millepedes, for 
 instance, rolls itself round, upon the slightest 
 touch ; and the snail gathers in her horns upon 
 the least approach of your hand. Are not 
 these the strongest indications of the.iy^ sensibi- 
 lity? and is it any evidence oi ours, that we are 
 not therefore induced to treat them with a more 
 sympathizing tenderness? 
 
 I was extremely pleased with a sentiment I 
 met with the other day in honest Montaigne. 
 That good-natured author remarks, that there is 
 a certain general claim of kindness and bene- 
 volence which every species of creatures has a 
 right to from us. It is to be regretted, that 
 this generous maxim is not more attended to, in 
 the affair of education, and pressed home upon 
 tender minds in its full extent and latitude. I 
 am far, indeed, from thinking that the early de- 
 light which children discover in tormenting 
 flies, &c. is a mark of any innate cruelty of 
 temper; because this turn may be accounted 
 for upon other principles, and it is entertaining 
 unworthy notions of the Deity to suppose he 
 forms mankind with a propensity to the most 
 detestable of all dispositions. But most cer- 
 tainly, by being unrestrained in sports of this 
 kind, they may acquire by habit, what they 
 
never would have learned from nature, and grow 
 up into a confirmed inattention to every kind of 
 suffering but their own. Accordingly the su- 
 preme court of judicature at Athens thought an 
 instance of this sort not below its cognizance, 
 and punished a boy for putting out the eyes of 
 a poor bird, that had unhappily fallen into his 
 hands. 
 
 It mic^ht be of service therefore, it should 
 seem, in order to awaken as early as possible in 
 children an extensive sense of humanity, to give 
 them a view of several sorts of insects as they 
 may be magnified by the assistance of glasses, 
 and to show them that the same evident marks 
 of wisdom and goodness prevail in the formation 
 of the minutest insect, as in that of the most 
 enormous Leviathan : that they are equally fur- 
 nished with whatever is necessary not only to 
 the preservation but the happiness of their 
 beintis, in that class of existence to which Pro- 
 vidence has assigned them : in a word, that the 
 whole construction of their respective organs 
 distinctly proclaims them the objects of the 
 divine benevolence, and therefore that they 
 justly ought to be so of ours. I am, t^c. 
 
72 
 
 LETTER XVIL 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Feb. 1, irSS. 
 You see how much I trust to your good-nature 
 and your judgment, whilst I am the only per- 
 son, perhaps, among your friends, who have 
 ventured to omit a congratulation in form. I 
 am not, however, intentionally guilty ; for I 
 really designed you a visit before now : but 
 hearing that your acquaintance flowed in upon 
 you from all quarters, I thought it would be 
 more agreeable to you, as well as to myself, if 
 I waited till the inundation was abated. But if 
 I have not joined in the general voice of con- 
 gratulation ; I have not, however, omitted the 
 sincere, though silent wishes, w hich the warm- 
 est friendship can suggest to a heart entirely in 
 your interests. Had I not long since forsaken 
 the regions of poetry, I would tell you, in the 
 language of that country, how often I have 
 said, may 
 
 . , . . . . . , all heav'n. 
 
 And happy constellations on that hour 
 
 Shed their selectest influence I Milton. 
 
73 
 
 But plain prose will do as well for plain trutii ; 
 and there is no occasion for any art to persuade 
 you, that you have, upon every occurrence of 
 your life, my best good wishes. I hope shortly 
 to have an opportunity of making myself better 
 known to Aspasia. When I am so, I shall re 
 joice with her, on the choice she has made of a 
 man, from whom I will undertake to promise 
 her all the happiness which the state she has 
 entered into can afford. Thus much I do not 
 scruple to say of her husband io you : the rest I 
 had rather say to her. If upon any occasion 
 you should mention me, let it be in the charac- 
 ter which I most value myself upon, that of 
 your much obliged and very affectionate friend. 
 
74 
 LETTER XVIir. 
 
 To HORTENSIUS. 
 
 July 5, 173?. 
 
 I CAJj" by no means subscribe to the sentiments 
 of your last letter, nor agree with you in think» 
 ing, that the love of fame is a passion wiiich 
 either reason or religion condemns. I confess, 
 indeed, there are some who have represented it 
 as inconsistent with both ; and I remember, in 
 particular, the excellent author of The Religion 
 of Nature delineated, has treated it as highly 
 irrational and absurd. As the passage falls in 
 so thoroughly with your own turn of thought, 
 you will have no objection, I imagine, to my 
 quoting it at large ; and I give it you, at the 
 same time, as a very great authority on your 
 side. " In reality," says that writer, " the 
 man is not known ever the more to posterity, 
 because his name is transmitted to them ; He 
 doth not live because his name does. When it 
 is said, Julius Ccesar subdued Gaul, conquered 
 Pompey, &c. it is the same thing as to say, the 
 conqueror of Pompey was Julius Cassar, i. e. 
 Caesar and the conqueror of Pompey is the 
 
75 
 
 same thing ; Ceesar is as much known by one 
 designation as by the other. The amount then 
 is only this : that the conqueror of Pompey con- 
 quered Pompey ; or somebody conquered some- 
 body ; or rather, since Pompey is as little known 
 now as Cassar, somebody conquered somebody. 
 Such a poor business is this boasted immorta- 
 lity ! and such is the thing called glory among 
 us ! To discerning men this fame is mere air, 
 and what they despise, if not shun," 
 
 But surely, 'twere to consider too curiously 
 (as Horatio says to Hamlet) to consider thus. 
 For though fame with posterity should be, in the 
 strict analysis of it, no other than what is here 
 described, a mere uninteresting proposition, 
 amounting to nothing more than that somebody 
 acted meritoriously ; yet it would not necessa- 
 rily follow, that true philosophy would 'banish 
 the desire of it from the human breast. For 
 this passion may be (as most certainly it is) 
 wisely implanted in our species, notuithstanding 
 the corresponding object should in reality be 
 very different from what it appears in imagina- 
 tion. Do not many of our most refined and 
 even contemplative pleasures owe their existence 
 to our mistakes? It is but extending (I will not 
 say improving) some of our senses to a higher 
 degree of acuteness than we now possess them, 
 
76 
 
 to make the fairest views of nature, or the 
 noblest productions of art, appear horrid and 
 deformed. To see things as they truly and in 
 themselves are, would not always, perhaps, be 
 of advantage to us in the intellectual world, any 
 more than in the natural. But, after all, who 
 shall certainly assure us, that the pleasure of 
 virtuous fame dies vvith its possessor, and reaches 
 not to a farther scene of existence r There is 
 nothing, it should seem, either absurd or un- 
 philosophical in supposing it possible at least, 
 that the praises of the good and the judicious, 
 that sweetest r.ii/sic to an honest ear in this 
 world, may be echoed back to the mansions of 
 the next : that the poet's description of Fame 
 may be literally true, and though she walks 
 upon earth, she may yet lift her head into 
 heaven. 
 
 But can it be reasonable to extinguish a pas- 
 sion which nature has universally lighted up in 
 the human breast, and which we constantly find 
 to burn with most strength and brightness in 
 the noblest and best formed bosoms ? Accord- 
 ingly, Revelation is so far from endeavouring (as 
 you suppose) to eradicate the seed which nature 
 has thus deeply planted, that she rather seems, 
 on the contrary, to cherish and forward its 
 growi:h. To be e.ralted with honour^ and to be 
 
/ / 
 
 bad in everlasting re^nemh ranee, are in the num- 
 ber of those encouragements which the Jewish 
 dispensation offered to the virtuous ; as the per- 
 son from whom the sacred Author of the Chris- 
 tian system received his birth, is herself repre- 
 sented as rejoicing that all generations should 
 call her blessed. 
 
 To be convinced of the great advantage of 
 cherishing this high regard to posterity, this 
 noble desire of an after-life in the breath of 
 others, one need only look back upon the his- 
 tory of the ancient Greeks and Romans. What 
 other principle was it, Hortensius, which pro- 
 duced that exalted strain of virtue in tlicse^a.'js, 
 that may well serve as a model to these ? Was 
 it not the consentiens laus bonorum, the incor- 
 rupta %'o.v bene judicantium (as Tully calls it), 
 the concurrent approbation of the good, the un- 
 corrupted applause of the wise, that animated 
 their most generous pursuits ? 
 
 To confess the truth, I have been ever in- 
 clined to think it a very dangerous attempt, to 
 endeavour to lessen the motives of right acting, 
 or to raise any suspicion concerning their soli- 
 dity. The tempers and dispositions of man- 
 kind are so extremely different, that it seems 
 necessary they should be called into action by 
 a variety of incitements. Thus, while some are 
 
78 
 
 willing to wed Virtue for her personal charms, 
 others are engaged to take her for the sake of 
 her expected dowry: and since her followers 
 and admirers have so little to hope from her in 
 present, it were pity, methinks, to reason them 
 out of any imagined advantage in reversion. 
 Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
79 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 To Cleora. 
 
 I THiXK, Cleora, you are the truest female her- 
 mit I ever knew. At least I do not remember 
 to have met with any among; your sex, of the 
 same order with yourself; for as to the religious 
 on the other side of the water, I can by no means 
 esteem them worthy of being ranked in your 
 number. They are a sort of people \vho either 
 have seen nothing of the world, or too much : 
 and where is the merit of giving up what one is 
 not acquainted with, or what one is weary of? 
 But you are a far more illustrious recluse, who 
 have entered into the world with innocency, and. 
 retired from it M'ith good humour. That sort of 
 life, which makes so amiable a figure in the de- 
 scription of poets and philosophers, and which 
 kings and heroes have professed to aspire after, 
 Cleora actually enjoys : she lives her own, free 
 from the follies and impertinences, the hurry and 
 disappointments of false pursuits of every kind. 
 How much do I prefer one hour of such solitude 
 to all the glittering, glaring, gaudy days of the 
 
80 
 
 ambitious? I shall not envy them their gold and 
 iheir silver, their precious jewels, and their 
 clianges of raiment, while you permit me to join 
 vou and Alexander in your hermitage. I hope 
 to do so on Sunday evening, and attend you to 
 the siege of Tyre, or the deserts of Africa, or 
 wherever else your hero shall lead you. But 
 should I find you in more elevated company, 
 and engaged with the rapturous * * * *, even 
 then, I hope, you will not refuse to admit me 
 of your party. If I have not yet a proper goiit 
 for the mystic writers, perhaps I am not quite 
 incapable of acquiring one ; and as I have 
 every thing of the hermit in my composition 
 except the enthusiasm, it is not impossible but I 
 may catch that also, by the assistance of you 
 and * * * *. I desire you would receive me as 
 a probationer at least, and as one w4iO is willing, 
 if he is worthy, to be initiated into your secret 
 doctrines. I think I only want this taste, and 
 a relish for tlie marvellous, to be wholly in your 
 sentiments. Possibly I may be so happy as to 
 attain both in good time : I fancy at least there 
 is a close connexion between them, and I shall 
 not despair of obtaining the one, if I can by any 
 means arrive at the other. But which must I 
 endeavour at first? Shall 1 prepare for the mystic. 
 
81 
 
 by commencing with'the romance, or would 3^011 
 advise me to begin with Mai branch, before I 
 undertake Cielia? Sutler me, however, ere I 
 enter the regions of fiction, to bear testimony 
 to one constant truth, by assuring you that I 
 am, &c. ' 
 
 9 
 
82 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 To EUPHIIONIUS. 
 
 October 10, 174:2. 
 
 I HAVE often mentioned to you the pleasure I 
 
 received from Mr. Pope's translation of the 
 
 Iliad : but my admiration of that inimitable per- 
 
 \ formance has increased upon me, since you 
 
 tempted me to compare the copy with the ori- 
 
 I ginal. To say of this noble work, that it is the 
 
 jbest which ever appeared of the kind, would be 
 
 speaking in much lower terms than it deserves ; 
 
 the world perhaps scarce ever before saw a truly 
 
 poetical translation : for, as Denham observes, 
 
 Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate. 
 
 That few, but those who cannot write, translate. 
 
 [ Mr. Pope seems, in most places, to have been in- 
 : spired with the same sublime spirit that animates 
 his original ; as he often takes fire from a single 
 hint in his author, and blazes out even with a 
 stronger and brighter flame of poetry. Tims the 
 character of Thersites, as it stands in the English 
 Iliad, is heightened, I think, with more masterly 
 strokes of satire than appear in the Greek ; as 
 many of those similes in Homer, which would 
 
33 
 
 appear, perhaps, to a modern eye too naked and 
 unornamented, are painted by Pope in all the 
 beautiful drapery of the most graceful metaphor. 
 With what propriety of figure, for instance, has 
 he raised the following comparison ! 
 
 Evr o^£o$ xOfu^Tjtn Noroj- r-ats^susv oiiiyXr^v, 
 
 Toa-o-Qv ri; r' sTftXsva-ffsi, ocrov r' sin Aaav ixciy 
 ils cLpa. tu!v vito Zuoca-i y.oyiinrxKog cu^vur asWrj; 
 Ec%ofOf?'wy, II, iii. 10, 
 
 Thus from his flaggy wings when Eurus sheds 
 A night of vapours round the mountain-heads^ 
 Swift-gliding mists the dusky fields invade ; 
 To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade : 
 While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey. 
 Lost and confus'd amidst the thicken'd day : 
 So wrapt in gath'ring dust the Grecian train, 
 A moving cloud, swept on and hid the plain. 
 
 When Mars, being wounded by Diomed, flies 
 back to heaven, Homer compares him, in his 
 passage, to a dark cloud raised by summer heats,, 
 and driven by the wind. 
 
 OiTj S" £X ve(psu}V ffeS'svvTj (pccivsTai aij^^ 
 
 II. V. 864. 
 
 The inimitable translator improves this image, by 
 throwing in some circumstances, which, though 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 not in the original, are exactly in the spirit of 
 Homer : 
 
 As vapoursj blown by Auster's sultry breath, 
 Pregnant with plagues, and shedding seeds of death. 
 Beneath the rage of burning Sirius rise. 
 Choke the parch'd earth, and blacken all the skies : 
 In such a cloud the god, from combat driv'n, 
 High o'er the dusty whirlwind scales the heav'n. 
 
 There is a description in the eighth book, 
 which Eustathius, it seems, esteemed the most 
 beautiful night-piece that could be found in po- 
 etry. If I am not greatly mistaken, however, I 
 can produce a finer : and I am persuaded even 
 the warmest admirer of Homer will allow the 
 following lines are inferior to the corresponding 
 ones in the translation : 
 
 il; ij' or £v gf avco atrr^a. Sasivijv ajxi^i trfX^vv]-/ 
 ioAVBr apiTt^sTtsa,, ors r sttXsto vr^vsiiog ai^rj^, 
 Ex r" atpavov ifau-ai crKOifiai, Kcti it^wovs; an^ot, 
 
 ila.vTa. h r siosrxi ac-rpx, ysy/jSa Ss Ts p^sva irotijir^v. 
 
 IL viii. S55. 
 
 A,8 wliPn the moon, refulgent lamp of night. 
 O'er heav'n's clear azure spreads her sacred light j 
 When not a breath disturbs the deep serene. 
 And tiot a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene. 
 Around her throne the vivid planets roll. 
 And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole : 
 
■ , 85 
 
 O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed. 
 And tip n ith silver ev'rj^ mountain's head ; 
 Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
 A flood of glory biirsts from all the skies ; 
 The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight. 
 Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. 
 
 I fear the enthusiastic admirers of Homer 
 would look upon me with much indignation, 
 were they to hear me speak of any thing in mo- 
 dern language as equal to the strength and ma- 
 jesty of that great father of poetry. But the fol- 
 lowing passage having been quoted by a cele- 
 brated author of antiquity, as an instance of the 
 true sublime, I will leave it to you to determine 
 whether the translation has not at least as just 
 a claim to that character as the orijiinal. 
 
 fie ors ^siuLac^oi TTora^.ot -Ao/t 0087(^1 ^sovrs;, 
 
 K§8vujv £K fisyacKujy, y.oiXri^ svroa-^s ^acaJfijf, 
 TwvSs rs rijXoys Satov sv s^sciv skX-js iiOiy.riV' 
 Q,; -rwv ixiTyo^sv'juy ysvsro t«%t5 Tc ipo?o; ts. 
 
 As torrents roUj increas'a by num'rous rills. 
 With rage impetuous down their echoing hills. 
 Rush to the vales, and, pour'd along the plain. 
 Roar through a thousand channels to the mainj 
 The distant shepherd, trembling, hears the sound,* 
 So mLx both hosts, and so their cries rebound. 
 
 There is no ancient author more likely to be- 
 ti-jiy an injudicious interpreter into meannesses, 
 
86 
 
 than Homer ; as it requires the utmost skill and 
 address to preserve that venerable air of simpli- 
 city which is one of the characteristical marks 
 of that poet, without sinking the expression or 
 the sentiment into contempt. Antiquity will 
 furnish a very strong instance of the truth of 
 this observation, in a single line which is pre- 
 served to us from a translation of the Iliad by 
 one Labeo, a favourite poet, it seems, of Nero : 
 it is quoted by an old scholiast upon Persius, 
 and happens to be a version of the following 
 passage in the fourth Book : 
 
 fl^ov /2£b£a;9«(f IJ^tau.ov U^ia^oio rs ita,i^a.g. 
 
 which Nero's admirable poet rendered literally 
 thus : 
 
 Crudum manduces Priamum Priamique pisinnos. 
 
 I need not iiideed have gone so far back for my 
 instance : a Labeo of our own nation would 
 have supplied me with one much nearer at hand. 
 Ogilby or Hobbs (I forget which) has translated 
 this very verse in the same ridiculous manner : 
 
 And eat up Priam and his children all. 
 
 But among many other passages of this sort, 
 I observed one in the same book, which raised 
 my curiosity to examine in what manner JNIr. 
 
87 
 
 Pope had conducted it. — Juno, in a general 
 council of the gods, thus accosts Jupiter : 
 
 Aivorars K^oviStj, 
 
 Uivg s^sKsig aXiov ^sivai irovov, YjS' atsXscrrov 
 
 Aaov aysjfacrr, JJ^iai/.iv Kocxa, roio rs itxio-iv. — 
 
 which is as much a^ if she had said, in plain 
 English, " Why surely, Jupiter, you won't be 
 so cruel as to render ineffectual all my expense 
 of labour and sweat. Have I not tired both my 
 horses, in order to raise forces to ruin Priam 
 and his family?" It requires the most delicate 
 touches imaginable, to raise such a sentiment as 
 this into any tolerable degree of dignity. But a 
 skilful artist knows how to embellish the most 
 ordinary subject ; and what would be low and 
 spiritless from a less masterly pencil, becomes 
 pleasing and graceful when worked up by Mr, 
 Pope's : 
 
 Shall then, O tyrant of th' ethereal plain. 
 My schemes, my labours, and my hopes be vain j 
 Have I for this shook Ilion with alarms. 
 Assembled nations, set two worlds in arms ? 
 To spread the war I flew from shore to shore, 
 Th' immortal coursers scarce the labour bore. 
 
 But to show you that I am not so enthusiastic 
 an admirer of this glorious performance, as to 
 
88 
 
 be blind to its imperfections ; I will venture to 
 point out a passage or two (amongst others 
 which might be mentioned) wherein Mr. Pope's 
 usual judgment seems to have failed him. 
 
 When Iris is sent to inform Helen that Paris 
 and Menelaus were going to decide the fate of 
 both nations by single combat, and were actually 
 upon the point of engaging; Homer describes 
 her as hastily throwing a veil over her face, and 
 flying to the Scaean gate, from whence she might 
 have a full view of the field of battle : 
 
 il§l/.at e-tc ^aXoi^oio, rs^zv na-fa $a.Kpv yzdwa: 
 Ovx oiYj' a[j.a i^yiys y-sci ccy^fiiroXot Sv STrovro, &c. 
 
 11. iii. 141. 
 
 Nothing could possibly be more interesting 
 to Helen, than the circumstances in which she 
 is here represented : it was necessary therefore 
 to exhibit her, as Homer we see has^ with much 
 eagerness and impetuosity in her motion. But 
 what can be more calm and quiet than the atti- 
 tude wherein the Helen of Mr. Pope appears? 
 
 O'er hei- fair face a snowy veil she threw. 
 And softly sighing from the loom withdrew : 
 
 Her handmaids wait 
 
 Her silent footsteps to the Scaean gate. 
 
89 
 
 Those expressions of speed and impetuosity, 
 which occur so often in the original lines, viz. 
 a:rr/ca — ccj/xaro — ai'lxt iy.avov, would have been 
 sufficient; one should have imagined, to have 
 guarded a translator from falling into an impro- 
 priety of this kind. 
 
 This brings to my mind another instance of 
 the same nature, where our English poet, by not 
 attending to the particular expression of his au- 
 thor, has given us a picture of a very liifferent 
 kind than what Homer intended. In the first 
 Iliad the reader is introduced into a council of 
 the Grecian chiefs, where very warm debates 
 arise betueen Acjamemnon and Achilles. As 
 nothing was likely to prove more fatal to the 
 Grecians than a dissension between those two 
 princes, the venerable old Nestor is represented 
 as greatly alarmed at the consequences of this 
 quarrel, and rising up to moderate between them 
 with a vivacity much beyond his years. This 
 circumstance Homer has happily intimated by 
 
 a single word : 
 
 roijTj OS NcTtup 
 ANOPOTSE. 
 
 Upon which one of the commentators very just- 
 ly observes — ut in re magna et peinculosa, non 
 placide assurgentem facit, sed prorumpentem 
 itenem quoquc. A circumstance which Horace 
 
90 
 
 seems to have had particularly in his view in the 
 
 epistle to Lollius : 
 
 Nestor cnmponere lites 
 Inter Peleiden festinat et inter Atriden. 
 
 Ep. i. 2. 
 
 This beauty Mr. Pope has utterly overlooked^ 
 and substituted an idea very different from that 
 which the verb avocsui suggests ; he renders it, 
 
 Slow from his seat arose the Pylian sage. 
 
 But a more unfortunate word could scarcely 
 have been joined with atvse, as it destroys the 
 whole spirit of the piece, and is just the reverse 
 of what both the occasion and the original re- 
 quired. 
 
 I doubt, Euphronius, you are growing weary: 
 will you have patience, however, whilst I men- 
 tion one observation more ? and I will interrupt 
 you no longer. 
 
 When Menelaus and Paris enter the lists, 
 Pope says, 
 
 Amidst the dreadful vale the chiefs advance. 
 
 All pale with rage, and shake the threat 'ning lance. 
 
 In the original it is, 
 
 Aci/Ov Sepy.otj.svoi. II. iii. 341, 
 
91 
 
 But does not the expression — all pale with rage 
 — call up a very contrary idea to ^^ivov ho-Mij^svoi ? 
 The former seems to suggest to one's imagina- 
 tion the ridiculous passion of a couple of female 
 scolds ; whereas the latter conveys the terrifying 
 image of two indignant heroes, animated with 
 calm and deliberate valour. Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
92 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 To Cleora. 
 
 March 3, 1739. 
 
 After having read your last letter, I can no 
 longer doubt of the truth of those salutary effects 
 which are said to have been produced by the ap- 
 plication of certain written words. I have m}^- 
 self experienced the possibility of the thing: and 
 a few strokes of your pen have abated a pain, 
 which of all others is the most uneasy, and the 
 most difficult to be relieved ; even the pain, my 
 Cleora, of the mind. To sympathize with my 
 sufferings, as Cleora kindly assures me she does, 
 is to assuage them ; and half the uneasiness of 
 her absence is removed, when she tells me that 
 she regrets mine. 
 
 Since I thus assuredly find that you can work 
 miracles, I will believe likewise that you have 
 the gift of prophecy ; and I can no longer de- 
 spair that the time will come, when we shall 
 acfain meet, since you have absolutely pro- 
 nounced that it will. I have ventured, there- 
 fore (as you will see by my last letter) already 
 to name the day. In the mean time, I amuse 
 myself with doing every thing that looks like a 
 
93 
 
 preparation for my journey ; e gia apro le brae- 
 cia per stringervi ajfettuosamente al mio senno. 
 
 The truth is, you are every instant in my 
 thoughts, and each occurrence that arises sug- 
 gests you to my remembrance. If I see a clear 
 sky, I wish it may extend to you ; and if I ob- 
 serve a cloudy one, I am uneasy lest my Cleora 
 should be exposed to it. I never read an in- 
 teresting story, or a pertinent remark, that I do 
 not long to communicate it to you, and learn to 
 double my relish by hearing your judicious ob- 
 servations. I cannot take a turn in my garden 
 but every walk calls you into my mind. Ah 
 Cleora ! I never vievv those scenes of our former 
 conversations, without a sigh. Judge then how 
 often 1 sigh, when every object that surrounds 
 me brings you fresh to my imagination. You 
 remember the attitude in which the faithful 
 Penelope is drawn in Pope's Odyssey, when she 
 goes to fetch the bow of Ulysses for the suitors : 
 
 Across her knees she laid the well-known bow. 
 And pensive sat, and tears began to flow. 
 
 I find myself in numberless such tender reveries ; 
 and if I were ever so much disposed to banish 
 you from my thoughts, it w-ould be impossible 
 I should do so, in a place where every thing 
 that presents itself to me, reminds me that you 
 were once here. I must not expect (I ought 
 
94 
 
 not, indeed, for the sake of your repose to wish) 
 to be thus frequently and thus fondly the sub- 
 ject of your meditations: but may I not hope 
 that you employ a few moments at least of every 
 day, in thinking of him whose whole attention is 
 fixed upon you ? 
 
 I have sent you the History of the Conquest of 
 Mexico, in English, which, as it is translated by 
 so good a hand, will be equally pleasing and 
 less troublesome, than reading it in the originaL 
 I long to be of this party in your expedition to 
 the new world, as I lately was in your conquests 
 of Italy. How happily could I sit by Cleora's 
 side, and pursue the Spaniards in their triumphs, 
 as I formerly did the Romans ; or make a trans- 
 ition from a nation of heroes to a republic of 
 ants ! Glorious days indeed ! when we passed 
 whole mornings either with dictators or butter- 
 flies ; and sometimes sent out a colony of 
 Romans, and sometimes of emmets ! Adieu. 
 I am, &c. 
 
95 
 
 LETTER XXIL 
 To Palemon. 
 
 Dec. iS, 1740. 
 
 Though I am not convinced by your arguments, 
 I am charmed by your eloquence, and admire 
 the preacher at the same time that I condemn 
 tlie doctrine. But there is no sort of persons 
 whose opinions one is more inclined to wish 
 right, than those who are ingeniously in the 
 wrong ; who have the art to add grace to error, 
 and can dignify mistakes. • 
 
 Forgive me then, Palemon, if I am more than 
 commonly solicitous that you should review the 
 sentiments you advanced (I will not say sup- 
 ported) with so much elegance in your last let- 
 ter, and that I press you to re-consider your no- 
 tions again and again. Can I fail, indeed, to 
 wish that you may find reason to renounce an 
 opinion, which may possibly one day or other 
 deprive me of a friend, and my country of a pa- 
 triot? while Providence, perhaps, would yet have 
 spared him to both. Can I fail to regret, that I 
 should hold one of the most valuable enjoyments 
 of my life upon a tenure more than ordinarily 
 
9S 
 
 precarious ; and that, besides those numberless 
 accidents by which chance may snatch you from 
 the world, a gloomy sky, or a cross event, may 
 determine Palemon to put an end to a life, which 
 all who have been a witness to, must for ever 
 admire ? 
 
 But '^ Does the Supreme Being (you ask) 
 dispense his bounty upon conditions different 
 from all other benefactors, and will he force a 
 gift upon me which is no longer acceptable?" 
 
 Let me demand in return, Whether a crea- 
 ture, so confined in its perceptions as man, may 
 not mistake his true interest, and reject, from a 
 partial regard, what will be well worth accept- 
 ing upon a more comprehensive view ? May not 
 even a mortal benefactor better understand the 
 value of that present he offers, than the person 
 to whom it is tendered ? And shall the supreme 
 Author of all beneficence, be esteemed less wise 
 in distinguishing the worth of those grants he 
 confers? I agree with you, indeed, that we were 
 called into existence in order to receive happi- 
 ness : but I can by no means infer from thence, 
 that we are at liberty to resign our being when- 
 ever it becomes a burthen. On the contrary, 
 those premises seem to lead to a conclusion di- 
 rectly opposite; and if the gracious Author of 
 my life created me with an intent to make me 
 
97 
 
 happy, does it not necessarily follow, that I shall 
 most certainly obtain that privilege, if I do not 
 justly forfeit it by my own misconduct? Num- 
 berless ends may be answered in the schemes of 
 Providence, by turning aside or interrupting that 
 stream of bounty, which our limited reason can 
 in no sort discover. How presumptuous then 
 must it be, to throw back a grant upon the hands 
 of the great Governor of the universe, merely 
 because we do not immediately feel, or under- 
 stand, its full advantages I 
 
 That it is the intention of the Deity we should 
 remain in this state of beincr, till his summons 
 calls us aw-ay, seems as evident as that we at 
 first entered into it by his command ; for we can 
 no more continue, than we could begin to exist, 
 without the concurrence of the same supreme 
 interposition. While, therefore, the animal pow- 
 ers do not cease to perform those functions to 
 w hich they were directed by their great Author, 
 it may justly, I think, be concluded that it is his 
 design they should not. 
 
 Still, however, you urge, '' That by putting a 
 period to your own existence here, you only 
 alter the modification of matter ; and how (you 
 ask) is the order of Providence disturbed by 
 changing the combination of a parcel of atoms 
 from one figure to another-" 
 
 II 
 
9S 
 
 But surely, Palemon, there is a fallacy in 
 this reasoning : suicide is something more than 
 changing the component parts of the animal 
 machine. It is striking out a spiritual sub- 
 stance from that rank of beings wherein the wise 
 Author of nature has placed it, and forcibly 
 breaking in upon some other order of existence. 
 And as it is impossible for the limited powers of 
 reason to penetrate the designs of Providence, 
 it can never be proved that this is not disturb- 
 ing the schemes of nature. We possibly may 
 be, and indeed most probably are, connected 
 with some higher rank of creatures : now philo- 
 sophy will never be able to determine, that those 
 connexions may not be disconcerted by prema- 
 turely quitting our present mansion. 
 
 One of the strongest passions implanted in 
 human nature, is the fear of death. It seems, 
 indeed, to be placed by Providence as a sort of 
 guard to retain mankind within their appointed 
 station. Why else should it so universally and 
 almost invariably operate ? It is observable, that 
 no such affection appears in any species of beings 
 below us. They have no temptation, or no abi- 
 lity, to desert the post assigned to them, and 
 therefore, it should seem, they have no checks 
 of this kind to keep them within their prescribed 
 limits. This general horror then in mankind at 
 
99 
 
 the apprehension of their dissolution, carries with 
 it, I think, a very strong presumptive argument 
 in favour of the opinion I am endeavouring to 
 maintain. For if it were not given to us for the 
 purpose I have supposed, what other can it 
 serve r Can it be imagined that the benevolent 
 Author of nature would have so deeply wove it 
 into our constitution, only to intcrru[)t our pre- 
 sent enjoyments ? 
 
 I cannot, I confess, discover how the practice 
 of suicide can be justified upon any principle, 
 except upon that of downright atheism. If we 
 suppose a good Providence to p;ove!n the world, 
 the consequence is undeniable, that we must en- 
 tirely rely upon it. If we imagine an evil one 
 to prevail, what chance is there of finding that ^ 
 happiness in another scene, which we have in 
 vain sought for in this ? Tiie same malevolent 
 omnipotence can as easily pursue us in the next 
 remove, as persecute us in this our first station. 
 
 Upon the whole, Palemon, priidence strongly 
 forbids so hazardous an e.xpei-imcnt as that of 
 being our own executioners. We know the worst 
 that can happen in supporting life under all its 
 most wretched circumstances : and if we should 
 be mistaken in thinking it our duty to endure a 
 load, which in truth we may securely lay down; 
 it is an error extremely limited in its conse- 
 
 li 
 
100 
 
 quences. They cannot extend beyond this pre- 
 sent existence, and possibly may end much ear- 
 lier : whereas no mortal can, with the least de- 
 gree of assurance, pronounce what may not be 
 the effects of acting agreeably to the contrary 
 opinion. I am, &c. 
 
iOi 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 To Clytander. 
 
 Sept. 23, 1733. 
 
 1am by no means in the sentiments of that 
 Grecian of your acquaintance, who, as often as 
 he was pressed to marry, replied either that it 
 was too soon or too late : and I think my 
 favourite author, the honest Montaigne, a little 
 too severe when he observes, upon this story, 
 qu'il faut refuser Vopportunite a toute action 
 importune : for, 
 
 .... higher of the genial bed by far. 
 And with mysterious reverence I deem. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 However, 1 am not adventurous enough to join 
 with those friends you mention, who are solicit- 
 ing you, it seems, to look out for an engagement 
 of this kind. It is an union which requires so 
 much delicacy in the cementing; it is a com- 
 merce where so many nice circumstances must 
 concur to render it successful, that 1 would not 
 venture to pronounce of any two persons, that 
 they are qualified for each other. 
 
 I do not know a woman in the world who 
 
seems more formed to render a man of sense 
 and generosity liappy in this state, than Ama- 
 5ia: yet I should scarcely have courage to re- 
 commend even Amasia to my friend. You 
 have seen her, I dare say, a thousand times ; 
 but I am persuaded she never attracted your 
 particular observation, for she is in the number 
 of those \vho are ever overlooked in a crowd. 
 As often as I converse with her, she puts me in 
 mind of the golden age : there is an innocency 
 and simplicity in all her words and' actions, that 
 equals any thing the poets have described of 
 those pure and ardess times. Indeed the greatest 
 part of her life has been spent much in the same 
 way as the early inhabitants of the world, in 
 that blameless period of it, used, we are told, 
 to dispose of theirs ; under the shade and shel- 
 ter of her own venerable oaks, and in those 
 rural amusements which are sure to produce a 
 confirmed habit both of health and cheerfulness. 
 Amasia never said, or attempted to say, a 
 sprightly thing in all her life ; but she has done 
 ten thousand generous ones : and if she is not 
 the most conspicuous figure at an assembly, she 
 never envied or maligned those who are. lier 
 heai'tis all tenderness and benevolence : no suc- 
 cess ever attended any of her acquaintance, 
 which did not fill her bosom with the most dis- 
 interested complacency ; as no misfortune ever 
 
103 
 
 reached her knowledge, that^he did not relieve 
 or participate by her generosity. If ever she 
 should fall into the hands of a man she loves, 
 (and I am persuaded she would esteem it the 
 worst kind of prostitution to resign herself into 
 any other,) her whole life would be one conti- 
 nued series of kindness and compliance. The 
 humble opinion she has of her own uncommon 
 merit, would make her so much the more sen- 
 sible of her husband's ; and those little submis- 
 sions on his side, which a woman of more pride 
 and spirit would consider only as a claim of 
 ricfht, would be esteemed by Amasia as so many 
 additional motives to her love and gratitude. 
 
 But if I dwell any longer upon this amiable 
 picture, I may be in danger, perhaps, of resem- 
 bling that ancient artist, who grew enamoured 
 of the production of his own pencil : for my 
 security therefore, as well as to put an end to 
 your trouble, it will be best, I believe, to stop 
 here. T am, &c~ 
 
104 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 To Orontes. 
 
 I WAS apprehensive my last had f^iven you but 
 too much occasion of recollecting the remark of 
 one of your admired ancients, that " the art of 
 eloquence is taught by man, but it is the gods 
 alone that inspire the wisdom of silence." That 
 wisdom, however, you are not willing I should 
 yet practise; and you must needs, it seems, 
 have my farther sentiments upon the subject of 
 oratory. Be it then as my friend requires : but 
 let him remember, it is a hazardous thing to put 
 some men upon talking on a favourite topic. 
 
 One of the most pleasing exercises of the 
 imagination, is that wherein she is employed in 
 comparing distinct ideas, and discovering their 
 various resemblances. There is no single per- 
 ception of the mind that is not capable of an in- 
 iinite number of considerations in reference to 
 other objects ; and it is in the novelty and variety 
 of these unexpected connexions, that the rich- 
 ness of a writer's genius is chiefly displayed. A 
 vigorous and lively fancy does not tamely con- 
 fine itself to the idea uhich lies before it, but 
 looks beyond the immediate object of its con* 
 
IOj 
 
 templation, and observes how it stands in con- 
 formity with numberless others. It is the pre- 
 rogative of the Imman mind thus to bring its 
 images together, and compare the several cir- 
 cumstances of similitude that attend them. By 
 this means eloquence exercises a kind of magic 
 power ; she can raise innumerable beauties from 
 the most barren subjects, and give the grace of 
 novelty to the most common. The imagination 
 is thus kept aw ake by the most agreeable motion, 
 and entertained with a thousand different views 
 both of art and nature, which still terminate 
 upon the principal object. For this reason I 
 prefer the metaphor to the simile, as a far more 
 pleasing method of illustration. In the former, 
 the action of the mind is less languid, as it is 
 employed at one and the same instant in com- 
 paring the resemblance w ith the idea it attends : 
 whereas in the latter, its operations are more 
 slow, being obliged to stand still as it were, in 
 order to contemplate first the principal object, 
 and then its corresponding image. 
 
 Of all the flowers, however, that embellish 
 the regions of eloquence, there is none of a more 
 tender and delicate nature ; as there is nothing 
 wherein a fine writer is more distinguished from 
 one of an ordinary class, than in the conduct 
 and application of this figure. He is' at liberty, 
 indeed, to range tljrough the whole compass of 
 
105 
 
 creation, and collect his images from every ob- 
 ject that surrounds him. But though he may 
 be thus amply furnished with materials, great 
 judgment is required in choosing them : for to 
 render a metaphor perfect, it must not only be 
 apt, but pleasing; it must entertain, as well as 
 enlighten. Mr. Dryden, therefore, can hardly 
 escape the imputation of a very unpardonable 
 breach of delicacy, when, in the dedication of 
 his Juvenal, he observes to the earl of Dorset, 
 that " some bad poems carry their owner's 
 marks about them — some brand or other on 
 this buttock or that ear, that it is notorious who 
 are the owners of the cattle." The poet Mani- 
 lius seems to have raised an image of the same 
 injudicious kind, in that compliment which he 
 pays to Homer in the following verses : 
 
 cujusque ex ore profiisos 
 
 Onmis posteritas latices in carmine duxit. 
 
 I could never read these lines without calling 
 to mind those grotesque heads, which are fixed 
 to the roof of the old building of King's college 
 in Cambridge ; which the ingenious architect 
 has represented in the act of vomiting out the 
 rain, that falls through certain pipes most judi- 
 ciously stuck in their mouths for that purpose. 
 Mr. Addison recommends a method of trying 
 the propriety of a metaphor, by drawing it out 
 
107 
 
 in visible representation. According!}', I think 
 this curious conceit of the builder might be em- 
 ployed to the advantage of the youth in that 
 university, and serve for as proper an illustra- 
 tion of the absurdity of the poet's image, as that 
 ancient picture which .Elian mentions, where 
 Homer was figured with a stream running; from 
 his mouth, and a groupe of poets lapping it up 
 at a distance. 
 
 But besides a certain decorum which is re- 
 quisite to constitute a perfect metaphor ; a 
 writer of true taste and genius will always sin- 
 gle out the most obvious images, and place them 
 in the most unobserved points of resemblance. 
 Accordingly, all allusions which point to the 
 more abstruse branches of the arts or sciences, 
 and with which none can be supposed to be 
 acquainted but those who have gone far into the 
 deeper studies, should be carefully avoided, not 
 only as pedantic, but impertinent; as they per- 
 vert the single use of this figure, and add neither 
 grace nor force to the idea they would elucidate. 
 The most pleasing metaphors therefore are those 
 uhich are derived from the more frequent oc- 
 currences of art or nature, or the civil transac- 
 tions and customs of mankind. Thus, how 
 expressive, yet at the same time how familiar, is 
 that image which Otvvay has put into the mouth 
 
108 
 
 of Metellus, in his play of Caius Marius, where 
 he calls Sulpiciiis 
 
 That mad wild bull whom Marius lets loose 
 
 On each occasion, when he'd make Rome feel him, 
 
 To toss our laws and liberties i' th' air ! 
 
 But [ never met with a more agreeable, or a 
 more significant allusion, than one in Quintus 
 Curtius, which is borrowed from the most ordi- 
 nary object in common life. That author re- 
 presents Craterus as dissuading Alexander from 
 continuing his Indian expedition, against ene- 
 mies too contemptible, he tells him, for the 
 glory of his arms ; and concludes his speech 
 with the following beautiful thought : Citb gloria 
 obsok^cit in sordidis liostibus ; ntc quidquam in- 
 dignius est quam consumi mm ubi non potest 
 ostendi. Now I am got into Latin quotations, 
 I cannot forbear mentioning a most beautiful 
 passage, which I lately had the pleasure of 
 reading, and which I will venture to produce as 
 equal to any thing of the same kind, either in 
 ancient or modern composition. I met with it 
 in the speech of a young orator, to whom I have 
 the happiness to be related, and who will one 
 day, I persuade myself, prove as great an honour 
 to his country, as he is at present to that learn- 
 ed society of which he is a member. He is 
 
109 
 
 speaking of the writintrs of a celebrated prelate, 
 who received his education in that famous semi- 
 nary to which he belongs, and illustrates the 
 peculiar elegance which distinguishes all that 
 author's performances, by the following just and 
 pleasing assemblage of diction and imagery : 
 In quodcumque opus se parabaf {et per omnia 
 sane ^versatile iliuis se dii.vit ingenium) nescio 
 qua luce sibi soli propiid, id illuminavit ; haud 
 dissimili ei aureo Titiani radio, qui per tot am 
 tabulam gliscens earn ver^ suam denunciat. As 
 there is nothing more entertainincr to the imacri- 
 nation than the productions of the fine arts ; 
 there is no kind of simihtudes or metaphors 
 which are in general more striking, than those 
 which allude to their properties and effects. It 
 is with great judgment, therefore, that the in- 
 genious author of the dialogue concerning the 
 decline of eloquence among the Romans, re- 
 commends to his orator a general acquaintance 
 with the whole circle of the polite arts. A 
 knowledge of this sort furnishes an author with 
 illustrations of the most agreeable kind, and 
 sets a gloss upon his compositions which en- 
 livens them with singular grace and spirit. 
 
 Were I to point out the beauty and efficacy 
 of metaphorical language, by particular in- 
 stances, I should rather draw my examples 
 from the moderns than the ancients ; the lattev 
 
110 
 
 being scarcely, I think, so exact and delicate in 
 this article of composition, as the former. The 
 great improvements, indeed, in natural know- 
 ledge which have been made in these later ages, 
 have opened a vein of metaphor entirely un- 
 known to the ancients, and enriched the fancy 
 of modern wits with a new stock of the most 
 pleasing ideas : a circumstance which must give 
 them a very considerable advantage over the 
 Greeks and Romans. I am sure at least, of all 
 the writings with which I have been conversant, 
 the works of Mr. Addison will afford the most 
 abundant supply of this kind, in all its variety 
 and perfection. Truth and beauty of imagery 
 is, indeed, his characteristical distinction, and 
 the principal point of eminence which raises his 
 style above that of every author in any language 
 that has fallen within my notice. He is every 
 where highly figurative ; yet at the same time 
 he is the most easy and perspicuous writer I 
 have ever perused. Tlie reason is, his images 
 are always taken from the most natural and 
 familiar appearances ; as they are chosen with 
 the Lcmost delicacy and judgment. Suffer me 
 only to mention one out of a thousand I could 
 name, as it appears to me the finest and most 
 expressive that ever language conveyed. It is 
 in one of his inimitable papers upon Paradise 
 Lost, where he is taking notice of those changes 
 
Ill 
 
 in nature which the author of that truly divine 
 poem describes as immediately succeeding the 
 fall. Among other prodigies, Milton represents 
 the sun in an eclipse ; and at the same time a 
 bright cloud in the western region of the heavens 
 descending with a band of angels. Mr. Addi- 
 son, in order to shew liis author's art and judg- 
 ment in the conduct and disposition of this 
 sublime scenery, observes, " the whole theatre 
 of nature is darkened, that this glorious madiine 
 may appear in all its lustre and magnificence.'* 
 I know not, Orontes, whether you will agree in 
 sentiment with me ; but I must confess I am at 
 a loss which to admire most upon this occasion, 
 the poet or the critic. 
 
 There is a double beauty in images of this 
 kind when they are not only metaphors, but 
 allusions. I was much pleased -with an instance 
 of this uncommon species, in a little poem en- 
 titled The Spleen. The author of that piece 
 (who has thrown together more original thoua:hts 
 than I ever read in the same compass of lines) 
 speaking of the advantages of exercise in dissi- 
 pating those gloomy vapours, which ai"e so apt 
 to hang upon some minds, employs the follow- 
 ing image : 
 
 Throw but a stone, the giant dies. 
 
 Vou will observe, Orontes, that the metaphor 
 
112 
 
 here is conceived with great propriety of thought, 
 if we consider it only in its primary view ; but 
 when we see it pointing still farther, and hinting 
 at the story of David and Goliah, it receives a 
 very considerable improvement from this double 
 application. 
 
 It must be owned, some of the greatest 
 authors, both ancient and modern, have made 
 many remarkable slips in the management of 
 this figure, and have sometimes expressed them- 
 selves with as much impropriety as an honest 
 sailor of my acquaintance, a captain of a priva- 
 teer, who wrote an account to his owners of an 
 engagement, " in which he had the good for- 
 tune," he told them, " of having; only one of his 
 hands shot through the nose." The great caution 
 therefore should be, never to join any idea to a 
 figurative expression, which would not be appli- 
 cable to it in a literal sense. Thus Cicero, in 
 his treatise De Clajis Oratoribus, speaking of 
 the family of the Scipios, is guilty of an impro- 
 priety of this kind : O generosam stirpejn (says 
 he) et tanquam in unam arbor em plura genera, 
 sic in istani domum multorum insitamatgue illu- 
 minatam sapientiam. INlr. Addison, likewise, 
 has fallen into an error of the same sort, w'here 
 he observes, " There is not a single view of 
 human nature, which is not sufficient to extin- 
 guish the seeds of pride." In this passage he 
 
113 
 
 evidently unites images together, wiiich have no 
 connexion with each other. When a seed has 
 lost its power of vegetation, I might in a meta- 
 phorical sense say it is ejutinguished: but when, 
 in the same sense, I call that disposition of the 
 heart which prod aces pride the 6'e'dY/ of that pas- 
 sion, I cannot, without introducing a confusion 
 of ideas, apply any word to seed, but what cor- 
 responds with its real properties or circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Another mistake in the use of this figure is, 
 when different images are crowded too close 
 upon each other, or (to express myself after 
 Quintilian) w hen a sentence sets out with storms 
 and tempests, and ends with fire and flames. 
 A judicious reader will observe an impropriety 
 of this kind in one of the late essays of the ini- 
 mitable author last quoted, where he tells us, 
 " that w^omen were formed to temper mankind, 
 not to set an edge upon their minds, and blow 
 up in them those passions which are too apt to 
 rise of their own accord." Thus a celebrated 
 orator, speaking of that little blackening spirit 
 in mankind, which is fond of discovering spots 
 in the brightest ciiaracters, remarks, that when 
 persons of this cast of temper have mentioned 
 any virtue of their neighbour, " it is well if, to 
 balance the matter, they do not clap some fault 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 into the opposite scale, that so the enemy may 
 not go off' with Jli/h/g colours.'' Dr. Swift also, 
 whose style is the most pure and simple of any 
 of our classic writers, and who does not seem in 
 general very fond of the figurative manner, is 
 not alwavs free from censure in his management 
 of the metaphorical language. In his Essay on 
 the Dissensions of Athens and Rome, speaking 
 of the populace, he takes notice, that, " though 
 in their corrupt notions of divine worship, they 
 are apt to multiply their gods, yet their earthly 
 devotion is seldom paid to above one idol at a 
 time, whose oar they pull with less murmuring 
 and much more skill, than when they share the 
 lading, or even hold the helm." The most inju- 
 dicious writer could not possibly have fallen 
 into a more absurd inconsistency of metaphor, 
 than this eminent wit has inadvertently been 
 betrayed into, in this passage. For what con- 
 nexion is there between worshipping and i^ow- 
 ing, and who ever heard before of pulling the 
 oar of an idol ? 
 
 As there are certain metaphors which are 
 common to all languages ; there are others of 
 so delicate a nature, as not to bear transplanting 
 from one nation into another. There is no 
 part, therefore, of the business of a translator 
 more difficult to manage than this figure, as it 
 
115 
 
 requires great judgment to distinguish when it 
 may, and may not, be naturalized with pro- 
 priety and elegance. The want of this neces- 
 sary discernment has led the common race of 
 translators into great absurdities, and is one of 
 the principal reasons that performances of this 
 kind are generally so insipid. What strange 
 work, for instance, would an injudicious inter- 
 preter make with the following metaphor in 
 Homer ? 
 
 II. X. 173. 
 
 But Mr. Pope, by artfully dropping the parti- 
 cular image, yet retaining the general idea, has 
 happily preserved the spirit of his author, and 
 at the same time humoured the different taste 
 of his own countrymen : 
 
 Each single Greek, in this conclusive strife. 
 Stands on the sharpest edge of death or life. 
 
 And now, Orontes, do you not think it high 
 time to be dismissed from this fairy land ? Per- 
 mit me, however, just to add, that this 6gure, 
 which casts so much li2;ht and beauty upon 
 works of genius, ought to be entirely banished 
 from the severer compositions of ph;l')sophy. 
 It is the business of the latter to separate re- 
 semblances, not to find them, and to deliver 
 
 I 2 
 
116 
 
 her discoveries in the plainest and most unor- 
 namented expressions. Much dispute, and, per- 
 haps, many errors, might have been avoided, if 
 metaphor had been thus confined within its pro- 
 per limits, and never wandered from the regions 
 of eloquence and poetry. I am, &c. 
 
 I 
 
117 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 To Philotes. 
 
 August h, 1744. 
 Don't you begin to think that I ill deserve the 
 prescription you sent me, since I have scarce 
 had the manners even to thank you for it? It 
 must be confessed I have neglected to honour 
 my physician with the honour due unto him : 
 that is, I have omitted not only what I ought to 
 have performed in good-breeding, but what I 
 am expressly enjoined by my Bible. I am not, 
 however, entirely without excuse ; a silly one, 
 I own ; nevertheless, it is the truth. I have 
 lately been a good deal out of spirits. But at 
 length the fit is over. Amongst the number of 
 those things which are wanting to secure me 
 from a return of it, I must always reckon the 
 company of a friend. I have, indeed, frequent 
 occasion for you ; not in the way of your pro- 
 fession, but in a better : in the way of friend- 
 ship. There is a healing quality in that inter- 
 course, which a certain author has, with infinite 
 propriety, termed the medicine 0/ life. It is a 
 medicine which unluckily lies almost wholly out 
 of my reach ; fortune having separated me from 
 
118 
 
 those few friends whom I pretend or desire to 
 claim. General acquaintances, you know, I am 
 not much inclined to cultivate ; so that I am at 
 present as much secluded from society as if I 
 were a sojourner in a strange land. Though 
 retirement is my dear delight, yet, upon some 
 occasions, I think I have too much of it ; and 
 I agree with Balzac, que la solitude est certaine- 
 ment une belle chose : mais il y a plaisir d'avoir 
 quelguun qui sache repondre ; a qui on puisse 
 dire de terns en terns, que la solitude est une 
 belle chose. But I must not forget, that as I 
 sometimes want company, you may as often 
 wish to be alone ; and that I may, perhaps, be 
 at this instant breaking in upon one of those 
 hours which you desire to enjoy without inter- 
 ruption. I will only detain you therefore, whilst 
 I add, that I am, &c. 
 
119 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 To Phidippus. 
 
 May 1, 1745. 
 If that friend of yours, whom you are desirous 
 to ad i U. thp number of mine, were endued with 
 n ) otlier quality than the last you mentioned in 
 the catalojjue of his virtues; I should esteem his 
 acquaintance as one of my most valuable privi- 
 leges. When you assured me, therefore, of the 
 generosity of his disposition, I wanted no addi- 
 tional motive to embrace your proposal of join- 
 ing you and him at * *. To say truth, I con- 
 sider a generous mind as the noblest work of 
 the creation, and am persuaded, wherever it re- 
 sides, no real merit can be wanting. It is, per- 
 haps, the most singular of all the moral endow- 
 ments : I am sure at least, it is often imputed 
 where it cannot justly be claimed. The meanest 
 self-love, under some refined disguise, frequent- 
 ly passes upon common observers for this god- 
 like principle ; and I have known many a popu- 
 lar action attributed to this motive, when it flow- 
 ed from no higher a source than the suggestions 
 of concealed vanity. Good-nature, as it has 
 many features in common with this virtue, i> 
 
120 
 
 usually mistaken for it: the former, however, is 
 but the eft'ect, possibly, of a happy disposition 
 of the animal structure, or, as Dryden some- 
 where calls it, of a certain "milkinessof blood:" 
 whereas the latter is seated in the mind, and 
 can never subsist where good sense and enlarged 
 sentiments have no existence. It is entirely 
 founded, indeed, upon justness of thought: 
 which, perhaps, is the reason this virtue is so 
 little the characteristic of mankind in general. 
 A man, whose mind is warped by the selfish pas- 
 sions, or contracted by the narrow prejudices of 
 sects or parties, if he does not want honesty, 
 must undoubtedly want understanding. The 
 same clouds that darken his intellectual views, 
 obstruct his moral ones ; and bis generosity is 
 extremely circumscribed, because his reason is 
 exceedingly limited. 
 
 It is the distinguishing pre-eminence of the 
 Christian system, that it cherishes this elevated 
 principle in one of its noblest exertions. For- 
 giveness of injuries, I confess, indeed, has been 
 inculcated by several of the heathen moralists ; 
 but it never entered into the established ordi- 
 nances of any religion, till it had the sanction of 
 the great Author of ours. I have often, however, 
 wondered that the ancients, who raised so many 
 virtues and affections of the mind into divinities, 
 should never have given a place in their temples 
 
121 
 
 lo Generosity ; unless, perhaps, they included 
 it under the notion of fides or hoxos. But 
 surely she might reasonably have claimed a se- 
 parate altar, and superior rites. A principle of 
 honour may restrain a man Irom counteracting 
 the social ties, who yet has nothing of that active 
 flame of generosity, which is too powerful to be 
 confined within the humbler boundaries of mere 
 negative duties. True crenerosity rises above the 
 ordinary rules of social conduct, and flows with 
 much too full a stream to be comprehended 
 within the precise marks of formal precepts. It 
 is a vigorous principle in the soul, which opens 
 and expands all her virtues far beyond those 
 which are only the forced and unnatural produc- 
 tions of a timid obedience. The man who is in- 
 fluenced singly by motives of the latter kind, 
 aims no higher than at certain authoritative 
 standards, without ever attempting to reach those 
 glorious elevations, which constitute the only 
 true heroism of the social character. Religion, 
 without this sovereign principle, degenerates into 
 slavish fear, and wisdom into a specious cunning: 
 learning is but the avarice of the mind, and wit 
 its more pleasing kind of madness. In a word, 
 generosity sanctifies every passion, and adds 
 grace to every acquisition of the soul ; and if it 
 does not necessarily include, at least it reflects 
 
a lustre upon the whole circle of moral and in- 
 tellectual qualities. 
 
 But I am running into a general panegyric 
 upon generosity, when I only meant to acknow- 
 ledge the particular instance you have given me 
 of yours, in being desirous of communicating to 
 me a treasure, which I know much better how 
 to value than how to deserve. Be assured, 
 therefore, though Euphronius had none of those 
 polite accomplishments you enumerate, yet, alter 
 what you have informed me concerning his heart, 
 I should esteem his friendship of mure worth 
 than all the learning of ancient Greece, and all 
 the vh^ta of modern Italy. I am, &c. 
 
123 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 To Sappho.* 
 
 March 10, 1731. 
 While yet no atn'rous youths around thee bow, 
 Nor flattVing verse conveys the faithless vow; 
 To graver notes will Sappho's soul attend, 
 And ere she hears the lover, hear the friend ? 
 Let maids less bless'd employ their meaner 
 
 arts 
 To reign proud tyrants o'er unnumber'd hearts ; 
 May Sappho learn (for nobler triumphs born) 
 Those little conquests of her sex to scorn. 
 To form thy bosom to each generous deed; 
 To plant thy mind with ev'ry useful seed; 
 Be these thy arts ; nor spare the grateful toil, 
 Where nature's hand has bless'd the happy soil. 
 So shalt thou know, with pleasing skill to blend 
 The lovely mistress and instructive friend : 
 So shalt thou know, when unrelenting time 
 Shall spoil those charms yet op'ning to their 
 
 prime, 
 To ease the loss of beauty's transient flow'r, 
 While reason keeps what rapture gave before. 
 
 * A young lady of thirteen years of affe. 
 
124 
 
 And oh ! whilst wit, fair dawning, spreads its ray, 
 Serenely rising to a glorious day, 
 To hail the growing lustre oft be mine, 
 Thou early fav'rite of the sacred Nine ! 
 
 And shall the Muse with blameless boast pre- 
 tend, 
 In youth's gay bloom that Sappho call'd me 
 
 friend ; 
 That urg'd by me she shunn'd the dang'rous way. 
 Where heedless maids in endless error stray ; 
 That scorning soon her sex's idler art, 
 Fair praise inspir'd, and virtue warm'd her heart; 
 That fond to reach the distant paths of fame, 
 I taught her infant genius where to aim? 
 Thus when the feather'd choir first tempt the sky, 
 And, all unskill'd, their feeble pinions try, 
 Th' experienc'd sire prescribes th' advent'rous 
 
 height. 
 Guides the young wing, and pleas'd attends the 
 flight. 
 
125 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 To Phidippus. 
 
 Yes, Phidippus, I entirely agree with you ; the 
 ancients most certainly had much loftier notions 
 of friendship, than seem to be generally enter- 
 tained at present. But may they not justly be 
 considered, on this subject, as downright enthu- 
 siasts ? Whilst indeed they talk of friendship as 
 a virtue, or place it in a rank little inferior, I 
 can admire the generous warmth of their senti- 
 ments ; but when they go so far as to make it a 
 serious question, whether justice herself ought 
 not in some particular cases to yield to this their 
 supreme affection of the heart; there, I confess, 
 they leave me far behind. 
 
 If we had not a treatise extant upon the sub- 
 ject, we should scarce believe this fact upon the 
 credit of those authors who have delivered it 
 down to us : but Cicero himself has ventured to 
 take the affirmative side of this debate in his 
 celebrated dialogue inscribed L«lius. He fol- 
 lowed, it seems, in this notion, the sentiments 
 of the Grecian Theophrastus, who publicly main- 
 tained the same astonishing theory. 
 
126 
 
 It must be confessed, however, these admirers 
 of the false sublime in friendship, talk upon this 
 subject with so much caution and in such gene- 
 ral terms, that one is inclined to think they them- 
 selves a little suspected the validity of those very 
 principles they would inculcate. We find, at 
 least, a remarkable instance to that purpose, in 
 a circumstance related of Chilo, one of those 
 famous sages who are distinguished by the pom- 
 pous title of the wise men of Greece. 
 
 That celebrated philosopher, being upon his 
 death- bed, addressed himself, we are informed, 
 to his friends who stood round him, to the fol- 
 lowing effect: " I cannot, through the course 
 of a long life, look back with uneasiness upon 
 any single instance of my conduct, unless, per- 
 haps, on that which I am going to mentiori, 
 wherein, I confess, I am still doubtful whether 
 I acted as I ought, or not. I was once appoint- 
 ed judge in conjunction with two others, when 
 my particular friend was arraigned before us. 
 Were the laws to have taken their free course, 
 he must inevitably have been condemned to die. 
 After much debate therefore with .myself, I re- 
 solved upon this expedient : I gave my own vote 
 according to my conscience, but at the same 
 time employed all my eloquence to prevail with 
 my associates to absolve the criminal. Now I 
 
127 
 
 cannot but reflect upon this act with concern, as 
 fearing there was something of perfidy, in per- 
 suading others to go counter to what I myself 
 esteemed right." 
 
 It does not, certainly, require any great depth 
 of casuistry to pronounce upon a case of this na- 
 ture. And yet, had TuUy, that great master of 
 reason, been Chilo's confessor upon this occa- 
 sion, it is very plain he would have given him 
 absolution, to the just scandal of the most igno- 
 rant curate that ever lulled a country village. 
 
 What I have here observed, will suggest, if I 
 mistake not, a very clear answer to the question 
 you propose : " Whence it should happen, that 
 we meet with instances of friend?hip among the 
 Greeks and Romans, far superior to any thing 
 of the same kind which modern times have pro. 
 duced?" For while the greatest geniuses among 
 them employed their talents in exalting this noble 
 affection, and it was encouraged even by the 
 laws themselves; what effects might one not 
 expect to arise from the concurrence of such 
 powerful causes ? The several examples of this 
 kind which you have pointed out, are undoubtedly 
 highly animating and singular; to which give 
 me leave to add one instance no less remarkable, 
 though, I think, not so commonly observed. 
 
 Eudamidas the Corinthian, (as the story is re- 
 lated in Lucian's Toxaris,) though in low cir- 
 
cumstances himself, was happy in the friendship 
 of two very wealthy persons, Charixenus and 
 Aretheus. Eudamidas, finding himself drawing 
 near his end, made his will in the following 
 terms : " I leave my mother to Aretheus, to be 
 maintained and protected by him in her old age. 
 I bequeath to Charixenus the care of my daugh- 
 ter; desiring that he would see her disposed of 
 in marriage, and portion her at the same time 
 with as ample a fortune as his circumstances 
 shall admit : and, in case of the death of either 
 of these my two friends, I substitute the sur- 
 vivor in his place." 
 
 This will was looked upon by some (as we 
 may well imagine) to be extremely ridiculous : 
 however, the legatees received information of it 
 with very different sentiments, accepting of their 
 respective legacies with great satisfaction. It 
 happened that Charixenus died a few days after 
 his friend the testator; the survivorsliip there- 
 fore taking place in favour of Aretheus, he ac- 
 cordingly not only took upon himself the care of 
 his friend's mother, but also made an equal dis- 
 tribution of his estate between this child of Eu- 
 damidas, and an only daughter of his own, so- 
 lemnizing both their marriages on the same day. 
 
 I do not recollect that any of the moderns 
 have raised their notions of friendship to these 
 extravagant heights, excepting only a very sin- 
 
129 
 
 gular French author, who talks in a more roman- 
 tic strain upon this subject than even the ancients 
 themselves. Could you, Phidippus, believe a 
 man in earnest, who should assert that the secret 
 one has sworn never to reveal, may without per- 
 jury be discovered to one's friend? Yet the 
 honest Montaigne has ventured gravely to ad- 
 vance this extraordinary doctrine, in clear and 
 positive terms. But I never knew a sensible 
 man in my life, that was not an enthusiast upon 
 some favourite point ; as indeed there is none 
 where it is more excusable than in the article of 
 friendship. It is that which affords the most 
 pleasing sunshine of our days ; if therefore we 
 see it now and tlien break out vv'ith a more than 
 reasonable warmth and lustre, who is there that 
 will not be inclined to pardon an excess, which 
 can only flow from the most generous principles p 
 Adieu. T am, &c. 
 
130 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 July 3, 1746. 
 When I mentioned grace as essential in con- 
 stituting a fine writer, I rather hoped to have 
 found my sentiments reflected back with a clearer 
 light by yours ; than imagined you would have 
 called upon me to explain in form, what I only 
 threw out by accident. To confess the truth, I 
 know not whether, after all that can be said to 
 illustrate this uncommon quality, it must not at 
 last be resolved into the poet's nequeo monstrare 
 et sentio tantum. In cases of this kind, where 
 language does not supply us with proper words 
 to express the notions of one's mind, we can 
 enly convey Qur sentiments in figurative terms : 
 a defect which necessarily introduces some ob- 
 scurity. 
 
 I will not, therefore, undertake to mark out, 
 with any sort of precision, that idea which I 
 would express by the word grace: and, perhaps, 
 it can no more be clearly described than justly 
 defined. To give you, however, a general inti- 
 mation of what I mean when I apply that term 
 
131 
 
 to compositions of genius, I would resemble it 
 to that easy air, which so remarkably distin- 
 guishes certain persons of a genteel and liberal 
 cast. It consists, not only in the .particular, 
 beauty of single parts, but arises from the gene- 
 ral symmetry and construction of the whole. An 
 author may be just in his sentiments, lively in 
 his figures, and clear in his expression; yet may 
 have no claim to be admitted into the rank of 
 finished writers. Those several members must 
 be so agreeably united as mutually to reflect 
 beauty upon each other: their arrangement must 
 be so happily disposed as not to admit of the 
 least transposition without manifest prejudice to 
 the entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, 
 the allusions, and the diction, should appear easy 
 and natural, and seem to arise like so many 
 spontaneous productions, rather than as the ef- 
 fects of art or labour. 
 
 Whatever, therefore, is forced, or affected, in 
 the sentiments ; whatever is pompous or pedan- 
 tic in the expression, is the very reverse oi grace. 
 Her mien is neither that of a prude nor a coquet; 
 she is regular without formality, and sprightly 
 without being fantastical. Grace, in short, is to 
 good writing what a proper light is to a fine "pic- 
 ture ; it not only shows all the figures in their 
 
 K 2 
 
132 
 
 several proportions and relations, but shows them 
 in the most advantageous manner. 
 
 As gentility (to resume my former illustration) 
 appears in the minutest action, and improves 
 the most inconsiderable gesture ; so grace is dis- 
 covered in the placing even of a single word, or 
 the turn of a mere expletive. Neither is this in- 
 expressible quality confined to one species of 
 composition only, but extends to all the various 
 kinds ; to the humble pastoral as well as to the 
 lofty epic; from the slightest letter to the most 
 solemn discourse. 
 
 I know not whether Sir William Temple may 
 not be considered as the first of our prose au- 
 thors, who introduced a graceful manner into 
 our language. At least that quality does not 
 seem to have appeared early, or spread far, 
 amongst us. But Avheresoever we may look for 
 its origin, it is certainly to be found in its highest 
 perfection in the essays of a gentleman whose 
 writings will be distinguished so long as polite- 
 ness and good-sense have any admirers. That 
 becoming air which TuUy esteemed the criterion 
 of fine composition, and which every reader, he 
 says, imagines so easy to be imitated, yet will 
 find so difficult to attain, is the prevailing cha- 
 racteristic of all that excellent author's most ele- 
 
133 
 
 gant performances. In a word, one may justly 
 apply to him what Plato, in his allegorical lan- 
 guage, says of Aristophanes; that the Graces 
 having searched all the world round for a temple 
 wherein they might for ever dwell, settled at last 
 in the breast of Mr. Addison. Adieu. I am, 
 &c. 
 
134 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 To Clytander. 
 
 Can it then be true, Clytander, that, after all 
 the fine things which have been said concerning 
 the love of our country, it owes its rise to the 
 principles you mention, and was originally pro- 
 pagated among mankind in order to cheat them 
 into the service of the community ? And is it 
 thus, at last, that the most generous of the 
 human passions, instead of bearing the sacred 
 signature of nature, can produce no higher marks 
 of its legitimacy than the suspicious impress of 
 art? The question is worth, at least, a few 
 thoughts ; and I will just run over the principal 
 objections in your letter, without drawing them 
 up, however, in a regular form. 
 
 That the true happiness of the individual can- 
 not arise from the single exercise of the mere 
 selfish principles, is evident, I think, above all 
 reasonable contradiction. If a man would 
 thoroughly enjoy his own being, he must of ne- 
 cessity look beyond it ; his private satisfactions 
 always increasing in the same proportion with 
 which he promotes those of others. Thus self- 
 
135 
 
 interest, if rightly directed, flows through the 
 nearer charities of relations, friends, and de- 
 pendents, till it rises, and dilates itself into ge- 
 neral benevolence. But if every addition which 
 we make to the welfare of others be really an 
 advancement of our own ; the love of our coun- 
 try must necessarily, upon a principle of self- 
 interest, be a passion founded in the strictest 
 reason ; because it is a disposition pregnant 
 with the greatest possible good, which the li- 
 mited powers of man are capable of producing. 
 Benevolence, therefore, points to our country, 
 as to her only adequate mark : whatever falls 
 short of that glorious end, is too small for her 
 full gratification : and all beyond is too immense 
 for her grasp. 
 
 Thus our country appears to have a claim to 
 our affection, as it has a correspondent passion 
 in the human breast : a passion, not raised by 
 the artifices of policy, or propagated by the in- 
 fection of enthusiasm, but necessarily resulting 
 from the original constitution of our species, and 
 conducive to the highest private advantage of 
 each individual. When Curtius, therefore, or 
 the two Decii, sacrificed their lives, in order to 
 rescue their community from the calamities with 
 which it was threatened ; they were by no 
 means impelled (as you seemed to represent 
 
them) by a political phrenzy, but acted on the 
 most solid and rational principles. The method 
 they pursued for that purpose, was dictated, I 
 confess, by the most absurd and groundless 
 superstition : yet while the impression of that 
 national belief remained strong upon their 
 minds, and they ^vere thoroughly persuaded 
 that falling, in the manner we are assured they 
 did, was the only effectual means of preserving 
 their country from ruin; they took the most 
 rational measures of consulting their private 
 happiness, by thus consenting to become the 
 public victims. Could it even he admitted 
 (what, with any degree of probability, never, 
 indeed, can be admitted), that these glorious 
 heroes considered fame as the vainest of sha- 
 dows, and had no hopes of an after-life in any 
 other scene of existence; still however their 
 conduct might be justified as perfectly wise. 
 For surely, to a mind that was not wholly im- 
 mersed in the lowest dregs of the most con- 
 tracted selfishness ; that had not totally extin- 
 guished every generous and social affection; 
 the thoughts of having preferred a mere joyless 
 existence (for such it must have been) to the 
 supposed preservation of numbers of one's fel- 
 low-creatures, must have been far more painful 
 than a thousand deaths. 
 
137 
 
 I cannot, however, but agree with you, that 
 this affection was productive of infinite mischief 
 to mankind, as it broke out among the Romans, 
 in the impious spirit of their unjust conquests. 
 But it should be remembered, at the same time, 
 that it is the usual artifice of ambition, to mask 
 herself in the semblance of patriotism. And it 
 can be no just objection to the noblest of the 
 social passions, that it is capable of being in- 
 flamed beyond its natural heat, and turned, by 
 the arts of policy, to promote those destructive 
 purposes, which it was originally implanted to 
 prevent. 
 
 This zeal for our country may, indeed, be- 
 come irrational, not only when it thus pushes us 
 on to act counter to the natural rights of any 
 other community ; but likewise when it impels 
 us to take the measures of violence in opposi- 
 tion to the general sense of our own. For may 
 not public happiness be estimated by the same 
 standard as that of private? and as every man's 
 own opinion must determine his particular satis- 
 faction ; shall not the general opinion be consi- 
 dered as decisive in the question concerning 
 general interest? Far am I, ho\\ ever, from insi- 
 nuating, that the true welfare of mankind, in 
 their collective capacities, depends singly upon 
 
138 
 
 a prevailing fancy, any more than it does in their 
 separate; undoubtedly in both instances they 
 may equally embrace a false interest. But 
 "whenever this is the case, I should hardly ima- 
 gine that the love of our country, on the one 
 hand, or of our neighbour, on the other, would 
 justify any methods of bringing them to a wiser 
 choice, than those of calm and rational per- 
 suasion. 
 
 I cannot at present recollect which of the 
 ancient authors it is that mentions the Cappa- 
 docians to have been so enamoured of subjec- 
 tion to a despotic power, as to refuse the enjoy- 
 ment of their liberties, though generously ten- 
 dered to them by the Romans. Scarcely, 1 
 suppose, can there be an instance produced of 
 a more remarkable depravity of national taste, 
 and of a more false calculation of public wel- 
 fare : yet even in this instance it should seem 
 the highest injustice to have attempted by force, 
 and at the expence, perhaps, of half the lives in 
 the state, the introduction of a more improved 
 system of government. 
 
 In this notion I am not singular, but have 
 the authority of Plato himself on my side, who 
 held it as a maxim of undoubted truth in poli- 
 tics, that the prevailing sentiments of a state, 
 
139 
 
 how much soever mistaken, ought by no means 
 to be opposed by the measures of violence : a 
 maxim, which if certain pretended or misguided 
 patriots had happily embraced, much effusion 
 of civil blood had been lately spared to our 
 nation. Adieu. I am, &c. • 
 
140 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 To Palamedes. 
 
 Nov. 4, 1740. 
 The dawn is overcast, the morning lours. 
 And heavily with clouds brings on the day. 
 
 How then can I better disappoint the gloomy 
 effects of a louring sky, than by calling my 
 thoughts off from the dull scene before me, 
 and placing them upon an object which I always 
 consider with pleasure? Much, certainly, are 
 we indebted to that happy faculty, by which, 
 with a sort of magic power, we can bring before 
 one's mind whatever has been the subject of its 
 most agreeable contemplation. In vain, there- 
 fore, would that lovely dame, who has so often 
 been the topic of our conversations, pretend to 
 enjoy you to herself: in spite of your favourite 
 philosophy, or even of a more powerful divinity ; 
 in spite of Fortune herself, I can place you in 
 my view, though half a century of miles lies be- 
 tween us. But am I for ever to be indebted to 
 imagination only for your presence? and will 
 you not sometimes let me owe that pleasure to 
 yourself? Surely you might spare me a few 
 weeks before the summer ends, without any in- 
 
141 
 
 convenience to that noble plan upon which 1 
 know you are so intent. As for my own studies, 
 they go on but slowly : I am, like a traveller 
 without a guide in an unknown country, obliged 
 to enquire the way at every turning, and conse- 
 quently cannot advance with all the expedition 
 I could wish. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
142 
 
 LETTER XXXII. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 August 10, 174S». 
 Forgive me, Palamedes, if I mistrust an art, 
 which the greatest of philosophers has called 
 the art of deceiving, and by which the first of 
 orators could persuade the people that he had 
 conquered at the athletic games, though they 
 saw him fall at his adversary's feet. The voice 
 of Eloquence should ever, indeed, be heard with 
 caution ; and she, whose boast it has formerly 
 been, to make little things appear considerable, 
 may diminish objects, perhaps, as well as en- 
 large them, and lessen even the charms of re- 
 pose. But I have too long experienced the 
 joys of retirement, to quit her arms for a more 
 lively mistress ; and I can look upon ambition, 
 though adorned in all the ornaments of your 
 oratory, with the cool indifference of the most 
 confirmed Stoic. To confess the whole truth, I 
 am too proud to endure a repulse, and too 
 humble to hope for success : qualities little 
 favourable, I imagine, to the pretensions of him 
 who would claim the glittering prizes, which 
 animate those that run the race of ambition. 
 
143 
 
 Let those honours, then, you mention, be in- 
 scribed on the tombs of others ; be it rather 
 told on mine, that I lived and died 
 
 Unplac'd, unpension'd, no man's heir or slave. 
 
 And is not this a privilege as valuable as any of 
 those which you have painted to my view, in 
 all the warmest colours of your enlivening elo- 
 quence ? Bruyere, at least, has just now assured 
 me, that, " to pay one's court to no man, nor 
 expect any to pay court to you, is the most 
 agreeable of all situations ; it is the true golden 
 age," says he, " and the most natural state of 
 man." 
 
 Believe me, however, I am not in the mistake 
 of those whom you justly condemn, as ima- 
 gining that wisdom is the companion only of 
 retirement, and that virtue enters not the more 
 open and conspicuous walks of life : but I will 
 confess, at the same time, that though it is to 
 Tully I give my applause, it is Atticus that has 
 my affection. 
 
 *' Life," says a celebrated ancient, " may be 
 compared to the Olympic games : some enter 
 into those assemblies for glory, and others for 
 gain ; while there is a third party (and those by 
 no means the most contemptible) who choose 
 to be merely spectators." I need not tell you, 
 Palamedes, how early it was my inclination to 
 
144 
 
 be numbered with the last ; and as nature has 
 not formed me with powers, am I not obliged 
 to her for having divested me of every inclina- 
 tion, for bearing a part in the ambitious conten- 
 tions of the world? Providence, indeed, seems 
 to have designed some tempers for the obscure 
 scenes of life ; as there are some plants which 
 flourish best in the shade. But the lowest shrub 
 has its use, you are sensible, as well as the 
 loftiest oak ; and, perhaps, your friend may 
 find some method of convincing you, that even 
 the humblest talents are not given in vain. 
 Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
146 
 
 LETTER XXXIII. 
 To Palemon. 
 
 May 2S, 1748. 
 Is it possible you can thus descend from the 
 highest concerns to the lowest, and, after deli- 
 berating upon the affairs of Europe, have the 
 humility to inquire into mine? But the greatest 
 statesmen, it seems, have their trifling as well 
 as their serious hours ; and I have read of a 
 Roman consul that amused himself with gather- 
 ing cockle-shells, and of a Spartan monarch who 
 was found riding upon a hobby-horse. Or shall 
 I rather say, that friendship gilds every object 
 upon which she shines ? As it is the singular 
 character of Palemon to preserve that generous 
 flame in all its strength and lustre, amidst that 
 ambitious atmosphere which is generally esteem- 
 ed so unfavourable to every brighter affection. 
 It is upon one or other of those principles 
 alone, that you can be willing to suspend your 
 own more important engagements, by attending' 
 to an account of mine. They have lately, in- 
 deed, been more diversified than usual, and I 
 have passed these three months in a continual 
 succession of new scenes. The most agreeable, 
 
 1. 
 
J 46 
 
 as well as the farthest part of my progress, was 
 to the seat of Hortensius ; and I am persuaded 
 you will not think my travels have been in vain, 
 since they afford me an opportunity of inform- 
 ing you, that our friend is in possession of all 
 that happiness which I am sure you wish him. 
 It is probable, however, you have not yet heard 
 that he owes the chief part of it to female merit; 
 for his marriage was concluded even before 
 those friends, who are most frequently with 
 him, had the least suspicion of his intentions. 
 But though he had some reasons for concealing 
 his designs, he has none for being ashamed of 
 thein now they are executed. I say not this 
 from any hasty approbation, but as having long 
 Icnown and esteemed the lady whom he has 
 chosen: and as there is a pleasure in bringing 
 two persons of merit to the knowledge of each 
 other, will you allow me, in the remainder of 
 this letter, to intfoduce her to your acquaintance ? 
 Hortensia is of a good stature, and perfectly 
 well proportioned ; but one cannot so properly 
 say her air is genteel, as that it is pleasing: for 
 there is a certain unaffected carelessness in her 
 dress and mien, that wins by degrees rather 
 than strikes ^at first sight. If you were to look 
 no farther than the upper part of her face, you 
 would think her handsome ; were you only to 
 examine the lower, you would immediately pro- 
 
147 
 
 nounce the reverse ; yet there is something in 
 her eyes, which, without any pretence to be 
 called fine, gives such an agreeable liveliness to 
 her whole countenance, that you scarce observe, 
 or soon forget, all her features are not regular. 
 Her conversation is rather cheerful than gay, 
 and more instructive than sprightly. But the 
 principal and most distinguished faculties of her 
 mind are her memory and her judgment, both 
 which she possesses in a far higher degree than 
 one usually finds even in persons of our sex. 
 She has read most of the capital authors both 
 in French and English ; but her chief and fa- 
 vourite companions of that kind have lain among 
 the historical and dramatic writers. There is 
 hardly a remarkable event in ancient or modern 
 story, of which she cannot give a very clear and 
 judicious account; as she is equally well versed 
 in all the principal characters and incidents of 
 the most approved stage compositions. The 
 mathematics is not wholly a stranger to her ; 
 and though she did not think proper to pursue 
 her inquiries of that kind to any great length, 
 yet the very uncommon facility with which she 
 entered into the reasonings of that science, 
 plainly discovered she was capable of attaining 
 a thorough knowledsfe of all its most abstruse 
 branches. Her taste in performances of polite 
 literature is always just ; and she is.an excellent 
 
148 
 
 critic, without knowing any thing of the artificial 
 rules of that science. Her observations, there- 
 fore, upon subjects of that sort, are so much 
 the more to be relied upon, as they are the pure 
 and unbiassed dictates of nature and good sense. 
 Accordingly Hortensius, in the several pieces 
 which you know he has published, constantly 
 had recourse to her judgment ; and I have often 
 heard him, upon those occasions, apply with 
 singular pleasure, and with equal truth, what 
 the tender Propertius says of his favourite Cyn- 
 thia : 
 
 Me juvat in gremio doctae legisse puellae, 
 Auribus ct puris scripta probasse mea -. 
 
 Haec ubi contigerint, popuH confusa valeto 
 Fabula ; nam, domina judice, tutus ero. 
 
 But her uncommon strength of understand- 
 ing has preserved her from that fatal "rock of 
 all female knowledge, the impertinent ostenta- 
 tion of it ; and she thinks a reserve in this arti- 
 cle an essential part of that modesty which is 
 the ornament of her sex. I have heard her ob- 
 serve, th£it it is not in the acquired endowments 
 of the female mind, as in the beauties of her 
 person, where it may be sufficient praise, per- 
 haps, to follow the example of the virgin de- 
 scribed by Tasso, who, i 
 
 Non copre sue bellezze, e nou I'espose. • 
 
149 
 
 On the contrary, she esteems it a point of de- 
 cency to thro'v a veil over the superior charms 
 of her understanding : and if ever she draws it 
 aside, you plainly perceive it is rather to gratify 
 her good -nature than her vanity ; less in com- 
 pliance with her own inclinations, than with 
 those of her company. 
 
 Her refined sense and extensive knowledge 
 have not, however, raised her above the more 
 necessary acquisitions of female science ; they 
 have only taught her to fill that part of her 
 character with higher grace and dignity. She 
 enters into all the donjestic duties of her station 
 with the most consummate skill and prudence. 
 Her (economical deportment is calm and steady ; 
 and she presides over her family like the Intel- 
 ligence of some planetary orb, conducting it in 
 all its proper directions without violence or dis- 
 turbed efforts. 
 
 These qualities, however considerable they 
 might appear in a less shining character, are 
 but under parts in Hortensia's : for it is from 
 the virtues of her heart that she derives her 
 most irresistible claim to esteem and approba- 
 tion. A constant flow of uniform and unaffect- 
 ed cheerfulness gladdens her own breast, and 
 enlivens that of every creature around her. Her 
 behaviour under the injuries she has received 
 (for injuries even the blameless Hortensia has 
 
150 
 
 received) was with all the calm fortitude of the 
 most heroic patience ; as she firmly relied, that 
 Providence would either put an end to her misi- 
 fortunes, ar s-upport her under them. And witb 
 that elevated hope she seemed to feel less foe 
 herself, than for the unjust and inhuman author 
 of her sufferings, generously lamenting to see 
 one, so neai'ly related to her, stand condemned 
 by that severest and most significant of sen- 
 tences, the united reproaclies of the world and 
 of his conscience. 
 
 Thus, Palemon, I have given you a faithful 
 copy of an excellent original : but whether you 
 will join with me in thinking my pencil has been 
 true to its subject, must be left ta some future 
 opportunity to determine. I am, &c. 
 
151 
 LETTER XXXIV. 
 
 To HofiTEXSIUS. 
 
 Dec. 10, 1730. 
 
 1 HAVE read over the treatise you recommend- 
 ed to me, with attention and concern. I was 
 sorry to find an author, who seems so well 
 qualified to serve the cause of truth, employing 
 his talents in favour of what appeai-s to me a 
 most dangerous error. I have often wondered, 
 indeed, at the policy of certain philosophers of 
 this cast, vvho endeavour to advance religion by 
 depreciating human nature. Methinks it would 
 be more for the interest of virtue, to represent 
 her congenial (as congenial she surely is) with 
 our make, and agreeable to our untainted con- 
 stitution of soul ; to prove that every deviation 
 from moral rectitude is an opposition to our 
 native bias, and contrary to those characters of 
 dignity which the Creator has universally im- 
 pressed upon the mind. This, at least, Mas the 
 principle which many of the ancient philoso- 
 phers laboured to inculcate ; as there is not, 
 perhaps, any single topic in ethics that might 
 be ur^ed with more truth or creater efiicacv. 
 
152 
 
 It is upon this generous and exalted notion 
 of our species, that one of the noblest precepts 
 of the excellent Pythagoras is founded : Uavrwv 
 
 Se jj.a.Xi<Tta, (says that philosopher) aia-y^wso (ravrov. 
 
 The first and leading disposition to engage us 
 on the side of virtue, was, in that sage's esti- 
 mation, to preserve above all things a constant 
 reverence to our own mind, and to dread no- 
 thing so much as to offend against its native 
 dignity. The ingenious Mr. Norris, I remem- 
 ber, recommends this precept as one of the 
 best, perhaps, that was ever given to the world. 
 May one not justly then be surprised to find it 
 so seldom enforced in our modern systems of 
 morality ? To confess the truth, I am strongly- 
 inclined to suspect, that much of that general 
 contempt of every manly principle, which so re- 
 markably distinguishes the present times, may 
 fairly be attributed to the humour of discarding 
 this animating notion of our kind. It has been 
 the fashion to paint human nature in the harshest 
 and most unpleasing colours. Yet there is not, 
 surely, any argument more likely to induce a 
 man to act unworthily, than to persuade him 
 that he has nothing of innate worthiness in his 
 genuine disposition ; than to reason him out of 
 every elevated notion of his own grandeur of 
 soul ; and to destroy, in short, every motive 
 
153 
 
 that might justly inspire him with a principle 
 of self reverence, that surest internal guard 
 Heaven seems to have assisined to the human 
 virtues. Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
LETTER XXXV. 
 
 To Cleora. 
 
 Though it was not possible for me to celebrate^ 
 with you, as usual, that happy anniversary 
 which we have so many reasons to commemo- 
 rate, yet I could not suffer so joyful a festival 
 to pass by me without a thousand tender re- 
 flections. I took pleasure in tracing back that 
 stream to its rise, which has coloured all my 
 succeeding days with happiness ; as my Cleora, 
 perhaps, was at that very instant running over 
 in her own mind those many moments of calm 
 satisfaction which she has derived from the same 
 source. 
 
 My heart was so entirely possessed with the 
 sentiments which this occasion suggested, that I 
 found myself raised into a sort of poetical en- 
 thusiasm ; and I could not forbear expressing 
 in verse, what I have often said in prose, of the 
 dear author of my most valuable enjoyments. 
 As I imagined Teraminta would by this time be 
 with you, I had a view to her harpsichord in the 
 composition, and I desire you would let her 
 know, I hope she will shew me, at my return, 
 to what advantage the most ordinary numbers 
 
155 
 
 wHt appear, when judiciously accompanied with 
 a fine voice and instrument. 
 
 I must not forget to tell you, it was in your 
 fevourite gfove, which we have so often tra- 
 versed together, that I indulged myself in these 
 pleasing reveries; as it was not, you-aretasup- 
 posej without having first invoked the Genius 
 of the place, and called upon the Muses in due 
 form, that I broke out in the following rhap- 
 sody: 
 
 ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 Air I. 
 
 Thrice has the circling earth, swift-pacing, run, 
 
 And thrice again around the sun, 
 Since first the white-rob'd priest, with sacred 
 band, 
 
 Sweet union ! join'd us hand in hand. 
 
 Cho.rus. 
 All Heav'n, and ev'ry friendly pow'r, 
 Approv'd the vow, and bless'd the hour. 
 
 Recitative. 
 What though in silence sacred Hymen trod. 
 Nor lyre proclaim'd, nor garland CFOwn'd the 
 God; 
 
156 
 
 What though nor feast nor revel dance was 
 
 there, 
 (Vain pomp of joy the happy well may spare!) 
 Yet Love unfeign'd, and conscious Honour, led 
 The spotless virgin to the bridal bed ; 
 Rich, though despoil W of all her little store ; 
 For who shall seize fair virtue's better dovv'r ? 
 
 Air II. 
 
 Blest with sense, with temper blest, 
 Wisdom o'er thy lips presides ; 
 
 Virtue guards thy gen'rous breast, 
 Kindness all thy actions guides. 
 
 Am III. 
 
 Ev'ry home-felt bliss is mine, 
 Ev'ry matron grace is thine ; 
 Chaste deportment, artless liiien, 
 Converse sweet, and heart serene. 
 
 Sinks my soul with gloomy pain ? 
 See, she smiles ! — 'tis joy again ! 
 Swells a passion in my breast? 
 Hark, she speaks ! and all is rest. 
 
 Oft as clouds my paths o'erspread 
 (Doubtful where my steps should tread). 
 She, with judgment's steady ray, 
 Marks, and smooths, the better way. 
 
\57 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Chief amongst ten thousand she, 
 Worthy, sacred Hymen! thee. 
 
 While such are the sentiments which I enter- 
 tain of my Cleora, can 1 find myself obliged to 
 be thus distant from her, without the highest 
 regret ? The truth, believe me, is, though both 
 the company and the scene wherein I am en- 
 gaged are extremely agreeable, yet I find a 
 vacancy in my happiness, which none but you 
 can fill up. Surely those who have recom- 
 mended these little separations as necessary to 
 revive the languor of tlie married state, have ill 
 understood its most refined gratifications : there 
 is DO satiety in the mutual exchange of tender 
 offices. 
 
 There seems to have been a time, when a 
 happiness of this kind was considered as the 
 highest glory, as well as the supreme blessing 
 of human life. I remember, when I was in 
 Italy, to have seen several conjugal inscriptions 
 upon the sepulchral monuments of ancient 
 Rome, which, instead of running out into a 
 pompous panegyric upon the virtues of the de- 
 ceased, mentioned singly, as the most significant 
 of encomiums, how many years the parties had 
 lived together in full and uninterri'pted har- 
 mony. Tiie Romans, indeed, in this, as in 
 
many other instances, afford the most remark- 
 able examples ; and it is an observation of one 
 of their w riters, that, notwithstanding divorces 
 might very easily be obtained among them, their 
 republic had subsisted many centuries, before 
 there was a single instance of that privilege evet 
 having been exerted. Thus, my Cleora, you 
 see, however unfashionable I may appear in thte 
 present generation, I might have been kept in 
 countenance in a former; and by those tOJo 
 who had as much true gallantry and good-sensis 
 as one usually meets with in this. — ^But affec- 
 tions which are founded in truth and nature 
 stand not in need of any precedent ito^support 
 them; audi esteem it my honourino less than 
 my happiness, that I am, &c. 
 
150 
 
 iLETTER XXXVL 
 
 To Clytandeii, 
 
 Did you imagine I was really in earnest, when 
 i talked of quitting * * *, and withdrawing from 
 those gilded prospects 'vvhich ambition had once 
 so strongly -set in iny view? But my vows, you 
 see, are not in the number of those which are 
 made to be broken: for the retreat 1 had long 
 meditated, is now, at last, happily executed. 
 To say truth, my friend, the longer I lived in 
 the high scenes of action, the more I was con- 
 vinced that nature had not formed me for bear- 
 ing a part in them : and though I was once so 
 unexperienced in the ways of the world as to 
 believe I had talents, as I was sure I had in- 
 clination, to serve my country, yet every day 'is 
 conversation contributed to wean me by degrees 
 from that flatterino- delusion. 
 
 How indeed could a man hope to render 
 himself acceptable to the Tarious parties whicli 
 divide our nation, w ho professes it as his prin- 
 ciple, that * there is no striking wholly into the 
 measures of any, without renouncing either one's 
 ■<eme or one's integrity? and yet, as the world is at 
 preseut constituted, it is' scarce possible, T fear^ 
 
160 
 
 to do any good in one's generation (in public 
 life I mean), without listing under some or other 
 of those various banners which distinguish the 
 several corps in these our political warfares. 
 To those, therefore, who may have curiosity 
 enough to enter into my concerns, and ask a 
 reason for my quitting the town, I answer, in 
 the words of the historian, Civitatis morum 
 tcsdet pigefgue. — But I am wandering from the 
 purpose of my letter, which was not so much to 
 justify my retreat, as to incline you to follow 
 me into it : to follow me, I mean, as a visitor 
 only ; for I love my country too well to call you 
 off from those great services you are capable of 
 doing her. 
 
 I have pitched my tent upon a spot which 
 I am persuaded will not displease you. My 
 villa (if you will allow me to call by that fine 
 name, what, in truth, is no better than a neat 
 farm-house) is situated upon a gentle rise, which 
 commands a short, though agreeable, view of 
 about three miles in circumference. This is 
 bounded on the north by a ridge of hills, which 
 afford me at once both a secure shelter and a 
 beautiful prospect ; for they are as well culti- 
 vated as the most fertile valleys. In the front 
 of my house, which stands south-east, I have a 
 view of the river that runs, at the distance of 
 somewhat less than a quarter of a mile, at the 
 
I6l 
 
 end of my grounds ; and, after making several 
 windings and turnings, seems to lose itself at the 
 foot of those hills I just now mentioned. As 
 for my garden, I am obliged to nature for its 
 chief beauties ; having no other (except a small 
 spot which I have allotted for the purposes of 
 my table) but what the fields and meadows 
 afford. These, however, I have embellished 
 with some care, havino; intermixed amons the 
 hedges all the several sorts of flowerincr shrubs. 
 
 But I must not forget to mention what I look 
 upon to be the principal ornament of the place ; 
 as indeed I do not recollect to have seen any 
 thing of the kind in our English plantations. I 
 have covered a small spot with different sorts 
 of ever-greens, many of which are of a species 
 not very usual in our country. This little plan- 
 tation I have branched out into various laby- 
 rinth-walks, which are all terminated by a small 
 temple in the centre. I have a double advan- 
 tage from this artificial wood : for it not only 
 affords me a very shady retreat in summer, but, 
 as it is situated opposite to my library, supplies 
 me in winter with a perspective of the most 
 agreeable verdure imaginable. 
 
 What heightens my relish of this retirement, 
 is the company of my Cleora ; as indeed many 
 of the best improvements I have made in it are 
 owing to hints which I have received from her 
 
 M 
 
16Q 
 
 exquisite taste and judgment. She will rejoice 
 to receive you as her guest here ; and has given 
 it me in charge to remind you, that you have 
 promised to be so. As the business of parlia- 
 ment is now drawing to a conclusion, I may 
 urge this to you without any imputation upon 
 my patriotism ; though at the same time I must 
 add, I make a very considerable sacrifice of 
 private interest whenever I resign you for thft 
 sake of the public. Adieu. 1 am, &c. 
 
16S 
 LETTER XXX VII. 
 
 To HORTEXSIUS. 
 
 Are you aware, Hortensius, how far I may 
 mislead you, when you are wilHng to resign 
 yourself to my guidance, through the regions of 
 criticism ? Remember, however, that I take the 
 lead in these paths, not in confidence of my own 
 superior knowledge of them, but in compliance 
 with a request, which I never yet knew how to 
 refuse. In short, Hortensius, I give you my 
 sentiments, because it is my sentiments you re- 
 quire : but I give them at the same time rather 
 as doubts than decisions. 
 
 After having thus acknowledged my insuffi- 
 ciency for the office you have assigned me, I 
 will venture to confess that the poet who has 
 gained over your approbation, has been far less 
 successful with mine. I have ever thought, 
 with a very celebrated modern writer, that 
 
 Le vers le mieux rempli, la plus noble pensee, 
 Ne peut plaire a I'esprit quand i'oreille est blessee. 
 
 BoiLEAU. 
 
 Thus, though I admit there is botli wit in the 
 raillery, and strength in the sentiments of your 
 
 M 9 
 
1(54 
 
 friend's moral epistle, it by no means falls in 
 with those notions I have formed to myself, 
 concerning the essential requisites in composi- 
 tions of this kind. He seems, indeed, to have 
 ■widely deviated from the model he professes to 
 have had in view, and is no more like Horace, 
 than Hyperion to a Satyr. His deficiency in 
 point of versification, not to mention his want 
 of elegance in the general manner of his poem, 
 is sufficient to destroy the pretended resem- 
 blance. Nothing, in truth, can be more absurd, 
 than to write in poetical measure, and yet ne- 
 glect harmony ; as of all the kinds of false 
 style, that which is neither prose nor verse, but 
 I know not what inartificial combination of 
 powerless words bordered with rhyme, is far, 
 surely, the most insufferable. 
 
 Eut you are of opinion, I perceive, (and it is 
 an opinion in which you are not singular,) that 
 a negligence of this kind may be justified by 
 the authority of the Roman satirist : yet surely 
 those who entertain that notion, have not 
 thoroughly attended either to the precepts or 
 the practice of Horace. He has attributed, I 
 confess, his satirical composition to the inspira- 
 tion of a certain Muse, whom he distinguishes 
 by the title of the Musa pedestris ; and it is this 
 expression which seems to have misled the ge- 
 nerality of his imitators. But though he will 
 
165 . 
 
 not allow her to fly, he by no nieans intends 
 she should creep : on the contrary, it may be 
 said of the Muse of Horace, as of the Eve of 
 Milton, that 
 
 Grace is in all her steps. 
 
 That this was the idea ^vhich Horace himself 
 had of her, is evident, not onlv from the general 
 air which prevails in his satires and epistles, 
 but from several express declarations, which he 
 lets fall in his progress through them. Even 
 when he speaks of her in his greatest fits of 
 modesty, and describes her as exhibited in his 
 own moral writings, he particularly insists upon 
 the ease and harmony of her motions. Though 
 he humbly disclaims, indeed, all pretensions to 
 the higher poetry, the acer spiritus et vis, as he 
 calls it ; he represents his style as being govern- 
 ed by the tempora certa modosque, as flowing 
 with a certain regular and agreeable cadence. 
 Accordingly, we find him particularly condemn- 
 ing his predecessor Lucilius for the dissonance 
 of his numbers ; and he professes to have made 
 the experiment, whether the same kind of moral 
 subject might not be treated in more soft and 
 easy measures : 
 
 Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes, 
 Quaerere num illius, num rerum dura negarit 
 Versiculos natura magis factos et eunte? 
 ^loUius ? 
 
• 166 
 
 The truth is, a tuneful cadence is the single 
 prerogative of poetry which he pretends to 
 claim to his writings of this kind : and so far is 
 he from thinking it unessential, that he acknow- 
 ledges it as the only separation which distin- 
 guishes them from prose. If that were once to 
 be broken down, and the musical order of his 
 words destroyed, there would not, he tells us, 
 be the least appearance of poetry remaining : 
 
 Non 
 
 Invenias etiara disjecti membra poetas. 
 
 However, when he delivers himself in this 
 humble strain, he is not, you will observe, 
 sketching out a plan of this species ot poetry in 
 general ; but speaking merely of his own per- 
 formances in particular. His demands rise 
 much higher, when he informs us \\ hat he ex- 
 pects of those, who would succeed in composi- 
 tions of this moral kind. He then not only re- 
 quires flowing numbers, but an expression con- 
 cise and unincumbered ; vvit exerted with good- 
 breeding, and managed with reserve ; as upon 
 some occasions the sentiments may be enforced 
 with all the strength of eloquence and poetry : 
 and though in some parts the piece may appear 
 with a more serious and solemn cast ot colour- 
 ing, yet, upon the whole, he tells us, it must b^ 
 lively and riant. This I take to be his meaning 
 in the following passage : 
 
167 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat sentential nea s? 
 Impediat verbis lassas onerantibus aures ; 
 Et seimone opus est modo tristi, saepe jocoso, 
 Defendente vicem modo rhetoris atque pcetae ; 
 Interdura urbani, parcentis viribus attjue 
 Extenuantis eas consulto. 
 
 3uch, then, was tlie notion which Horace had 
 of this kind of writing. And if tliere is any 
 propriety in these his rules, if they are founded 
 on the truth of taste and art ; I fear the per- 
 formance in question, with numberless others 
 of the same stamp (which have not, however, 
 wanted admirers) must inevitably stand con- 
 demned. The truth of it is, most of the pieces 
 which are usually produced upon tliis plan, 
 rather give one an image of Lucilius, than of 
 Horace : the authors of them seem to mistake 
 the awkward negligence of the favourite of 
 Scipio, for the easy air of the friend of Maecenas. 
 You will still tell lue, perhaps, that the ex- 
 ample of Horace himself is an unanswerable 
 objection to the notion I have ernbraced ; as 
 there are numberless lines in his satires and 
 epistles, where the ver^jitication is evidently 
 neglected. But are you sure, Hortensius, that 
 those lines which sound so unbarmonious to a 
 modern car, had the same etfect upon a Roman 
 one? For myself, at least, I am much inclined 
 to believe the contrary : and it seems highly 
 
16S 
 
 incredible, that he who had ventured to censure 
 Lucilius for the uncouthness of his numbers, 
 should himself be notoriously guilty of the very 
 fault against which he so strongly exclaims. 
 Most certain it is, that the delicacy of the an- 
 cients with respect to numbers, was far superior 
 to any thing that modern taste can pretend to ; 
 and that they discovered differences, which are 
 to us absolutely imperceptible. To mention 
 only one remarkable instance : A very ancient 
 writer has observed upon the following verse in 
 Virgil, 
 
 Anna virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris — 
 
 that if instead of primus we were to pronounce 
 it primis {is being long, and us short), the entire 
 harmony of the line would be destroyed. But 
 whose ear is now so exquisitely sensible, as 
 to perceive the distinction between those two 
 quantities ? Some refinement of this kind might 
 probably give music to those lines in fforace, 
 which now seem so untuneable. 
 
 In subjects of this nature it is not possible, 
 perhaps, to express one's idea in any very pre- 
 cise and determinate manner. I will only 
 therefore in general observe, with respect to the 
 requisite style of these performances, that it con- 
 sists in a natural ease of expression, an elegant 
 familiarity of phrase, which, though formed of 
 
159 
 
 the most usual terms of language, has yet a 
 grace and energy, no less striking than that of 
 a more elevated diction. There is a certain 
 lively colouring peculiar to compositions in this 
 way, which, without being so bright and glow- 
 ing as is necessary for the higher poetry, is 
 nevertheless equally removed from whatever 
 appears harsh and dry. But particular instances 
 will perhaps better illustrate my meaning, than 
 any thing I can farther say to explain it. There 
 is scarce a line in the Moral Epistles of Mr. 
 Pope, which might not be produced for this 
 purpose. I choose however to lay before you 
 the following verses, not as preferring them to 
 many others which might be quoted from that 
 inimitable satirist; but as they afford me an 
 opportunity of comparing them with a version 
 of the same original lines, of which they are an 
 imitation ; and, by that means, of shewing you 
 at one view what I conceive is, and is not, in 
 the true manner of Horace : 
 
 Peace is my dear delight, — not Fleury's more; 
 But touch me, and no minister so sore : 
 Whoe'er oflFends, at some unlucky time. 
 Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme ; 
 Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, 
 And the sad burthen of some merry song. 
 
 I will refer you to your own memory for the 
 Latin passage, from whence Mr. Pope has taken 
 
170 
 
 the general hint of these verses ; and content 
 myself with adding a translation of the lines 
 from Horace by another hand : 
 
 Behold me blameless bard, how fond of peace ! 
 But he who hurts me (nay, I will be heard), 
 Had belter taken a lion by the beai'd ; 
 His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue. 
 By laughing crowds in rueful ballad sung. 
 
 There is a strength and spirit in the former of 
 these passages, and a flatness and languor in 
 the latter, which cannot fail of being discovered 
 by every reader of the least delicacy of discern- 
 ment; and yet the words which compose them 
 both, are equally sounding and significant. The 
 rules then, which I just now nientioned from 
 Horace, will point out the real cause of the 
 different effects which these two passages pro- 
 duce in our minds ; as the passages themselves 
 will serve to confirm the truth and justice of 
 the rules. In the lines from Mr. Pope, one of 
 the principal beauties will be found to consist 
 in the shortness of the expression ; whereas the 
 sentiments in the other are too much incumber- 
 ed with words. Thus, for instance, 
 
 Peace is my dear delight, 
 
 is pleasing, because it is concise; as 
 
 Beliold me blameless bard, how fond of peace ! 
 
171 
 
 is, in comparison of the former, the verba lassa$ 
 onerantia aures. Another distinguishing per- 
 fection in the imitator of Horace, is that spirit 
 of gaiety which he has diffused through these 
 lines, not to mention those happy, though fami- 
 liar, images of slidmg into verse, and hitching 
 in a rhyme; which can never be sufficiently 
 admired. But the translator, on the contrary, 
 has cast too serious an air over his numbers, 
 and appears with an emotion and earnestness 
 that disappoint the force of his satire : 
 
 Nay, I will be heard, 
 
 has the mien of a man in a passion ; and 
 
 His eyes shall weep the folly of his tongue, 
 
 though a good line in itself, is much too solemn 
 and tragical for the undisturbed pleasantry of 
 Horace. 
 
 But I need not enter more minutely into an 
 examination of those passages. The general 
 hints I have thrown out in this letter w-ill suf- 
 fice to shew you wherein I imagine the true 
 manner of Horace consists. And after all, per- 
 haps, it can no more be explained, than ac- 
 quired, by rules of art. It is what true genius 
 can only execute, and just taste alone discover. 
 I am, &c. 
 
172 
 
 LETTER XXXVIir. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 Nov. 7, 1730. 
 Your admired poet, I remember, somewhere 
 lays it down as a maxim, that 
 
 The proper study of mankind is man. 
 
 There cannot, indeed, be a more useful, nor, one 
 should imagine, a more easy science : so many 
 lessons of this kind are every moment forcing 
 themselves upon our observation, that it should 
 seem scarce possible not to be well acquainted 
 with the various turns and dispositions of the 
 human heart. And yet there are so few who 
 are really adepts in this article, that to say of 
 a man, he knows the zvorld, is generally esteemed 
 a compliment of the most significant kind. 
 
 The reason, perhaps, of the general ignorance 
 which prevails in this sort of knowledge, may 
 arise from our judging too much by universal 
 principles. Whereas there is a wonderful dis- 
 parity in mankind, and numberless characters 
 exist which cannot properly be reduced to any 
 regular and fixed standard. Monsieur Paschal 
 observes, that the greater sagacity any man pos- 
 
173 
 
 aesses, the more originals he will discern among 
 his species : as it is the remark of Sir William 
 Temple, that no nation under the sun abounds 
 with so many as our own, Plutarch, if I re- 
 member right, is of opinion, that there is a wider 
 difference between the individuals of our own 
 kind, than what is observable between creatures 
 of a separate order; while iMontaigne (who 
 seems to have known human nature perfectly 
 well) supposes the distance to be still more re- 
 mote, and asserts that the distinction is much 
 greater between man and man, than between 
 man and beast. 
 
 The comic writers have not, I think, taken all 
 the advantage they mi^ht of this infinite diver- 
 sity of humour in the human race. A judicious 
 observer of the world might single out abundant 
 materials for ridicule, without havins: recourse 
 to those worn-out characters which are for ever 
 returning upon the stage. If 1 were acquainted 
 with any genius in this class of writers, I think 
 I could furnish him with an original, which, if 
 artfully repre^iented and connected with proper 
 incidents, might be very successfully introduced 
 into comedy. The person I have in view is my 
 neighbour Stilotes. 
 
 Stilotes in his youth was esteemed to have 
 good sense and a tolerable taste for letters ; as 
 he gained some reputation at the University in 
 
174 
 
 the exercises usual at that place. But as soon 
 as he was freed from the restraint of tutors, the 
 natural restlessness of his temper broke out, and 
 he has never, from that time to this, applied him- 
 self for half an hour together to any single pur- 
 suit. He is extremely active in his disposition ; 
 but his whole life is one incessant whirl of trifles. 
 He rises, perhaps, with a full intent of amusing 
 himself all the morning with his gun; but before 
 he has got half the length of a field, he recol- 
 lects that he owes a visit, which he must instantly 
 pay: accordingly his horse is saddled, and he 
 sets out. But in his way he remembers that he 
 has not given proper orders about such a flower, 
 and he nmst absolutely return, or the whole 
 oeconomy of his nursery will be ruined. Thus, 
 in whatever action you find him engaged, you 
 may be sure it is the very reverse of what he 
 proposed. Yet with all this quickness of transi- 
 tion and vivacity of spirits, he is so indolent in 
 every thing which has the air of business, that 
 he is at least two or three months before he can 
 persuade himself to open any letter he receives : 
 and, from the same disposition, he has suffered 
 the dividends of his stocks to run on for many 
 years, without receiving a shilling of the interest 
 Stilotes is possessed of an estate in Dorsetshire; 
 but that being the place where his chief busi- 
 ness lies, he chooses constantly to reside with a 
 
175 
 
 friend near London. This person submits to his 
 humour and his company, in hopes that Stilotes 
 will consider him in his will : but it is more than 
 possible that he will never endure the fatiijue of 
 signing one. However, having here every thing 
 provided for him but clothes and pocket-money, 
 he lives perfectly to his satisfaction, in full em- 
 ployment without any real business ; and while 
 those who look after his estate take care to sup- 
 ply him with sufficient to answer those two arti- 
 cles, he is entirely unconcerned as to all the rest ; 
 though, when he is disposed to appear more than 
 ordinarily important, he will gravely harangue 
 upon the roguery of stewards, and complain that 
 his rents will scarce maintain him in powder and 
 shot half the partridge season. In short, Stilotes 
 is one of the most extraordinary compounds of 
 indolence and activity that I ever met with ; and 
 as I know you have a taste for curiosities, I pre- 
 sent you with his character as a rarity that 
 merits a place in your collection. Adieu. I 
 am, &c. 
 
176 
 
 LETTER XXXIX. 
 
 To Phidippus. 
 
 'Tis well, ray friend, that the age of transforma- 
 tion is no more ; otherwise I should tremble for 
 your severe attack upon the Muses, and expect 
 to see the story of your metamorphosis embel- 
 lish the poetical miracles of some modern Ovid. 
 But it is loncj since the fate of the Pierides has 
 gained any credit in the world ; and you may 
 now, in full security, contemn the divinities of 
 Parnassus, and speak irreverently of the daugh- 
 ters of Jove himself. You see, nevertheless, 
 how highly the ancients conceived of them, when 
 they thus represented them as the offspring of 
 the great father of gods and men. You reject, 
 I know, this article of the heathen creed : but I 
 may venture, however, to assert, that philosophy 
 will confirm what fable has thus invented, and 
 that the Muses are, in strict truth, of heavenly 
 extraction. 
 
 The charms of the fine arts are, indeed, lite- 
 rally derived from the Author of all nature, and 
 founded in the original irame and constitution 
 of the human mind. Accordingly, the general 
 principles of taste are common to our whole 
 
177 
 
 species, and arise from that internal sense of 
 beauty which every man, in some degi'ee at least, 
 evidently possesses. No rational mind can be 
 so wholly void of all perceptions of this sort, as 
 to be capable of contemplating the various ob- 
 jects that surround hhn, with one equal coldness 
 and indifference. There are certain forms which 
 must necessarily till the soul with agreeable 
 ideas; and she is instantly determined in her ap- 
 probation of them, previous to all reasonings 
 concerning their use and convenience. It is 
 upon these general principles, that what is call- 
 ed fine taste in the arts is founded ; and conse- 
 quently is by no means so precarious and un- 
 settled an idea as you choose to describe it. 
 The truth is, taste is nothins: more than this 
 universal sense of beaut}^, rendered more exqui- 
 site by genius, and more correct by cultivation : 
 and it is from the simple and original ideas of 
 this sort, that the mind learns to form her judg- 
 ment of the higher and more complex kinds. 
 Accordingly, the whole circle of the imitative 
 and oratorical arts is governed by the same ge- 
 neral rules of criticism ; and to prove the cer- 
 tainty of these with respect to any one of them, 
 is to establish their validity with regard to all 
 the rest. I will therefore consider the criterion 
 of taste in relation only to fine writing. 
 
I7S 
 
 Each species of composition has its distinct 
 perfections : and it would require a much larger 
 compass than a letter affords, to prove their 
 respective beauties to be derived from truth and 
 nature ; and consequently reducible to a regular 
 and precise standard. I will only mention, there- 
 fore, those general properties which are essential 
 to them all, and without which they must ner 
 cessarily be defective in their several kinds. 
 These, I think, may be comprehended under 
 uniformity in the design, variety and resemblance 
 in the metaphors and similitudes, together with 
 propriety and harmony in the diction. Now 
 some or all of these qualities constantly attend 
 our ideas of beauty, and necessarily raise that 
 agreeable perception of the mind, in what object 
 soever they appear. The charms of line com- 
 position, then, are so far from existing only in 
 the heated imagination of an enthusiastic ad- 
 mirer, that they result from the constitution of 
 nature herself. And perhaps the principles of 
 criticism are as certain and indisputable even as 
 those of the mathematics. Thus, for instance, 
 that order is preferable to confusion, that har- 
 mony is more pleasing than dissonance, with 
 some few otlier axioms upon which the science 
 is built, are truths which strike at once upon the 
 mind with the same force of conviction, as that 
 
179 
 
 the whole is greater than any of its parts, or 
 that, if from equals you take away equals, the 
 remainders will be equal. And, in both cases, 
 the propositions which rest upon these plain and 
 obvious maxims, seem equally capable of the 
 same evidence of demonstration. 
 
 But as every intellectual as well as animal 
 faculty is improved and strengthened by exer- 
 cise, the more the soul exerts this her internal 
 sense of beauty upon any particular object, the 
 more she will enlarge and refine her relish of 
 that peculiar species. For this reason the works 
 of those great masters, whose performances have 
 been long and generally admired, supply a farther 
 criterion of fine taste, equally fixed and certain 
 as that which is immediately derived from nature 
 herself. The truth is, fine writing is only the 
 art of raising, agreeable sensations of the intel- 
 lectual kind ; and therefore, as by examining 
 those original forms which are adapted to awaken 
 this perception in the mind, we learn what those 
 qualities are which constitute beauty in general; 
 so by observing the peculiar construction of those 
 compositions of genius which have always pleased, 
 we perfect our idea of fine writing in particular. 
 It is this united approbation, in persons of dif- 
 ferent ages and of various characters and Ian* 
 guages, that Longinus has made the test of th^ 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 true sublime; and he might with equal justice 
 have extended the same criterion to all the in- 
 ferior excellencies of elegant composition. Thus 
 the deference paid to the performances of the 
 great masters of antiquity, is fixed upon just and 
 solid reasons : it is not because Aristotle and 
 Horace have given us the rules of criticism, that 
 we submit to their authority ; it is because those 
 rules are derived from works which have been 
 distinguished by the uninterrupted admiration 
 of all the more improved part of mankind, from 
 their earliest appearance down to this present 
 hour. For whatever, throu^fi a lon^ series of 
 ages, has been universally esteemed as beautiful, 
 cannot but be conformable to our just and na- 
 tural ideas of beauty. 
 
 The opposition, however, which sometimes 
 divides the opinions of those, whose judgments 
 may be supposed equal and perfect, is urged as 
 a powerful objection against the reality of a 
 fixed canon of criticism : it is a proof, you think, 
 that after all which can be said of fine taste, it 
 must ultimately be resolved into the peculiar 
 relish of each individual. But this diversity of 
 sentiments will not, of itself, destroy the evi- 
 dence of the criterion ; since the same effect 
 may be produced by numberless other causes. 
 A thousand accidental circumstances may coo- 
 
181 
 
 cur in counteracting the force of the rule, even 
 allowing it to be ever so fixed and invariable, 
 when left in its free and uninfluenced state. Not 
 to mention that false bias which party or per- 
 sonal dislike may fix upon the mind, the most 
 unprejudiced critic will find it difficult to disen- 
 gage himself entirely from those partial afiec- 
 tions in favour of particular beauties, to which 
 either the general course of his studies, or the 
 peculiar cast of his temper, may have rendered 
 him most sensible. But as perfection in any 
 works of genius results from the united beauty 
 and propriety of its several distinct parts ; and 
 as it is impossible that any human compositions 
 should possess all those qualities in their hio-hest 
 and most sovereign degree ; the mind, when she 
 pronounces judgment upon any piece of this 
 sort, is apt to decide of its merit, as those cir- 
 cumstances which she most admires either pre- 
 vail or are deficient. Thus, for instance, the 
 excellency of the Roman masters in painting, 
 consists in beauty of design, nobleness of atti- 
 tude, and delicacy of expression; but the charms 
 of good colouring are wanting. On the contrary, 
 the Venetian school is said to have ne"lected 
 design a little too much ; but at the same time 
 has been more attentive to the grace and har- 
 mony of well disposed lights and shades. Now 
 
182 
 
 it will be admitted by all admirers of this noble 
 art, that no composition of the pencil can be per- 
 fect, where either of these qualities are absent; 
 yet,the most accomplished judge may be so par-- 
 ticularly struck with one or other of these excel- 
 lencies, in preference to the rest, as to be in- 
 fluenced in his censure or applause of the whole 
 tablature by the predominancy or deficiency of 
 his favourite beauty. Something of this kind 
 (where the meaner prejudices do not operate) 
 is ever, I am persuaded, the occasion of that di- 
 versity of sentences which we occasionally hear 
 pronounced, by the most improved judges, on 
 the same piece. But this only shows, that much 
 caution is necessary to give a fine taste its full 
 and unobstructed effect ; not that it is in itself 
 uncertain and precarious. I am, &c. 
 
183 
 
 LETTER XL. 
 
 To Pala:\iedes. 
 
 Your resolution to decline those overtures oi 
 acquaintance which Mezentius, it seems, has 
 lately made to you, is agreeable to the refined 
 principles whicii have ever influenced your con^ 
 duct. A man of your elegant notions of inte- 
 grity will observe the same delicacy with respect 
 to his companions, as Ceesar did with regard to 
 his wife, and refuse all commerce with persons 
 even but of suspected honour. It would not, 
 indeed, be doing justice to Mezentius, to repre- 
 sent him in that number : for though his hypo- 
 crisy has preserved to him some few friends, and 
 his immense wealth draws after him manv fol- 
 lowers, the world in general are by no means 
 divided in their sentiments concerning him. 
 
 But, whilst you can have his picture from so 
 many better hands, why are you desirous of see- 
 ing it by mine? It is a painful employment to 
 contemplate human nature in its deformities ; as 
 there is nothing, perhaps, more diflicult, than to 
 execute a portrait of the characteristical kind 
 with strength and spirit. However, since you 
 have assigned me the task, I do not think myself 
 
184 
 
 at liberty to refuse it ; especially as it is your 
 interest to see him delineated in his true form. 
 
 Mezentius, with the designs and artifice of a 
 Catiline, afiects the integrity and patriotism of 
 a Cato. Liberty, justice, and honour, are words 
 which he knows perfectly well how to apply with 
 address; and having them always ready upon 
 proper occasions, he conceals the blackest pur- 
 poses under the fairest appearances. For void, 
 as in truth he is, of every worthy principle, he 
 has too much policy not to pretend to the 
 noblest; well knowing, that counterfeit virtues 
 are the most successful vices. It is by arts of 
 this kind that, notwithstanding he has shown 
 himself unrestrained by the most sacred engage- 
 ments of society, and uninfluenced by the most 
 tender affections of nature, he has still been 
 able to retain some degree of credit in the world : 
 for he never sacrifices his honour to his interest, 
 that he does not, in some less considerable but 
 more open instance, make a concession of his 
 interest to his honour; and thus, while he sinks 
 his character on one side, very artfully raises it 
 on the other. Accordingly, under pretence of 
 the most scrupulous delicacy of conscience, he 
 lately resigned a post which he held under my 
 lord Godolphin ; when at the same time he was 
 endeavouring, by the most shameless artifices 
 and evasions, to deceive and defraud a friend of 
 
185 
 
 mine in one of the most solemn and important 
 transactions that can pass between man and 
 man. 
 
 But will you not suspect that I am describing 
 a phantom of my own imagination, when I tell 
 you, after this, that he has erected himself into 
 a reformer of manners, and is so injudiciously 
 officious as to draw the enquiry of the w^orld 
 upon his own morals, by attempting to expose 
 the defects of others? A man who ventures pub- 
 licly to point out the blemishes of his contem- 
 poraries, should at least be free from any un- 
 common stain himself, and have nothing re- 
 markably dark in the complexion of his own pri- 
 vate character. But Mezentius, not satisfied 
 with being vicious, has at length determined to 
 be ridiculous; and after having wretchedly squan- 
 dered his youth and his patrimony in riot and 
 dissoluteness, is contemptibly mispending his old 
 age in measuring impotent syllables, and dealing 
 out pointless abuse. Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
186 
 
 LETTER XLI. 
 To Orontes. 
 
 March 10, 1738. 
 What haughty Sacharissa has put you out of 
 humour with her whole sex ? for it is some dis- 
 appointment, I suspect, of the tender kind, that 
 has thus sharpened the edge of your satire, and 
 pointed its invective against the fairer half of 
 Gur species. You were not mistaken, however, 
 when you supposed 1 should prove no convert 
 to your doctrine; but rise up as an advocate, 
 where I profess myself an admirer. I am not, 
 it is true, altogether of old Montaigne's opinion, 
 that the souls of both sexes sontjettez (as he ex- 
 presses it) en mesme monks : on the contrary, I 
 9,m willing enough to join with you in thinking, 
 that they may be wrought olf from different 
 models. Yet the casts may be equally perfect, 
 though it should be allowed that they are essen- 
 tially different. Nature, it is certain, has traced 
 out a separate course of action for the two sexes; 
 and as they are appointed to distinct offices of 
 life, it is not improbable that there may be 
 something distinct likewise in the frame of their 
 
187 
 
 minds ; that there may be a kind of sex in the 
 very soul. 
 
 I cannot, therefore, but wonder that Plato 
 should have thought it reasonable to admit them 
 into an equal share of the dignities and otfices of 
 his imaginary commonwealth ; and that the wis- 
 dom of the ancient Egyptians should have so 
 strangely inverted the evident intentions of Pro- 
 vidence, as to confine the men to domestic af- 
 fairs, whilst the women, it is said, were engaged 
 abroad in the active and laborious scenes of bu^ 
 siness. History, it must be owned, will supply 
 some few female instances of all the most mas- 
 culine virtues : but appearances of that extraor- 
 dinary kind are too uncommon, to support the 
 notion of a general equality in the natural powers 
 of their minds. 
 
 Thus much, however, seems evident, that there 
 are certain moral boundaries which nature has 
 drawn between the two sexes, and that neither 
 of them can pass over the limits of the other, 
 without equally deviating from the beauty and 
 decorum of their respective characters : Boa- 
 dicea in armour is, to me at least, as extrava- 
 I gant a sight as Achilles in petticoats. 
 
 In determining, therefore, the comparative 
 merit of the two sexes, it is no derogation from 
 female excellency, that it differs in kind frona 
 that whiclx distinguishes the male part of our 
 
 k 
 
18R 
 
 species. And if in general it shall be found 
 (what, upon an impartial enquiry, I believe, will 
 most certainly befounH), that women fill up their 
 appointed circle of action with greater regularity 
 and dignity than men ; the claim of preference 
 cannot justly be decided in our favour. In the 
 prudential and oeconomical part of life, I think 
 it undeniable that they rise far above us. And 
 if true fortitude of mind is best discovered by a 
 cheerful resignation to the measures of Provi- 
 dence, we shall not find reason, perhaps, to claim 
 that most singular of the human virtues as our 
 peculiar privilege. There are numbers of the 
 other sex, who, from the natural delicacy of their 
 constitution, pass through one continued scene 
 of suffering, from their cradles to their graves, 
 with a firmness of resolution that would deserve 
 so many statues to be erected to their memories, 
 if heroism were not estimated more by the splen- 
 dour than the merit of actions. 
 
 But whatever real difference there may be be- 
 tween the moral or intellectual powers of the 
 male and female mind, nature does not seem to 
 have marked the distinction so strongly as our 
 vanity is willing to imagine : and, after all, per- 
 haps, education will be found to constitute the 
 principal superiority. It must be acknowledged, 
 at least, that in this article we have every advan- 
 tage over the softer sex, that art and industry 
 
189 
 
 can possibly secure to us. The most animating 
 examples of Greece and Rome are set before us, 
 as early as we are capable of any observation ; 
 and the noblest compositions of the ancients are 
 given into our hands, almost as soon as we have 
 strength to hold them: while the employments 
 of the other sex, at the same period of life, are 
 generally the reverse of every thing that can open 
 and enlarge their minds, or fill them with just 
 and rational notions. The truth of it is, female 
 education is so much worse than none, as it is 
 better to leave the mind to its natural and unin- 
 structed suggestions, than to lead it into false 
 pursuits, and contract its views by turning them 
 upon the lowest and most trifling objects. We 
 seem, indeed, by the manner in which we suffer 
 the youth of that sex to be trained, to consider 
 women agreeably to the opinion of certain Ma- 
 hometan doctors, and treat them as if we be- 
 lieved they have no souls : why else are they 
 
 Bred only and completed to the taste 
 
 Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance. 
 
 To dress, and troule the tongue, and roll the eye ? 
 
 Milton. 
 
 This Strange neglect of cultivating the female 
 mind, can hardly be allowed as good policy, v- hen 
 it is considered iiow much the interest of society 
 is concerned in the rectitude of their understand- 
 
190 
 
 ings. That season of every man's life which is 
 most susceptible of the strongest impressions, is 
 necessarily under female direction ; as there are 
 few instances, perhaps, in which that sex is not 
 one of the secret springs which regulates the 
 most important movements of private or public 
 transactions. What Cato observed of his coun- 
 trymen, is in one respect true of every nation 
 under the sun : " The Romans," said he, " go- 
 vern the world, but it is the women that govern 
 the Romans." Let not, however, a certain pre- 
 tended Cato of your acquaintance take occasion; 
 from this maxim, to iusult a second time that 
 imiocence he has so often injured: for I will tell 
 him another maxim as true as the former, that 
 " there are circumstances wherein no woman ha* 
 power enough to control a man of spirit." 
 
 If it be true, then, (as true beyond all perad- 
 venture it is) that female influence is thus exten- 
 sive ; nothing, certainly, can be of more import- 
 ance, than to give it a proper tendency, by the 
 assistance of a well-directed education. Far am 
 I from recommending any attempts to render 
 women learned ; yet surely it is necessary they 
 should be raised above ignorance. Such a ge- 
 neral tincture of the most useful sciences as may 
 serve to free the mind from vulgar prejudices, 
 and give it a relish for the rational exercise of 
 its powers, might very justly enter into the plan 
 
I9i 
 
 of female erudition. That sex might be taught 
 to turn the course of their reflections into a pro- 
 per and advantageous channel, without any dan- 
 ger of rendering them too elevated for the femi- 
 nine duties of life. In a word, I would have 
 them considered as designed by Providence for 
 use as well as show, and trained up not only as 
 women, but as rational creatures. Adieu. I 
 am. Sec, 
 
192 
 
 LETTER XLir. 
 To Palemon. 
 
 May 5, 1745. 
 Whilst you are engaged in turning over th€ re- 
 cords of past ages, and tracing our constitution 
 from its rise through all its several periods, I 
 sometimes amuse myself with reviewing certain 
 annals of an humbler kind, and considering the 
 various turns and revolutions that have hap- 
 pened in the sentiments and affections of those 
 with whom I have been most connected. A 
 history of this sort is not, indeed, so striking as 
 that which exhibits kings and heroes to our view; 
 but may it not be contemplated, Palemon, with 
 more private advantage ? 
 
 Methinks we should scarce be so embittered 
 against those who differ from us in principle or 
 practice, were we oftener to reflect how fre- 
 quently we have varied from ourselves in both 
 those articles. It was but yesterday that Lucius, 
 whom I once knew a very zealous advocate for 
 the most controverted points of faith, was ar- 
 guing with equal warmth and vehemence on the 
 principles of deism ; as Bathillus, who set out 
 iu the world a cool infidel, has lately drawn up 
 
193 
 
 one of the most plausible defences of the mystic 
 devotees, that, perhaps, was ever written. The 
 truth is, a man must either have passed his whole 
 life without reflecting, or his thoughts must have 
 run in a very limited channel, who has not often 
 experienced many remarkable revolutions of 
 mind. 
 
 The same kind of inconstancy is observable in 
 our pursuits of happiness as well as truth. Thus 
 our friend Curio, whom we both remember, in 
 the former part of his life, enamoured of every 
 fair face he met, and enjoying every woman he 
 could purchase, has at last collected this ditfusive 
 flame into a single point, and could not be tempt- 
 ed to commit an infidelity to his marriao;e vow, 
 though a form as beautiful as the Venus of 
 Apeiles was to court his embrace : whilst Ape- 
 manthes, on the other hand, who was the most 
 sober and domestic man I ever knew till he lost 
 his wife, commenced a rake at five-and- forty, 
 and is now for ever in a tavern or stew. 
 
 Who knows, Palemon, whether even this 
 humour of moralizing, which, as you often tell 
 me, so strongly marks my character, may not 
 wear out in time, and be succeeded by a brighter 
 and more lively vein ? Who knows but I may 
 court again the mistress I have forsaken, and 
 die at last in the arms of ambition? Cleora, at 
 least, who frequently rallies me upon that fever 
 
 
 
1S4 
 
 of my youth, assures me I am only m the intei- 
 mission of a fit, which will certainly return. But 
 though there may be some excuse, perhaps, in 
 exchanging our follies or our errors, there can be 
 none in resuming those we have once happily 
 quitted : for surely he must be a very injudi- 
 cious sportsman, who can be tempted to beat 
 over those fields again which have ever disap- 
 pointed him of his game. Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
195 
 LETTER XLIir. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 July 2, 1745. 
 
 It is a pretty observation, which I have some- 
 where met, that, " the most pleasing of all har* 
 mony arises from the censure of a single person, 
 when mixed with the general applauses of the 
 world." I almost suspect, therefore, that you 
 are considering the interest of your admired 
 author, when you call upon me for my farther 
 objections to his performance : and are for join- 
 ing me, perhaps, to the number of those, who 
 advance his reputation by opposing it. The 
 truth, however, is, you could not have chosen a j 
 critic (if a critic I might venture to call myself) 1 
 who has a higher esteem for all the compositions 1^ 
 of Mr. Pope : as indeed I look upon every thing , 
 that comes from his hands, with the same degree !■ 
 of veneration as if it were consecrated by anti- 
 quity. Nevertheless, though I greatly revere his 
 jud<j!;ment, I cannot absolutely renounce my own : 
 and since some have been bold enough to ad- 
 vance, that even the sacred writings themselves 
 do not always speak the language of the Spirit, 
 I aiay have leave to suspect of tlie poets what 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 has been asserted of the prophets, and suppose 
 that their pens are not, at all seasons, under the 
 guidance of inspiration. But as there is some- 
 thing extremely ungrateful to the mind, in dwel- 
 ling upon those little spots that necessarily attend 
 the lustre of all human merit ; you must allow 
 me to join his beauties with his imperfections, 
 and admire with rapture, after having condemned 
 with regret. 
 
 There is a certain modern figure of speech, 
 which the authors of The art of sinking in 
 poetry have called the diminishing. This, so far 
 as it relates to words only, consists in debasing 
 a great idea, by expressing it in a term of meaner 
 import. Mr. Pope has himself now and then 
 fallen into this kind of the profound, which he 
 has with such uncommon wit and spirit exposed 
 in the writings of others. Thus Agamemnon, 
 addressing himself to Menelaus and Ulysses, 
 
 asks, 
 
 And can you, chiefs, without a blush survey 
 Whole troops before you, lab' ring in tht fray ? 
 
 b. iy. 
 
 So likewise Pandarus, speaking of Diomed, who 
 is performing the utmost efforts of heroism in 
 the field of battle, says, 
 
 some guardian of the skies, 
 
 Involv'd in clouds, protects him in the /ray. 
 
 V. ^35. 
 
 But what would you think, Euphronius, were 
 
197 
 
 you to hear of the *' impervious foam" and 
 ^' rough waves" of a " brook ?'' would it not put 
 you in mind of that droll thought of the inge- 
 nious Dr. Young, in one of his epistles to our 
 author, where he talks of a puddle i7i a storm f 
 yet by thus confounding the properties of the 
 highest objects with those of the lowest, Mr. 
 Pope has turned one of the most pleasing similes 
 in the whole Iliad into downright burlesque : 
 
 As when some simple swain his cot forsakes. 
 And wide through fens an unknown journey takes j 
 If chance a swelling hruok his passage stay, 
 And/oam impervious cross the wand'rer's way, 
 Confus'd he stops, a length of country past. 
 Eyes the rough waves, and tir'd returns at last. 
 
 V. 734. 
 
 This swelling brook, however, of Mr. Pope, is 
 in Homer a rapid river, rushing with violence 
 into the sea : 
 
 V. 598. 
 
 It is one of the essential requisites of an epic 
 poem, and indeed of every other kind of serious 
 poetry, that the style be raised above common 
 lancruaffe: as nothing takes oft' so much from that 
 solemnity of diction, from which the poet ought 
 never to depart, as idioms of a vulgar and fami- 
 liar cast. Mr. Pope has sometimes neglected 
 
39S 
 
 this important rule ; but most frequently in the 
 introduction of his speeches. To mention only 
 a few instances : 
 
 That done, to Phoenix Ajax gave the sign. 
 
 ix. 291. 
 
 With that stern Ajax his long silence broke. 
 
 ix. 735. 
 
 With that the venerable warrior rose. 
 
 X. 150. 
 
 With that they stepped aside, &c. 
 
 x. 415. 
 
 whereas Homer generally prefaces his speeches 
 with a dignity of phrase, that calls up the atten^ 
 tion of the reader to what is going to be uttered. 
 Milton has very happily copied his manner in 
 this particular, as in many others : and though 
 he often falls into a flatness of expression, he has 
 never once, I think, committed that error upon 
 occasions of this kind. He usually ushers in his 
 harangues with something characteristical of the 
 speaker, or that points out some remarkable cir-r 
 cumstance of his present situation, in the follow^ 
 ing manner : 
 
 . Satan, with bold words 
 
 Breaking the horrid silence, thus began. 
 
 i. 82. 
 
 Him thus answer'd soon his bold compeer. 
 
 i. 125. 
 
199 
 
 He ended frowning : 
 
 on the other side uprose 
 Belial, 
 And with persuasive accents thus began. 
 
 ii. 106. 
 
 If you compare the effect which an introduction 
 of this descriptive sort has upon the mind, witli 
 those low and unawakening expressions which I 
 have marked in the Hnes I just now quoted from 
 our Enghsh Iliad ; you will not, perhaps, con- 
 sider my objection as altogether without founda- 
 tion. 
 
 All opposition of ideas should be carefully 
 avoided in a poem of this kind, as unbecoming 
 the gravity of the heroic Muse. But does not 
 Mr. Pope sometimes sacrifice simplicity to false 
 ornament, and lose the majesty of Homer in the 
 affectations of Ovid ? Of this sort a severe critic 
 would perhaps esteem his calling an army march- 
 ing with spears erect, a movmg iron zvood: 
 
 Such and so thick th' embattled squadrons stood. 
 With spears erect, a moving iron wood. 
 
 There seems also to be an inconsistency in the 
 two parts of this description ; for the troops are 
 represented as standing still, at the same time 
 that the circumstance mentioned of the spears 
 should rather imply (as indeed the truth is) that 
 
soo 
 
 they were in motion. But if the translator had 
 been faitliful to his author in this passage, neither 
 of these objections could have been raised : for 
 in Homer it is, 
 
 Total 
 
 itvmvai xivvvTo (paXayyss, 
 ' Kva,vsa,i, trocKsa-iv ts kcci syxzari '7f£(p^iKUiai. 
 
 iv. 280. 
 
 Is there not likewise some little tendency to a 
 pun, in those upbraiding lines which Hector ad- 
 dresses to Paris ? 
 
 For thee great Ilion's guardian heroes fell. 
 Till heaps of dead alone defend the wall. 
 
 Mr. Pope at least deserts his guide, in order to 
 give us this conceit of dead men defending a 
 town ; for the original could not possibly lead 
 him into it. Homer, with a plainness suitable 
 to the occasion, only tells us, 
 
 Aaoi [isv <^^ivv^8<n ifs§i 'irfoXiv, atifv re -tsiyo^, 
 Ma^vaiJisvoi. vi. 327. 
 
 Teucer, in the eighth book, aims a dart at 
 Hector, which, missing its way, slew Gorgythionj 
 upon which we are told. 
 
 Another shaft the raging archer threw j 
 That other shaft with erring fury flew. 
 
201 
 
 (From Hector Phcebus turn'd the^ying wound) 
 Yet fell not dry or guiltless to the ground. 
 
 Afli/ing xcoitnd is a thought exactly in the spirit 
 of Ovid ; but highly unworthy of Pope as well 
 as of Homer ; and, indeed, there is not the least 
 foundation for it in the orio-inal. But what do 
 you think of the shaft that fell diy ov guiltless? 
 M'here, you see, one fiijurative epithet is added 
 as explanatory of the other. The doubling of 
 epithets, without raising the idea, is not allowa- 
 ble in compositions of any kind ; but least of all 
 in poetry. It is, says Quintilian, as if every 
 common soldier in an army were to be attended 
 with a valet ; you increase your number, without 
 adding to your strength. 
 
 But if it be a fault to crowd epithets of the 
 same import one upon the other; it is much 
 more so to employ such as call off the attention 
 from the principal idea to be raised, and turn it 
 upon little or foreign circumstances. When 
 iEneas is wounded by Tydides, Homer describes 
 Venus as conducting him through the thickest 
 tumult of the enemy, and conveying him from 
 the field of battle. But while we are following 
 the hero with our whole concern, and trembling 
 for the danger which surrounds him on all sides, 
 Mr. Pope leads us off from our anxiety for 
 j^neas, by an uninteresting epithet relating to 
 the structure of those instruments of death, 
 
202 
 
 which were every where %ing about him ; and 
 we are coldly informed, that the darts were 
 feathered: 
 
 Safe through the rushing horse and feather d flight 
 Of sounding shafts, she bears him through the fight. 
 
 V. 393, 
 
 But as his epithets sometimes debase the ge- 
 neral image to be raised, so they now and then 
 adorn them with a false brilliancy. Thus, speak- 
 ing of a person slain by an arrow, he calls it a 
 pointed death, iv. 607 : describing another who 
 was attacked by numbers at once, he tells us, 
 
 A grove of lances glitter' d at his breast. 
 
 iv. 621. 
 
 and representing a forest on fire, he says, 
 
 In blazing heaps the grove's old honours fall. 
 And one refulgent ruin levels all. x. 201. 
 
 But one of the most unpardonable instances of 
 this kind is, where he relates the death of Hyp- 
 senor, a person who, it seems, exercised the sa- 
 cerdotal office : 
 
 On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand. 
 Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand. 
 And stain'd with sacred blood the blushing sand. 
 
 To take the force of this epithet, we must sup- 
 pose that the redness which appeared upon the 
 
203 
 
 sand on this occasion, was an effect of its blush* 
 ing to find itself stained with the blood of so 
 sacred a person : than which there cannot be a 
 more forced and unnatural thought. It puts me 
 in mind of a passage in a French dramatic writer, 
 who has formed a play upon the story of Py ramus 
 and Thisbe. The hapless maid, addressing her- 
 self to the dagger, which lies by the side of her 
 lover, breaks out into the following exclama- 
 tion: 
 
 Ah ! voici le poignard qui du sang de son inaitre 
 S' est souille lachement : il en rougit le traitre. 
 
 Boileau, taking notice of these lines, observes, 
 toutes les glaces du Novel ensemble ne sont pas, a 
 mon sens, plus froides que cette pensee. But of 
 the two poets, I know not whether Mr. Pope 
 is not most to be condemned : for whatever 
 shame the poignard might take to itself, for beino- 
 concerned in the murder of the lover ; it is cer- 
 tain that the sand had not the least share in the 
 death of the priest. 
 
 The ancient critics have insisted much upon 
 propriety of language ; and, indeed, one may 
 with great justice say what the insulted Job does 
 to his impertinent friends, hoxv forcible are right 
 words ! The truth is, though the sentiment must 
 always support the expression, yet the expres- 
 sion must give grace and efficacy to the senti- 
 
204 
 
 rnent ; and the same thought shall frequently be 
 admired or condemned, according to the merit 
 of the particular phrase in which it is conveyed. 
 For this reason J. Ccesar, in a treatise which he 
 \i^rote concerning the Latin language, calls a ju- 
 dicious choice of words, the origin of eloquence: 
 as indeed neither oratory nor poetry can be 
 raised to any degree of perfection, where this 
 their principal root is neglected. In this art 
 Virgil particularly excels ; and it is the inimita- 
 ble grace of his words (as Mr. Dryden some- 
 where justly observes) wherein that beauty prin- 
 cipally consists, which gives so inexpressible a 
 pleasure to him who best understands their force. 
 No man was ever a more skilful master of thi§ 
 powerful art than Mr. Pope ; as he has, upon 
 several occasions throughout this translation, 
 raised and dignified his style with certain anti- 
 quated words and phrases, that are most won- 
 derfully solemn and majestic. I cannot, how- 
 ever, forbear mentioning an instance, where he 
 has employed an obsolete term less happily, I 
 think, than is his general custom. It occurs in 
 some lines which I just now quoted for another 
 purpose : 
 
 On his broad shoulder fell the forceful brand. 
 Thence glancing downward lopt his holy hand. 
 
 V. 105. 
 
 Brand is sometimes used by Spenser for a sword; 
 
205 
 
 and in that sense it is here introduced. But as 
 we still retain this word in a different applica- 
 tion, it will always be improper to adopt it in 
 its antiquated meaning, because it must neces- 
 sarily occasion ambiguity : an error in style of 
 all others the most to be avoided. Accordingly, 
 every reader of the lines I have quoted, must 
 take up an idea very different from that which 
 the poet intends, and which he will carry on 
 with him, till he arrives at the middle of the 
 second verse. And if he happens to be unac- 
 quainted with the language of our old writers, 
 when he comes to 
 
 lopt his holy hand, 
 
 he will be lost in a confusion of images, and have 
 absolutely no idea remaining. 
 
 There is another uncommon elegance in the 
 management of words, which requires a very sin- 
 gular turn of genius, and great delicacy of judg- 
 ment to attain. As the art I just before men- 
 tioned turns upon employing antiquated words 
 with force and propriety ; so this consists in 
 mvincf the grace of novelty to the received and 
 current terms of a language, by applying them 
 in a new and unexpected manner : 
 
 Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
 Reddiderit, junctura novum. Hor. 
 
 The great caution, however, to be observed in 
 
206' 
 
 any attempt of this kind, is so Judiciously to 
 connect tiie expressions, as to remove every 
 doubt concerning the signification in which they 
 are designed : for as perspicuity is the end and 
 supreme excellency of writing, there cannot be 
 a more fatal objection to an author's style, than 
 that it stands in need of a commentator. But 
 will not this objection lie against the following 
 verse ? 
 
 Next artful Phereclus untimely fell. v. 75. 
 
 The word artful is here taken out of its appro- 
 priated acceptation, in order to express 
 
 But however allowable it may be (as indeed it 
 is not only allowable, but graceful) to raise a 
 word above its ordinary import, when the cal- 
 lidajunctura (as Horace calls it) determines at 
 once the sense in which it is used : yet it should 
 never be cast so far back from its customary 
 meaning, as to stand for an idea which has no 
 relation to what it implies in its primary and 
 natural state. This would be introducing un- 
 certainty and confusion into a language; and 
 turning every sentence into a riddle. Accord- 
 ingly, after we have travelled on through the 
 several succeeding lines in this passage, we are 
 
207 
 
 obliged to change the idea with which we set 
 out ; and find, at last, that by the aiHful Phere- 
 clus we are to understand, not what we at first 
 apprehend, a man of cunning and design ; but 
 one who is skilled in the mechanical arts. 
 
 It is with a liberty of the same unsuccessful 
 kind, that Mr. Pope has rendered 
 
 Tov TTforffSf itc'jTSciire A-jKaovof aykci'j; vfig. 
 
 V. 276. 
 Stern Lycaon's warlike i-ace begun. 
 
 I know not by what figure of speech the whole 
 race of a man can denote his next immediate 
 descendant : and, I fear, no synecdoche can ac- 
 quit this expression of nonsense. The truth is, 
 whoever ventures to strike out of the common 
 road, must be more than ordinarily careful, or 
 he will probably lose his way. 
 
 This reminds me of a passage or two, where 
 our poet has been extremely injurious to the 
 sense of his author, and made him talk a lan- 
 guage, which he never uses; the language, I 
 mean, of absurdity. In the sixth Iliad, Aga- 
 memnon assures Menelaus, 
 
 lAi« s^'aTTaAojar , ax-i-jSearroi. vi. 60. 
 
 But in Mr. Pope's version, that chief tells hi< 
 brother, 
 
 Ilion shall perish whole, and bury all. 
 
 Perhaps it may be over-nice to remark, that as 
 
208 
 
 the destruction of Troy is first mentioned, it has 
 a little the appearance of nonsense to talk after- 
 wards of her burying her sons. However, the 
 latter part of this verse directly contradicts the 
 original : for Agamemnon is so far from assert- 
 ing that Ilion should bury all her inhabitants, 
 that he pronounces positively, they should not 
 be buried at all : a calamity, in the opinion of 
 the ancients, of all others the most terrible. But 
 possibly the error may lie in the printer, not in 
 the poet; and perhaps the line originally stood 
 thus : 
 
 Ilion shall perish whole, unbury'd all. 
 
 If so, both my objections vanish : and those who 
 are conversant with the press, will not think this 
 supposition improbable ; since much more un- 
 likely mistakes often happen by the carelessness 
 of compositors. 
 
 But though I am willing to make all the al- 
 lowance possible to an author, who raises our 
 admiration too often not to have a right to the 
 utmost candour, wherever he fails; yet I can 
 find no excuse for an unaccountable absurdity 
 he has fallen into, in translating a passage of 
 the tenth book. Diomed and Ulysses, taking 
 advantage of the night, set out in order to view 
 the Trojan camp. In their way they meet with 
 Dolon, who is going from thence to the Grecian, 
 upon an errand of the same kind. After having 
 
209 
 
 seized this unfortunate adventurer, and examined 
 him concerning the situation and designs of the 
 enemy ; Diomed draws his sword, and strikes 
 off Dolon's head, in the very instant that he is 
 supplicating for mercy : 
 
 iSByyoij.aya S" acx ra ye y.a.cYj y.ovixa-iv su^iyj^rj. 
 
 X. 45t. 
 
 Mr. Pope has turned this into a most extraordi- 
 nary miracle, by assuring us that the head spoke 
 after it had quitted the body : 
 
 The head yet speaking, mutter' d as it fell. 
 
 This puts me in mind of a wonder of the same 
 kind in the Fairy Queen, where Corflambo is 
 represented as blaspheming, after his head had 
 been struck ofi by prince Arthur : 
 
 He smote at him with all his might and main 
 So furiously, that, ere he wist, he found 
 His head before him tumbling on the ground; 
 
 The whiles his babbling tongue did yet blaspheme. 
 And curs'd his Gk)dj that did him so confound. 
 
 Book iv. 8. 
 
 But Corflambo was the son of a giantess, and 
 could conquer whole kingdoms by only looking 
 at them. We may, perhaps, therefore allow him 
 to talk, when every other man must be silent; 
 whereas there is nothing in the history of poor 
 Dolon, that can give him the least pretence to 
 
 ? 
 
no 
 
 this singufar privilege. The trath is, Mr. Pope 
 seems to have been led into this blunder by 
 Scaliger, who has given the same sense to the 
 verse, and then with great wisdom and gravity 
 observes, J'alsum est a puhnone caput avulsum 
 loqui poise. 
 
 The most pleasing picture m the whole Iliad 
 is, I think, the parting of Hector and Andro- 
 mache : and our excellent translator, has, in ge- 
 neral, very successfully copied it. But in some 
 places he seems not to have touched it with that 
 delicacy of pencil, which graces the original ; a» 
 he has entirely lost the beauty of one of the 
 figures. Hector is represented as extending his 
 arms to embrace the little Astyanax, who being 
 terrified with the unusual appearance of a man 
 in armour, throws himself back upon his nurse's 
 breast, and falls into tears. But though the hero 
 and his son were designed to draw our principal 
 attention, Homer intended likewise that we 
 should cast a glance towards the nurse. Accord- 
 ingly, he does not mark her out merely by the 
 name of her office ; but adds an epithet to show- 
 that she makes no inconsiderable figure in the 
 piece : he does not simply call her rtSTjvri, but 
 iC't'^vos tiSrjVr]. This circumstance Mr. Pope has 
 entirely overlooked : 
 
 Xif siifujv, 8 TtdiSo; o^s^ocYO (pa,iSi[jjQ^ TS.-nrtjbp' 
 h'^ ^< irais TTfo; xoAtTOV iii'C/jJVOiQ ti^r^v-rj? 
 
211 
 
 £>cA»<9ij i»)(wv, ifa.ffCs fiXs o^/iv aro;/9s<f, 
 Tac^^rioscf %aA>tov rs iJe Xo(pov ntitio'/jxirr^v, 
 Asivov air ay.^orxTr^^ xo^vSog vsvovrcc vor^voig' 
 Ejt J' £y£Xa.(T<jB TtxrriO rs (piX'^g, ■k.oli tforvnx, /xijr^p, 
 AuriK arto y.^ccrog xofu5' sjAero (pxiSiii^oi Enrcof, 
 Ka» rijy asv xarefiijxsv stTj ^Sovi TTa/ACJavowtrav. 
 
 vi, 466. 
 
 Thus having said, 'th illustrious chief of Troy 
 Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy ; 
 The babe clung crying to his nurse s breast, 
 Scar'd by the dazzling helm and nodding crest : 
 With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd. 
 And Hector hasted to relieve his child : 
 The glitt'ring terrors from his head unbound. 
 And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. 
 
 I was going to object to the glittering terrors^ 
 in the last line but one : but I have already 
 taken notice of these little affected expressions, 
 ■where tlie substantive is set at variance with its 
 attribute. 
 
 It is the observation of Quintilian, that no 
 poet ever excelled Homer in the sublimity with 
 which he treats great subjects, or in the delicacy 
 and propriety he always discovers in the manage- 
 ment of small ones. There is a passage in the 
 ninth Iliad, which will justify the truth of the 
 latter of these observations. When Achilles re- 
 ceives Ajax and Ulysses in his tent, who were 
 sent to him in the name of Agamemnon, in order 
 to prevail with him to return to the army; IJomer 
 
 p 2 
 
21^ 
 
 gives a very minute account of theentertainmentj 
 "which was prepared for them upon that occasion. 
 It is impossible, perhaps, in modern language to 
 preserve the same dignity in descriptions of this 
 kind, which so considerably raises the original : 
 and indeed Mr. Pope warns his readers not to 
 expect much beauty in the picture. However, 
 a translator should be careful not to throw in 
 any additional circumstances, which may lower 
 and debase the piece; which yet Mr. Pope has, 
 in his version of the followins; line : 
 
 ix. ?11 
 
 Meanwhile Patroclus sweats, the fire to raise. 
 
 Own the truth, Euphronius : does not this give 
 you the idea of a greasy cook at a kitchen fire? 
 whereas nothing of this kind is suggested in the 
 original. On the contrary, the epithet la-o^soc 
 seems to have been added by Homer, in order 
 to reconcile us to the meanness of the action, by 
 reminding us of the high character of the person 
 who is engaged in it; and, as Mr. Addison ob- 
 serves of Virgil's husbandman, that " he tosses 
 about his dung with an air of gracefulness ;" 
 ^he may, with the same truth, say of Homer's 
 hero, that he lights his fire with an ah' of dig- 
 nity. 
 
 I intended to have closed these hasty objec- 
 
S13 
 
 tions, with laying before you some of those pas- 
 sages, where Mr. Pope seems to have equalled, 
 or excelled his original. But I perceive I have 
 already extended my letter beyond a reasonable 
 limit: I will reserve therefore that more pleasing, 
 as well as much easier task, to some future occa- 
 sion. In the mean time, I desire you will look 
 upon those remarks, not as proceeding from a 
 spirit of cavil (than which I know not any more 
 truly contemptible), but as an instance of my 
 having read your favourite poet vvith that at- 
 tention, which his own unequalled merit and 
 your judicious recommendation most deser- 
 vedly claim. I am, (Sec. 
 
S14 
 L^TTllR XLIV. 
 
 To I*ALA»IEDES. 
 
 April 18, 1739.. 
 
 I HAVE had occasion a thousand times since I 
 saw you, to wish myself i?i the land xvhere all 
 iTiings are for got 1 671 ; at least, that I did not 
 live in the memory of certain restless mortals 
 of your acquaintance, who are visitors by pro- 
 fession. The misfortune is, no retirement is so 
 remote, nor sanctuary so sacred, as to afford a 
 protection from their impertinence ; and though 
 one were to fly to the desert, and take refuge 
 in the cells of saints and hermits, one should be 
 alarmed with their unmeaning voice, crying 
 even in the wilderness^ They spread them- 
 selves, in truth, over the whole face of the land, 
 and lay waste the fairest hours of conversation. 
 For my own part (to speak of them in a style 
 suitable to their taste and talents) I look upon 
 them, not as paying visits, but visitations; and 
 am never obliged to give audience to one of 
 this species, that I do not consider myself as 
 under a judgment for those numberless hours, 
 which I have spent in vain. If these sons and 
 daughters of idleness and folly would be per- 
 
215 
 
 suaded to enter into an exclusive society among 
 themselves, the rest of the world might possess 
 their moments unmolested : but nothing less 
 will satisfy them than opening a general com- 
 merce, and sailing into every port where choice 
 or chance may drive them. Were we to live, 
 indeed, to the years of the antediluvians, one 
 mi»bt afford to resign some part of one's own 
 time, in charitable relief of the unsufFerable 
 weight of theirs ; but since the days of man are 
 jghrunk into a few hasty revolutions of the sun, 
 whole afternoons are much too considerable a 
 sacrifice to be offered up to tame civility. What 
 heightens the contempt of this character, is, that 
 they who have so much of the form, have al- 
 ways least of the power of friendship; and 
 though they will craze their chariot wheels (as 
 Milton expresses it) to destroy your repose, 
 they would not drive half the length of a street 
 to assist your distress. 
 
 It was owing to an interruption from one of 
 these obsequious intruders, that I was prevent- 
 ed keeping my engagement with you yesterday ; 
 and you must indulge me in this discharge 
 of my invective against the ridiculous occasion 
 of so mortifying a disappointment. Adieu. 
 I am, &c. 
 
21^ 
 LETTER XLV. 
 
 To HORTENSIUS. 
 
 Mays, 1757. 
 To be able to suppress my acknowledgments 
 of the pleasure I received from your approba- 
 tion, were to show that I do not deserve it ; for 
 is it possible to value the praise of the judicious 
 as one ought, and yet be silent under its in- 
 fluence? I can with strict truth say of you, 
 what a Greek poet did of Plato, who, reading 
 his performance to a circle where that great 
 philosopher was present, and finding himself 
 deserted at length by all the rest of the com- 
 pany, cried out, " I will proceed nevertheless, 
 for Plato is himself an audience." 
 
 True fame, indeed, is no more in the gift 
 than in the possession of numbers, as it is only 
 in the disposal of the wise and impartial. But 
 if both those qualifications must concur to give 
 Talidity to a vote of this kind, how little reason 
 has an author to be either depressed or elated 
 by general censure or applause ? 
 
 The triumphs of genius are not like those of 
 ancient heroism, where the meanest captive 
 made a part of the pomp, as well as the noblest. 
 
sir 
 
 It is not the multitude, but the dignity of those 
 that compose her followers, that can add any 
 thing to her real glory ; and a single attendant 
 may often render her more truly illustrious, 
 than a whole train of common admirers. I am 
 sure, at least, I have no ambition of drawing 
 after me vulgar acclamations ; and whilst I 
 have the happiness to enjoy your applause, I 
 shall always consider myself in possession of 
 the truest fame. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
21« 
 
 LETTER XLVL 
 To CxyTAifpEii. 
 
 Sept. 10, 173S. 
 
 You who never forget any thing, can tell me, 
 I dare say, whose observation it is, that " of 
 all the actions of our life, nothing is more un- 
 common than to laugh or to cry with a good 
 grace." But though I cannot recollect the 
 author, I shall always retain his maxim; as, 
 indeed, every day's occurrences suggest the 
 truth of it to my mind. I had particularly an 
 occasion to see one part of it verified in the 
 treatise I herewith return you : for never, sure- 
 ly, was mirth more injudiciously directed, than 
 that which this writer of your acquaintance has 
 employed. To droll upon the established reli- 
 gion of a country, and laugh at the most sacred 
 and inviolable of her ordinances, is as far re- 
 moved from good politics, as it is from good 
 manners. It is indeed upon maxims of policy 
 alone, that one can reason with those who pur- 
 sue the principles, which this author has em- 
 braced : I will add tlierefore (since, it seems, 
 you sometimes comnmuicaie to him my letters) 
 
219 
 
 that to endeavour to lessen that veneratiori 
 which is due to the religious institutions of a 
 nation, when they neither run counter to any of 
 the great lines of morality, nor oppose the natu- 
 ral rights of mankind, is a sort of zeal which I 
 know not by what epithet sufficiently to stigma- 
 tize : it is attacking the strongest hold of society, 
 and attempting to destroy the firmest guard of 
 human security. Far am I, indeed, from think- 
 ing there is no other ; or that the notion of a 
 moral sense is a vain and groundless hypothesis. 
 But wonderfully limited must the experience of 
 those philosophers undoubtedly be, who ima- 
 gine, that an implanted love of virtue is suffi- 
 cient to conduct the generality of mankind 
 through the paths of moral duties, and super- 
 sede the necessity of a further and more power- 
 ful guide. A sense of honour, likewise, where 
 it operates in its true and genuine vigour, is, I 
 confess, a most noble and powerful principle ; 
 but far too refined a motive of action, even for 
 the more cultivated part of our species to adopt 
 in general : and, in fact, we find it much oftener 
 professed, than pursued. Nor are the laws of 
 a community sufficient to answer all the restrain- 
 ing purposes of government; as there are many 
 moral points, which it is impossible to secure 
 by express provisions. Human institutions can 
 
reach no further than to certain general duties, 
 in which the collective welfare of society is more 
 particularly concerned. Whatever else is ne-- 
 cessary tor the ease and happiness of social in- 
 tercourse, can be derived only from the assist- 
 ance of religion ; which influences the nicer 
 connexions and dependencies of mankind, as it 
 regulates and corrects the heart. How many 
 tyrannies may I exercise as a parent, how many 
 hardships may I inflict as k master, if I take 
 the statutes of my country for the only guides of 
 my actions, and think every thing lawful, that 
 is not immediately penal ? The truth is, a man 
 may be injured in a variety of instances far more 
 atrociously, than by what the law considers 
 either as a fraud or a robbery. Now in cases 
 of this kind (and many very important cases of 
 this kind there are) to remove the bars of reli- 
 gion, is to throw open the gates of oppression : 
 it is to leave the honest exposed to the injurious 
 inroads of those (and they are far, perhaps, the 
 greatest part of mankind) who, though they 
 would never do justice and love mercy ^ in com- 
 pliance with the dictates of nature, would 
 scrupulously practise both in obedience to the 
 rules of revelation. 
 
 The gross of our species can never, indeed, 
 be influenced by abstract reasoning, nor capti- 
 
221 
 
 vated by the naked charms of virtue : on the 
 contrary, nothing seems more evident than that 
 the generality of mankind must be engaged by 
 sensible objects ; must be wrought upon by their 
 hopes and fears. And this has been the con- 
 stant maxim of all the celebrated legislators, 
 from the earliest establishment of government, 
 to this present hour. It is true, indeed, that 
 none have contended more v.'armly than the 
 ancients for the dignity of human nature, and 
 the native disposition of the soul to be enamour- 
 ed with the beauty of virtue : but it is equally 
 true, that none have more strenuously inculcated 
 the expediency of adding the authority of reli- 
 cion to the suggestions of nature, and main- 
 taining a reverence to the appointed ceremonies 
 of public worship. The sentiments of Pytha- 
 goras (or whoever he be who was author of 
 those verses which pass under that philosopher's 
 name) are well known upon this subject: 
 
 Many indeed are the ancient passages which 
 might be produced in support of this assertion, 
 if it were necessary to produce any passages of 
 this kind to vou, whom 1 have so often heard 
 
22^ 
 
 contend for the same truth with all the awalceri- 
 ino- powers of learning and eloquence. Suffer 
 me, however, for the benefit of your acquain- 
 tance, to remind you of one or two, which I do 
 not remember ever to have seen quoted. 
 
 Livy has recorded a speech of Appius Clau- 
 dius Crassus, which he made in opposition to 
 certain demands of the tribunes. That zealous 
 senator warmly argues against admitting the 
 plebeians into a share of the consular dignity; 
 from the power of taking the auspices being 
 originally and solely vested in the patrician 
 order. " But perhaps," says Crassus, "I shall 
 be told, that the pecking of a chicken, &c. are 
 trifles unworthy of regard : trifling, however, as 
 these ceremonies may now be deemed, it was 
 by the strict observance of them, that our an- 
 cestors raised this commonwealth to its present 
 point of grandeur." Parva sunt hcec: sed 
 •parca ista non conttmnendoj majores nostfi 
 maMmam ham rem fecerunt. — Agreeably to 
 this principle, the Roman historian of the life 
 of Alexander, describes that monarch, after 
 having killed his friend Clitus, as considering, 
 in his cool moments, whether the gods had not 
 permitted him to be guilty of that horrid act, 
 in punishment fo' his irreligious neglect of 
 
323 
 
 their sacred rites. And Juvenal * imputes the 
 source of that torrent of vice which broke in 
 upon the age in which he wrote, to the general 
 di&belief that prevailed of the public doctrines 
 of their established religion. Those tenets, he 
 tells us, that influenced the glorious conduct of 
 the Curii, the Scipios, the Fabricii, and the 
 Camilli, were in his days so totally exploded, 
 as scarce to be received even by children. It 
 were well for some parts of the Christian world, 
 if the same observation might not with justice 
 be extended be^-ond the limits of ancient Rome: 
 and I often reflect upon the very judicious re- 
 mark of a great writer of the last century, who 
 takes notice, that *' the generality of Christen- 
 dom is now well-nigh arrived at that fatal con- 
 dition, which immediately preceded the de- 
 struction of the w orship of the ancient world J 
 when the face of religion, in their public as- 
 semblies, was quite different from that appre- 
 hension which men had concerning it in pri- 
 vate." 
 
 Nothing, most certainly, could less plead 
 the sanction of reason, than the general rites of 
 pagan worship. Weak and absurd, however, 
 as they were in themselves, and indeed in the 
 
 * Sat. II. 149. 
 
224 
 
 estimation too of all the wiser soft; yet the 
 more thinking and judicious part, both of their 
 statesmen and philosophers, unanimously con- 
 curred in supporting them as sacred and in- 
 violable : well persuaded, no doubt, that reli- 
 gion is the strongest cement in the great struc- 
 ture of moral government. Farewel. I am, 
 &c. 
 
225 
 
 LETTER XLVII. 
 To Cleora. 
 
 Sept. 1. 
 I LOOK upon every day wherein I have not 
 some communication with my Cleora as a day 
 lost; and I take up my pen every afternoon to 
 write to you, as regularly as I drink my tea, or 
 perform any the like important article of my 
 life. 
 
 I frequently bless the happy art that affords 
 me a means of conveying myself to you at this 
 distance, and, by an easy kind of magic, thus 
 transports me to your parlour at a time when I 
 could not gain admittance by any other method. 
 Of all people in the world, indeed, none are 
 more obliged to this paper commerce, than 
 friends and lovers. It is by this they elude, in 
 some degree, the malevolence of fate, and can 
 enjoy an intercourse with each other, though 
 the Alps themselves shall rise up between them. 
 Even this imaginary participation of your so- 
 ciety is far more pleasing to me, than the real 
 enjoyment of any other conversation the whole 
 world could supply. The truth is, I have lost 
 all relish for any but yours ; and if I were in- 
 
 Q 
 
226* 
 
 vited to an assembly of all the wits of the 
 Augustan age, or all the heroes that Plutarch 
 has celebrated, I should neither have spirits nor 
 curiosity to be of the party. Yet with all this 
 indolence or indifference about me, I would 
 take a voyage as far as the pole to sup with 
 Cleora on a lettuce, or only to hold the bowl 
 while she mixed the syllabub. Such happy 
 evenings I once knew : ah, Cleora ! will they 
 never return ? Adieu, 
 
227 
 LETTER XLVIII. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 I HAVE read the performance you communi- 
 cated to me, with all the attention you required ; 
 and I can with strict sincerity apply to your 
 friend's verses, what an ancient has observed of 
 the same number of Spartans who defended the 
 passage of Thermopylae ; nunquam vidi plures 
 trecentos ! Never, indeed, was there greater 
 energy of language and sentiment united toge- 
 ther in the same compass of lines : and it would 
 be an injustice to the world, as well as to him- 
 self, to suppress so animated and so useful a 
 composition. 
 
 A satirist of true genius, who is warmed by 
 a generous indignation of vice, and whose cen- 
 sures are conducted by candour and truth, 
 merits the applause of every friend to virtue. 
 He may be considered as a sort of supplement 
 to the legislative authority of his country ; as 
 assisting the unavoidable defects of all legal 
 institutions for the regulating of manners, and 
 striking terror even where the divine prohibi- 
 tions themselves are held in contempt. The 
 
 strongest defence, perhaps, against the inroads 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 of vice, among the more cultivated part of our 
 species, is well-directed ridicule : they who fear 
 nothing else, dread to be marked out to the 
 contempt and indignation of the world. There 
 is no succeeding in the secret purposes of dis- 
 honesty, without preserving some sort of credit 
 among mankind ; as there cannot exist a more 
 impotent creature than a knave convict. To 
 expose, therefore, the false pretensions of coun- 
 terfeit virtue, is to disarm it at once of all 
 power of mischief, and to perform a public ser- 
 vice of the most advantageous kind, in which 
 any man can employ his time and his talents. 
 The voice, indeed, of an honest satirist is not 
 only beneficial to the world, as giving alarm 
 against the designs of an enemy so dangerous 
 to all social intercourse ; but as proving like- 
 wise the most efficacious preventive to others, 
 of assuming the same character of distinguished 
 infamy. Few are so totally vitiated, as to have 
 abandoned all sentiments of shame ; and when 
 every other principle ofintegrity is surrendered, 
 we generally find the conflict is still maintained 
 in this last post of retreating virtue. In this 
 view, therefore, it should seem, the function of 
 a satirist may be justified, notwithstanding it 
 should be true (what an excellent moralist has 
 asserted), that his chastisements rather exas- 
 perate than reclaim those on whom they fall. 
 
229 
 
 Perhaps, no human penalties are of any moral 
 advantage to the criminal himself; and the prin- 
 cipal benefit that seems to be derived from civil 
 punishments of any kind, is their restraining in- 
 fluence upon the conduct of others. 
 
 It is not every arm, however, tliat is qualified 
 to manage this formidable blow. The arrows 
 of satire, when they are not pointed by virtue, 
 as well as wit, recoil back upon the hand that 
 directs them, and wound none but him from 
 whom they proceed. Accordingly, Horace rests 
 the whole success of writings of this sort upon 
 the poet's being Integer' Ipse; free himself from 
 those immoral stains which he points out in 
 others. There cannot, indeed, be a more odious, 
 nor at the same time a more contemptible cha- 
 racter than that of a vicious satirist : 
 
 (Quis ccElum t erris non misceat et mare caelo. 
 
 Si fur displiceat Verri, homicida Miloiii ? Juv. 
 
 The most favourable light in which a censor of 
 this species could possibly be viewed, would be 
 that of a public executioner, who inflicts the 
 punishment on others, which he has already 
 merited himself. But the truth of it is, he is 
 not qualified even for so wretched an office ; and 
 there is nothing- to be dreaded from a satirist of 
 known dishonesty, but his applause. Adieu. 
 
230 
 
 LETTER XLIX. 
 To Palamedes. 
 
 August 2, 1734. 
 Ceremony is never more unwelcome, than at 
 that season in which you will, probably, have 
 the greatest share of it ; and as I should be ex- 
 tremely unwilling to add to the number of those 
 who, in pure good-manners, may interrupt your 
 enjoyments, I choose to give you my congratu- 
 lations a little prematurely. After the happy 
 office shall be completed, your moments will be 
 too valuable to be laid out in forms ; and it 
 would be paying a compliment with a very ill 
 grace, to draw off your eyes from the highest 
 " beauty, though it were to turn them on the most 
 exquisite wit. I hope, however, you will give 
 me timely notice of your wedding day, that I 
 may be prepared with my epithalamium. I 
 have already laid in half a dozen deities ex- 
 tremely proper for the occasion, and have even 
 made some progress in my first simile. But I 
 am somewhat at a loss how to proceed, not 
 beins able to determine whether your future 
 bride is most like Venus or Hebe. That she 
 resembles both, is universally agreed, I find, by 
 
231 
 
 those who have seen her. But it would be 
 offending, you know, against all the rules of 
 poetical justice, it" I should only say she is as 
 handsome as she is young, when after all, per- 
 haps, the truth may be, that she has even more 
 beauty than youth. In the mean while, I am 
 turning over all the tender complimenrs that 
 love has inspired, from the Lesbia of Catullus 
 to the Chloe of Prior, and hope to gather such 
 a collection of flowers as may not be unworthy 
 of entering into a garland composed for your 
 Stella. But before you introduce me as a poet, 
 let me be recommended to her by a much better 
 title, and assure her, that I am yours, &c. 
 
LETTER L. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 I AM much inclined to join with you in think- 
 ing that the Romans had no peculiar word in 
 their language, which answers precisely to what 
 we call good-sense in ours. For though pru- 
 dentia, indeed, seems frequently used by their 
 best writers to express that idea, yet it is not 
 confined to that single meaning, but is often 
 applied by them to signify skill in any particu- 
 lar science. But good-sense is something ver}' 
 distinct from knowledge ; and it is an instance 
 of the poverty of the Latin language, that she is 
 obliged to use the same word as a mark for two 
 such different ideas. 
 
 Were I to explain what I understand by 
 good-sense, I should call it right reason ; but 
 right reason that arises, not from formal and 
 logical deductions, but from assort of intuitive 
 faculty in the soul, which distinguishes by im- 
 mediate perception ; a kind of innate sagacity, 
 that in many of its properties seems very much 
 to resemble instinct. It would be improper, 
 therefore, to say, that Sir Isaac Newton showed 
 his good-sense by those amazing discoveries 
 
233 
 
 which he made in natural philosophy : the 
 operations of this gift of Heaven are rather in- 
 stantaneous, than the result of any tedious pro- 
 cess. Like Diomed, after IMinerva had endow- 
 ed him with the power of discerning gods from 
 mortals, the man of good-sense discovers at 
 once the truth of those objects he is most con- 
 cerned to distinguish ; and conducts himself 
 with suitable caution and security. 
 
 It is for this reason, possibly, that this qua- 
 lity of the mind is not so often found united 
 with learnino; as one could wish : for aood sense 
 being accustomed to receive her discoveries 
 without labour or study, she cannot so easily 
 wait for those truths, which being placed at a 
 distance, and Ivin^ concealed under numberless 
 covers, require much pains and application to 
 unfold. 
 
 But though good-sense is not in the number, 
 nor always, it must be owned, in the company 
 of the sciences ; yet it is (as the most sensible 
 of poets has justly observed) 
 
 fauly worth the seven. 
 
 Rectitude of understanding is indeed the most 
 useful, as v<ell os the most noble, of human 
 endowments, as it is the sovereign guide and 
 director in every branch of civil and social in- 
 tercourse. 
 
234 . 
 
 Upon whatever occasion this enlightening 
 faculty is exerted, it is always sure to act with 
 distinguished eminence; but its chief and pecu- 
 liar province seems to lie in the commerce of 
 the world. Accordingly we may observe, that 
 those who have conversed more with men than 
 with books, whose wisdom is derived rather 
 from experience than contemplation, generally 
 possess this happy talent with superior perfec- 
 tion : for good- sense, though it cannot be ac- 
 quired, may be improved; and the world, I 
 believe, will ever be found to afford the most 
 kindly soil for its cultivation. 
 
 I know not whether true good-sense is not a 
 more uncommon quality even than true wit; 
 as there is nothing, perhaps, more extraordinary 
 than to meet with a person, whose entire con- 
 duct and notions are under the direction of this 
 supreme guide. The single instance, at least, 
 which I could produce of its acting steadily and 
 invariably throughout the whole of a character, 
 is that which Euphronius, I am sure, would 
 not allow me to mention : at the same time, 
 perhaps, I am rendering my own pretensions of 
 this kind extremely questionable, when I thus 
 venture to throw before you my sentiments 
 upon a subject, of which you are universally 
 acknowledged so perfect a master. I am, &c. 
 
235 
 
 LETTER LI. 
 To Palemon. 
 
 May 29, 1743. 
 1 ESTEEM your letters in the number of my 
 most valuable possessions, and preserve them 
 as so many prophetical leaves upon which the 
 fate of our distracted nation is inscribed. But 
 in exchange for the maxims of a patriot, I can 
 only send you the reveries of a recluse, and 
 give you the stones of the brook for the gold of 
 Ophir. Never, indeed, Palemon, was there a 
 commerce more unequal, than that wherein you 
 are contented to engage with me ; and I could 
 scarce answer it to my conscience to continue a 
 traffic, where the whole benefit accrues singly 
 to myself; did I not know, that to confer with- 
 out the possibility of an advantage, is the most 
 pleasing exercise of generosity. I will venture 
 then to make use of a privilege which I have 
 long enjoyed ; as I well know you love to mix 
 the meditations of the philosopher with the re- 
 flections of the statesman, and can turn with 
 equal relish from the politics Of Tacitus to the 
 morals of Seneca. 
 
Q36 
 
 I was in my garden this morning somewhat 
 earlier than usual, when the sun, as Milton de- 
 scribes him, 
 
 With wheels yet hov'ring o'er the ocean brim 
 Shot parallel to th' earth his dewy ray. 
 
 There is something in the opening of the dawn, 
 at this season of the year, that enlivens the 
 mind with a sort of cheerful seriousness, and 
 fills it with a certain calm rapture in the con- 
 sciousness of its existence. For my own part, 
 at least, the rising of the sun has the same effect 
 on me, as it is said to have had on the cele- 
 brated statue of Memnon : and I never observe 
 that glorious luminary breaking out upon me, 
 that I do not find myself harmonized for the 
 whole day. 
 
 Whilst I was enjoying the freshness and tran- 
 quillity of this early season, and considering the 
 many reasons I had to join in offering up that 
 morning incense, which the poet I just now 
 mentioned represents as particularly arising at 
 this houYfro7n the earth's great altar; I could 
 not but esteem it as a principal blessing, that I 
 was entering upon a new day with health and 
 spirits. To awake with recruited vigour for the 
 transactions of life, is a mercy so generally dis- 
 pensed, that it passes, like other the ordinary 
 bounties of Providence, without making its due 
 
237 
 
 impression. Yet were one never to rise under 
 these happy circumstances, without reflecting 
 what numbers there are, who (to use the lan- 
 guage of the most pathetic of authors) when 
 they said, My bed shall comfort w?e, my couch 
 shall ease my complaint, vvere, like him, full of 
 tossings to and fro, unto the dawning of the day^ 
 or scared with dreams, and terrified through 
 visions — were one to consider, 1 say, how many 
 pass their nights in all the horrors of a disturb- 
 ed imagination, or all the wakefulness of real 
 pains, one could not find one's self exempt from 
 such uneasy slumbers, or such terrible vigils, 
 without double satisfaction and gratitude. There 
 is nothing, indeed, contributes more to render 
 a man contented with that draught of life which 
 is poured out to himself, than thus to reflect on 
 those more bitter ingredients which are some- 
 times mingled in the cup of others. 
 
 In pursuing the same vein of thought, I could 
 not but congratulate myself, that 1 had no part 
 in that turbulent drama which was going to be 
 re-acted upon the great stage of the world ; and 
 rejoiced that it was my fortune to stand a distant 
 and unengaged spectator of those several cha- 
 racters that would shortly fill the scene. This 
 suggested to my remembrance a passage in the 
 Roman tragic poet, where he describes the 
 
238 
 
 various pursuits of the busy and ambitious 
 world, in very just and lively colours : 
 
 Ille superbos aditus regum 
 Durasque fores, expers somni, 
 Colit : Hie nuUo fine beatus 
 Contiponit opes, gazis inhians, 
 Et conijesto pauper in auro est. 
 Ilium populi favor attonilum, 
 Fluctuque magis mobile valgus. 
 Aura tumidum toUit inani. 
 Hie clamosi rabiosa fori 
 Jurgia vendens improbus, iras 
 Et verba locat : 
 
 and I could not forbear saying to myself, in the 
 
 language of the same author, 
 
 me mea tellus 
 Lare secreto tutoque tegat ! 
 
 Yet this circumstance, which your friend con- 
 siders as so valuable a privilege, has been 
 esteemed by others as the most severe of afflic- 
 tions. The celebrated count de Bussy Rabutin 
 has written a little treatise, wherein, after having 
 shown that the greatest men upon the stage of 
 the world are generally the most unhappy, he 
 closes the account by producing himself as an 
 instance of the truth of what he had been ad- 
 vancing. But can you guess, Palemon, what 
 this terrible disaster was, which thus entitled 
 him to a rank in the number of these unfortu- 
 
T39 
 
 nate heroes? He had composed, it seems, cer- 
 tain satirical pieces which gave offence to Lewis 
 the Fourteenth ; for which reason that monarch 
 banished him from the slavery and dependence 
 of a court, to live in ease and freedom at his 
 countrv-house . But the world had taken too 
 strong possession of his heart, to suffer him to 
 leave even the worst part of it without reluc- 
 tance ; and, like the patriarch's wife, he looked 
 back with regret upon the scene from which he 
 ■was kindly driven, though there was nothing in 
 the prospect but flames. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
240 
 LETTER LII. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 August 20, 1742. 
 
 Surely, Euphronius, the spirit of criticism has 
 stra: lively possessed you. How else could you 
 be willing to step aside so often from the amuse- 
 ments of the gayest scenes, in order to examine 
 with me certain beauties, far other than those 
 which at present, it might be imagined, would 
 wholly engage your attention ? Who, indeed, 
 that sees my friend over- night supporting the 
 vivacity of the most sprightly assemblies, would 
 expect to find him the next morning gravely 
 poring over antiquated Greek, and weighing 
 the merits of ancient and modern genuises ? But 
 1 have long admired you as an elegant specta- 
 tor formarum, in every sense of the expression ; 
 and you can turn, I know, from the charms of 
 beauty to those of wit, with the same refine- 
 ment of taste and rapture. I may venture 
 therefore to resume our critical correspondence 
 without the form of an apology; as it is the 
 singular character of Euphronius, to reconcile 
 the philosopher with the man of the w orld, and 
 
241 
 
 judiciously divide his hours between action and 
 retirement. 
 
 What has been said of a celebrated French 
 translator, may with equal justice be applied to 
 Mr. Pope : " that it is doubtful whether the 
 dead or the living are most obliged to him." 
 His translations of Homer, and imitations of 
 Horace, have inti'oduced to the acquaintance 
 of the English reader, two of the most consider- 
 able authors in all antiquity ; as indeed they are 
 equal to the credit of so many original works. 
 A man must ha^ve a very considerable share of 
 the different spirit which distinguishes those 
 most admirable poets, who is capable of repre- 
 senting, in his own language, so true an image 
 of their respective manners. If we look no 
 further than these works themselves, without 
 considering them with respect to any attempts 
 of the same nature which have been made by 
 others, we shall have sufficient reason to esteem 
 them for their own intrinsic m.erit. But how- 
 will this uncommon genius rise in our admira- 
 tion, when we compare his classical translations 
 with those similar performances, which have 
 emploved some of the most celebrated of our 
 poets ? I have lately been turning over the Iliad 
 with this view ; and perhaps it will be no unen- 
 tertaining amusement to you, to examine the 
 several copies which I have collected of the 
 
 a 
 
242 
 
 original, as taken by some of the most consi- 
 derable of our English masters. To single them 
 out for this purpose according to the order of 
 the particular books, or passages, upon which 
 they have respectively exercised their pencils, 
 the pretensions of Mr. Tickei stand first to be 
 examined. 
 
 The action of the Iliad opens, you know, 
 with the speech of Chryses, whose daughter, 
 having been taken captive by the Grecians, was 
 allotted to Agamemnon. This venerable priest 
 of Apollo is represented as addressing himself 
 to the Grecian chiefs, in the following pathetic 
 simplicity of eloquence : 
 
 AT^siSai Ts, KXi aXXot smivrjixihg A'^xioi, 
 
 EKiTB^crai Ti.pia.^OiO ttoXiv, sv (J' oiKxS' iKsa-Qcu' 
 HxiSa Ss [Jioi XvcraiTs fiX-^v, ra, iJ' aTtoivcc Ss^soSs, 
 A^OjW-£vo< Ajof viov s/iY/'SoXov AitokKiuva,. i. 17. 
 
 Great Atreus' sons, and warlike Greece, attend. 
 
 So may th' immortal gods your cause defend. 
 
 So may you Priam's lofty bulwarks burn. 
 
 And rich in gather'd spoils to Greece return. 
 
 As, for these gifts, my daughter you bestow. 
 
 Arid rev'rence due to great Apollo show, 
 
 Jove's fav'rite offspring, terrible in war. 
 
 Who sends his shafts unerring from afar. Tickel. 
 
 That affecting tenderness of the father, which 
 Homer has marked out by the melancholy flow 
 
243 
 
 of the line, as well as by the endearing expres- 
 sion of 
 
 is entirely lost by Mr. Tickel. When Chryses 
 coldly nientions his daughter, without a single 
 epithet of concern or atfection, he seems much 
 too inditferent himself to move the audience in 
 his favour. But the whole passage, as it stands 
 in Mr. Pope's Iliad, is in general animated with 
 a far more lively spirit of poetry. Who can 
 observe the moving posture of supplication in 
 which he has drawn the venerable old priest, 
 stretching out his arms in all the affecting 
 warmth of entreaty, without sharins; in his dis- 
 tress, and melting into pity ? 
 
 Ye kings and warriors ! may your vows be crovvn'd. 
 
 And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground ; 
 
 JMay Jo'se restore you, when your toils are o'er. 
 
 Safe to the pleasures of your native shore : 
 
 But oh ! relieve a wretched parent's pain. 
 
 And give Chryseis to these arms again. 
 
 If mercy fail, yet let my presents move. 
 
 And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove. Pope. 
 
 The insinuation with which Chryses closes his 
 speech, that the Grecians must expect the in- 
 dignation of Apollo would pursue them if they 
 rejected the petition of his priest, is happily 
 intimated by a single epithet, 
 
 And dread avenging Phoebus j 
 R 2 
 
whereas the other translator takes the compasS' 
 of three lines to express the same thought less- 
 strongly. 
 
 When the heralds are sent by Agamemnon 
 to Achilles, in order to demand Briseis, that 
 chief is prevailed upon to part with her ; and 
 accordingly directs Patroclus to deliver up this 
 contested beauty into their hands : 
 
 £jt o' ayocys aXia'irjg B^icrrji^a. ■KCcXXntoL^-nov, 
 
 H S a£K8(r cfLX roicri yvvrj y.isv i. 345, 
 
 The beauty of Briseis, as described in these 
 lines, together with the reluctance with which 
 she is here represented as forced from her lord, 
 cannot but touch the reader in a very sensible 
 manner. Mr. Tickel, however, has debased 
 this affecting picture, by the most unpoetical 
 and familiar diction. I will not delay you with 
 making my objections in form to his language ; 
 but have distinguished the exceptionable ex- 
 pressions, in the lines themselves : 
 
 Patroclus his dear friend oblig'd. 
 And usher' d in the lovely weeping maid j 
 Sore sigh'd she, as the heralds took her hand. 
 And oft look'd back, slow-moving o'er the strand. 
 
 Tickel. 
 
 Our British Homer has restored this piece to , 
 its original grace and delicacy : 
 
245 
 
 Patroclus now th' unwilling beauty brought : 
 She, in soft sorrows, and in pensive thought, 
 Pass'd silent, as the heralds held her hand. 
 And oft look'd back, slow-moving o'er the strand. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 The tumultuous behaviour of Achilles, as 
 described by Homer in the lines immediately 
 following, affords a very pleasing and natural 
 contrast to the more composed and silent sor- 
 row of Brisei's. The poet represents that hero 
 as suddenly rushing out from his tent, and fly- 
 ing to the sea-shore, where he gives vent to his 
 indignation ; and in bitterness of soul complains 
 to Thetis, not only of the dishonour brought 
 upon him by Agamemnon, but of the injustice 
 even of Jupiter himself: 
 
 Aaii§va-as, sra§u;v a<Zao eZsro vocr^i Kiavhis, 
 Qiv s<p aXos "TfoXiYjS, o§owv sifi oivoita, itovfov. 
 TIoXAa 5e p-i^T^f pM Tjpr,(rato %£<faf o^syvjs. 
 
 i. 348. 
 
 Mr. Tickel, in rendering the sense of these 
 lines, has risen into a somewhat higher flight of 
 poetry than usual. However, you will observe 
 his expression in one or two places is exceed- 
 ingly languid and prosaical ; as the epithet he 
 has given to the waves is highly injudicious. 
 Curliug billoxvs might be very proper in de- 
 scribing a calm, but suggests too pleasing an 
 
246 
 
 iniage to be applied to the ocean when repre- 
 sented as black with storms. 
 
 The widow'd hero, when the fair was gone, 
 
 Far from his friends sat bath'd in tears, alone. 
 
 On the cold beach he sat, and fix'd his eyes 
 
 Where, black with storms, the curling billows rise. 
 
 And as the sea wide-rolling he survey'd. 
 
 With out-stretch'd arms to his fond mother prmfd. 
 
 TiCKEL. 
 
 Mr. Pope has opened the thought in these lines 
 ^vith great dignity of numbers, and exquisite 
 propriety of imagery ; as the additional cir- 
 cumstances which he has thrown in, are so many 
 beautiful improvements upon his author : 
 
 Not so his loss the fierce Achilles bore ; 
 
 But sad retiring to the sounding shore. 
 
 O'er the wild margin of tb.e deep he hung. 
 
 That kindred deep from which his mother sjirung : 
 
 Then bath'd in tears of anger and disdain^ 
 
 Thus loud lamented to the stormy main. Vote. 
 
 Apollo having sent a plague among the Gre- 
 cians, in resentment of the injury done to his 
 priest Chryses by detaining his daughter, Aga- 
 memnon consents that Chryse'is shall be re- 
 stored. Accordingly a ship is fitted out under 
 the command of Ulysses, who is employed to 
 conduct the damsel to Jicr father. That hero 
 and his companions being arrived at Cl:rysa, 
 the place to which they were bound, deliver up 
 their charge; and having performed a sacrifice 
 
247 
 
 to Apollo, set sail early the next morning for 
 the Grecian camp. Upon this occasion Homer 
 exhibits to us a most beautiful sea-piece : 
 
 H,u(3? S" r^sXio; nxrsh, xai siti xvg^a? ij^^^g, 
 At) rare xoi(ji,ri(ravto tfapa itpit.yriffioi. vijof. 
 
 Ka/ T'sr" ETTgir a.vix.yr/70 [xsrx trr^ccrov evow kyan'jyj. 
 
 ToiTiv S" i>iu.svov s^ov isi sy.aspyo; AtToAAwv. 
 
 Ot ¥ jtrrov trrrjij-avT, avx S^' ((rnac Ae'jjco. Trgrac-trav 
 
 Ev S' avsix-o; Trpr^csv y.sa-ov i<rriO'/, a[/,(pi Ss xvy.x 
 
 '2,-7'cicr, lio^f'j^sov fjisyaA («%£, vr^o; 18<tyjS' 
 
 H ^ s^esv y-CL-ts, xvy.a Sia.7r^riO-cri;a-x ksXs-j^x. 
 
 i. 474. 
 
 If there is any passage throughout Mr. Tickel's 
 translation of this book, which has the least 
 pretence to stand in competition with Mr. Pope's 
 version, it is undoubtedly that which corresponds 
 ■with the Greek lines just now quoted. It would 
 indeed be an instance of great partiality not to 
 acknowledge they breathe the true spirit of 
 poetry ; and I must own myself at a loss which 
 to prefer upon the whole ; though I think ]\Ir. 
 Pope is evidently superior to his rival, in his 
 manner of opening the description : 
 
 At ev'ning through the shore dispers'd, they sleep, 
 Hush'd by the distant roarings of the deep. 
 When now, ascending from the shades of night,. 
 Aurora glovv'd in all her rosy light. 
 The daughter of the dawn : th' avvaken'd crew 
 Back to the Greeks encamp'd their course renew ; 
 
248 
 
 The breezes freshen : for with fiiendly gale» 
 Apollo swell'd their wide-distended sails ; 
 Cleft by the rapid prow the waves divide, 
 And in hoarse murmurs break on either side. 
 
 TiCKEt. 
 
 'Twas night: the chiefs beside their vessel lie. 
 Till rosy morn had purpled o'er the sky : 
 Then launch, and hoist the mast ; indulgent gales^ 
 Supplied by Phoebus, fill the swelling sails ; 
 The milk-white canvass bellying as they blow. 
 The parted ocean foams and roars below : 
 Above the boimding billows swift they flew, &c. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 There is something wonderfully pleasing in that 
 judicious pause, which Mr, Pope has placed 
 at the beginning of these lines. It necessarily 
 awakens the attention of the reader, and gives 
 a much greater air of solemnity to the scene, 
 than if the circumstance of the time had been 
 less distinctly pointed out, and blended, as in 
 ^fr. Tickel's translation, with the rest of tlic 
 description. 
 
 Homer has been celebrated by antiquity for 
 those sublime images of the Supreme Being, 
 v,'hich he so often raises in the Iliad. It is 
 r^lacrobius, if I remember right, who informs 
 us, that Phidias being asked from whence he 
 took the idea of his celebrated statue of Olym- 
 pian Jupiter, acknowledged that he had heated 
 bis imagination by the following lines ; 
 
249 
 
 H, xai Kvavsrioriv sit oip^'jffi vsvo's Kpoviujy 
 AuiSpocnai J' acx ydaton stsopojcravTO ava-nrog 
 
 i. 528. 
 
 But whatever magnificence of imajrery Phidias 
 might discover in the original, the Enghsh 
 reader will scarce, I imagine, conceive any 
 thing very grand and sublime from the follow- 
 ing copy : 
 
 This said, his kingly brow the sire inclin'd. 
 The large black curls fell awful from behind. 
 Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god : 
 Olympus trembled at th' almighty nod. 
 
 TiCKEL. 
 
 That our modern statuaries, however, may not 
 have an excuse for burlesquing the figure of 
 the great father of gods and men, for want of 
 the benefit of so animating a model, j\Ir. Pope 
 has preserved it to them in all its original 
 majesty : 
 
 He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows j 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod^ 
 The stamp of fate, and sanction of the god : 
 High heav'n with trembling the dread signal took;, 
 And all Olympus to the centre shook. Pofe, 
 
 I took occasion, in a former letter, to make 
 some exceptions to a passage or two in the 
 parting of Hector and Andromache, as trans- 
 lated by your favourite poet. I shall now pro- 
 duce a few lines from the same beautiful episode 
 
250 
 
 for another purpose, and in order to show, with 
 how much more masterly a hand, even than 
 Dryden himself, our great improver of English 
 poetry has worked upon the same subject. 
 
 As Andromache is going to the tower of 
 Ilion, in order to take a view of the field of bat- 
 tle, Hector meets her, together with her son the 
 young Astyanax, at the Scsean gate. The cir- 
 cumstances of this sudden interview are finely 
 imagined. Hector, in the first transport of his 
 joy, is unable to utter a single word; at the 
 same time that Andromache, tenderly embra- 
 cing his hands, bursts out into a flood of tears : 
 
 vi. 404. 
 
 Dryden has translated this passage with a cold 
 and unpoetical fidelity to the mere letter of the 
 original : 
 
 Hector beheld him with a silent smile. 
 His tender wife stood weeping by the while, "" 
 Press'd in her own his warlike hand she took. 
 Then sigh'd, and thus prophetically spoke : 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 But Pope has judiciously taken a larger com- 
 pass, and by heightening the piece with a few 
 additional touches, has wrought it up in all the 
 affecting spirit of tenderness and poetry : 
 
£'51 
 
 Silent the warrior smil'd, and pleas'd resign'd 
 To tender passions all his mighty mind : 
 His beauteous princess cast a mournful look. 
 Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke j 
 Her bosom labour'd with a boding sigh. 
 And the big tear stood trembling in her eye. 
 
 Pope, 
 
 Andromache afterwards endeavours to per- 
 suade Hector to take upon himself the defence 
 of the city, and not hazard a life so important, 
 she teiis him, to herself and his son, in the 
 more dangerous action of the field : 
 
 Tr,v 5"' avrs Tr^o^rsents iJ-sya; koov^uioao; Extuj^' 
 
 H xxi s^'ji TaSs Ttavra y^sXet, yvvacr aXKcc iJ.aX' aivcvg 
 
 AiSsoy^ai Tpuiag xai T^wadoig sXxscrmsTrX'di, 
 
 AiKS, -KOixos ws, voo-fiv aXva-xaXco TJOXsy.oio. 
 
 vi. 440. 
 
 To whom the noble Hector thus replied: 
 
 That and the rest are in my daily care ; 
 
 But should I shun the dangers of the war. 
 
 With scorn the Trojans would reward my pains. 
 
 And their proud ladies with their sweeping trains 
 
 The Grecian swords and lances I can bear: 
 
 But loss of honour is my only care. Dkydek. 
 
 Nothing can be more flat and unanimated than 
 these lines. One may sny upon this occasion, 
 what Dry den himself, I remember, somewhere 
 observes, that a good poet is no more like him- 
 self in a dull translation, than his dead carcase 
 would be to his living body. To catch indeed 
 the soul of our Grecian bard, and breathe his 
 
252 
 
 spirit into an English version, seems to have 
 been a privilege reserved solely for Pope : 
 
 The chief replied : That post shall be my care ; 
 Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
 How would the sons of Troy, in arms rcnown'd. 
 And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the 
 
 ground. 
 Attaint the lustre of my former name. 
 Should Hector basely quit the field of fame ? 
 
 Pope. 
 
 In the further prosecution of this episode 
 Hector prophesies his own death, and the de- 
 struction of Troy ; to which he adds, that An- 
 dromache should be led captive into Argos, 
 where, among other disgraceful offices, which 
 he particularly enumerates, she should be em- 
 ployed, he tells her, in the servile task of draw- 
 ing water. The different manner in which this 
 last circumstance is expressed by our two En^ 
 glish poets, will afford the strongest instance, 
 how much additional force the same thought 
 will receive from a more graceful turn of 
 phrase : 
 
 Or from dcop wells the living stream to take, 
 .'Vnd on thy weary shoulders bring it back. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 or bring 
 The ueiglit of waters from Hyperia's spring. 
 
 Pope, 
 
g53 
 
 It is in certain peculiar turns of diction that 
 the language of poetry is principally distinguish- 
 ed from that of prose ;. as indeed the same words 
 are, in general, common to them both. It is in 
 a turn of this kind, that the beauty of the last 
 quoted line consists. For the whole grace of 
 the expression would vanish, if, instead of the 
 two substantives which are placed at the begin- 
 ning of the verse, the poet had employed the 
 more common syntax of a substantive with its 
 adjective. 
 
 When this faithful pair have taken their final 
 adieu of each other, Hector returns to the field 
 of battle, at the same time that the disconsolate 
 Andromache joins her maidens in the palace. 
 Homer describes this circumstance in the fol- 
 lowing tender manner : 
 
 ils aox (pco'/yjo-as >cofu6' siXero ^ajJiaoj EAtcvo 
 iTTTTSfiy aXo^oc h <piXrj oikovSs /3s ?//.£< 
 
 A<x|/a ^ firs J 9' iv.avi hftss sy vaisraovrxs 
 Ey.roDOs ccv$^D(povoiO' Y-iyr^Torto S" svSo^i ttaXXcL; 
 A/AfiTTOASf, trtcfiv Sb yoov 'jra.crri'Tiy svuj^csv. 
 hi y^sv £Ti ^wov yoov Exrofa w svi oikw. 
 
 vi. 494. 
 
 I will make no remarks upon the different suc- 
 cess of our two celebrated poets in translating 
 this passage; but, after having laid both before 
 you, leave their versions to speak for themselves. 
 
254 
 
 The truth is, the disparity between them is much 
 too visible to require any comment to render it 
 more observable : 
 
 At this, for new replies he did not stay. 
 But lac'd his crested hehu, and strode away. 
 His lovely consort to her house return'd. 
 And looking often back, in silence mourn'd : 
 Home when she came, her secret woe she vents. 
 And fills the palace with her loud laments ; 
 Those loud laments her echoing maids restore. 
 And Hector, yet alive, as dead deplore. 
 
 Dkyden. 
 Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes 
 His tovtf'ry helmet, black with shading plumes. 
 His princess parts with a prophetic sigh. 
 Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye. 
 That stream'd at ev'ry look : then moving slow. 
 Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. 
 There, while her tears deplor'd the godlike man. 
 Through all the train the soft infection ran ; 
 The pious maids their mingled sorrow shed. 
 And mourn the living Hector as the dead. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 As I purpose to follow Mr. Pope through 
 those several parts of the Iliad, where any of 
 our distinguished poets have gone before him ; 
 I must lead you on till we come to the speech 
 of Sarpedon to Glaucus, in the twelfth book : 
 
 rAai.'>c£, TiYi Sti va-'V 'rsri^rjtj,£(rSa jxaA»(rra 
 E^f>) rs, K^sa.(riv rs, i$s irXsiOis SeT^astj-a-iv, 
 Ev AuKtTi, Ttavrss $s, ^ss; cug, sia-o^owtri. 
 
<i55 
 
 Tcy v'jy ^^tj A'jKioiTi y^sra, ir^wtoiTiv sovrctg 
 Eerra^aev, t}5'= i^sryjii KSCvtrTsioriS avr<CoXi)(rai* 
 O^oa rif caS" sitrri Avy-iuiv nfj-AOL ^■jj^r^'x.rawv, 
 Ov jxav a.Y.X£iBig A'JY,irjV KXtciMi^avsaa-iv 
 
 Oivov r s'^aiTov, iJusXir^Ssa' aXX' aja xa< jj 
 EctSAij, eirsi AvKiQia-i fjista nt^wroici luay^ovrai. 
 SI TtsTtov, £1 ^&v yaf •jToXsix.ov tts^i rovh fvyoyrsg, 
 Aisi Stj jxsXXojaev ayriOM T aQavarcj ts 
 Etraso-b', are xsv ayro; svi if^wtOKTi iucf,')(pi^riv, 
 
 MyfiXi, a; sx strn (f;vysiv ^^orov, aS" vTtaXv^ai) 
 
 xii. 310. 
 
 This spirited speech has been translated by the 
 famous author of Cooper's Hill : 
 
 Above the rest why is our pomp and pow'r ? 
 
 Our flocks, our herds, and our possessions more ? 
 
 Why all the tributes land and sea afford, 
 
 Heap'd in great chargers, load our sumptuous board r 
 
 Our cheerful guests carouse the sparkling tears 
 
 Of the rich grape, whilst music charms their ears. 
 
 Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore 
 
 As gods behold us, and as gods adore? 
 
 But that, as well in danger as degree. 
 
 We stand the first : that when our Lycians see 
 
 Our brave examples, they admiring say. 
 
 Behold our gallant leaders ! these are they 
 
 Deserve their greatness ; and unenvied stand. 
 
 Since what they act transcends what they command. 
 
 Could the declining of this fate, oh ! friend. 
 
 Our date to immortality extend. 
 
Q56 
 
 Or jf death sought not them who seek not death, 
 
 Would I advance, oi* should my vainer breath 
 
 With such a glorious folly thee inspire ? 
 
 But since with fortune nature doth conspire ; 
 
 Since age, disease, or some less noble end. 
 
 Though not less certain, does our days attend j 
 
 Since 'tis decreed, and to this period led 
 
 A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread j 
 
 And bravely on, till they, or we, or all, 
 
 A common sacrifice to honour fall. Denham. 
 
 Mr. Pope passes so high an encomium on 
 these lines, as to assure us, that, if his transla- 
 tion of the same passage has any spirit, it is in 
 some degree due to them. It is certain they 
 have great merit, considering the state of our 
 English versification when Denham flourished : 
 but they will by no means support Mr. Pope's 
 compliment, any more than they will bear to 
 stand in competition with his numbers. And I 
 dare say, you will join with me in the same 
 opinion, when you consider the following ver- 
 sion of this animated speech : 
 
 Why boast we, Glaucus, our extended reign. 
 Where Xanthus' streams enrich the Lycian plain ? 
 Our num'rous herds that range the fruitful field. 
 And hills where vines their purple harvest yield ? 
 , Our foaming bowls with purer nectar crown'd. 
 Our feasts enbanc'd with music's sprightly sound ? 
 Why on these shores are we with joy survey'd, 
 Admir'd as heroes, and as gods cbey'd ? 
 Unless great acts superior merit prove, 
 And vindicate the bounteous powers above ; 
 
That when, with wond'ring eyes, our martial bands 
 
 Behold our deeds transcending our commands. 
 
 Such, they may cr}', deserve the sov'reign state. 
 
 Whom those that envy dare not imitate. 
 
 Could all our care elude the gloomy grave. 
 
 Which claims no less the fearful than the brave. 
 
 For lust of fame I should not vainly dare 
 
 In fighting fields, nor urge thy soul to war. 
 
 But since, alas ! ignoble age must come. 
 
 Disease, and death's inexorable doom j 
 
 The life, which others pay, let us bestow. 
 
 And give to fame what we to nature owe ; 
 
 Brave though we fall, and honour'd if we live. 
 
 Or let us glory gain, or glory give. Pope. 
 
 If any thing can be justly objected to this 
 translation, it is, perhaps, that in one or two 
 places it is too diffused and descriptive for that 
 agitation in which it was spoken. In general, 
 however, one may venture to assert, that it is 
 warmed with the same ardour of poetry and 
 heroism that glows in the original ; as those 
 several thoughts, w hich j\Ir. Pope has intermix- 
 ed of his own, naturally arise out of the senti- 
 ments of his author, and are perfectly con- 
 formable to the character and circumstances of 
 the speaker. 
 
 I shall close this review with Mr. Congreve, 
 who has translated the petition of Priam to 
 Achilles for the body of his son Hector, toge- 
 ther with the lamentations of Andromache, 
 Hecuba, and Helen. 
 
 s 
 
258 
 
 Homer represents the unfortunate king of 
 Troy, as entering unobserved into the tent of 
 Achilles ; and illustrates the surprise which 
 arose in that chief and his attendants, upon 
 the first discovery of Priam, by the following 
 simile : 
 
 ^cDta ■x.a.ta-A.rsivas, cCKXov s^msfo Sr^y^ovy 
 
 xxiv. 480. 
 
 Nothing can be more languid and inelegant 
 than the manner in which Congreve has ren- 
 dered this passage : 
 
 But as a wretch, who has a murder done. 
 
 And seeking refuge, does from justice run ; 
 
 Ent'ring some house in haste where he 's unknown. 
 
 Creates amazement in the lookers-on : 
 
 So did Achilles gaze, surpris'd to see 
 
 The godlike Priam's royal misery. Congreve. 
 
 But Pope has raised the same thought with his 
 usual grace and spirit : 
 
 As when a wretch, who, conscious of his crime, 
 Pursu'd for murder, flies his native clime. 
 Just gains some frontier, breathless, pale, amaz'd ! 
 All gaze, all wonder : thus Achilles gaz'd. Pope. 
 
 The speech of Priam is wonderfully pathetic 
 and affecting. He tells Achilles, that out of 
 fifty sons he had one only remaining ; and of 
 him he was now unhappily bereaved by bis 
 
sword. He conjures him, by his tenderness 
 for his own father, to commiserate the most 
 wretched of parents, who, by an uncommon 
 severity of fate, was thus obliged to kiss those 
 hands which were imbrued in the blood of his 
 children : 
 
 Auo-o^evof Vx^x <rsio, <ps§uj S' avs^eto-i anoivct.. 
 A>.a' ai$sio ^S8S, Ap/jXsy, avtov 7 fAcJjtroy, 
 My7;5-a«,£voj as lixrcog' £yuj ^ s>i££iyore§o$ -JTsg, 
 ErXr^v o' 61 STt'jj rig eiri^^ovios jSforof aXAof, 
 Avo^o; T:'xi$o<povoio 'Tfati (Tt^ilx %£</ o^ByeaSoit. 
 
 V. 501. 
 
 These moving lines Mr. Congreve has de- 
 based into the lowest and most uaafFecting 
 prose : 
 
 For his sake only I am hither come ; 
 
 Rich gifts I bring, and wealth, an endless sum j 
 
 All to redeem that fatal prize you won, 
 
 A worthless ransom for so brave a son. 
 
 Fear the just gods, Achilles, and on me 
 
 With pity look ; think you your father see -. 
 
 Such as I am, he is ; alone in this, 
 
 I can no equal have in miseries ; 
 
 Of all mankind most wretched and forlorn, 
 
 Bow'd with such weight as never has been borne: 
 
 Reduc'd to kneel and pray to you, from whom 
 
 The spring and source of all my sorrows come ; 
 
 With gifts to court mine and my country's bane. 
 
 And kis-s those bands which have my children slain. 
 
 CoSGREVU. 
 
 s2 
 
260 
 
 Nothing could compensate the trouble of 
 labouring through these heavy and tasteless 
 rhymes, but the pleasure of being relieved at 
 the end of them with a more lively prospect of 
 poetry : 
 
 For Iiim through hostile camps I bent my way. 
 For him thus prostrate at thy feet I lay ; 
 Large gifts proportion'd to thy wrath I bear ; 
 O hear the wretched^ and the gods revere ! 
 Think of thy fathei', and this face behold I 
 See him in me, as lielpless and as old ! 
 Though not so wretched : there he yields to me^, 
 The first of men in sov'reign misery ; 
 Thus forc'd to kneel, thus grov'ling to embrace 
 The scourge and ruin of my realm and race : 
 ^ Suppliant my children's murd'rer to implore. 
 And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Achilles having at length consented to re- 
 store the dead body of Hector, Priam conducts 
 it to his palace. It is there placed in funeral 
 pomp, at the same time that mournful dirges 
 are sung over the corpse, intermingled with the 
 lamentations of Andromache, Hecuba, and 
 Helen : 
 
 ©fTjvojy s^ct^yjis, oiTs (n'ovostrcrav aoiSrjv 
 0/ |w.£v a§ s^ijvsov, S7fi Ss (T'Tsvay^ovto yvvoLi'iit;. 
 
 V. 71i>. 
 
Q6l 
 
 There is something extremely solemn and affect- 
 ing in Homer's description of this scene of sor- 
 row. A translator, who was touched with the 
 least spark of poetry, could not, one should 
 imagine, but rise beyond himself, in copying 
 after so noble an original. It has not, however, 
 been able to elevate Mr. Congreve above his 
 usual flatness of numbers : 
 
 then laid 
 With care the body on a sumptuous bed. 
 And round about were skilful singers plac'd. 
 Who wept and sigh'd, and in sad notes express'd 
 Their moan : All in a chorus did agree 
 Of universal mournful harmony. Congkeve. 
 
 It would be the highest injustice to the fol- 
 lowing lines to quote them in opposition to 
 those of Mr. Congreve : I produce them, as 
 marked with a vein of poetry much superior 
 even to the original. 
 
 They weep, and place him on a bed of state. 
 
 A melancholy choir attend around 
 
 With plaintive sighs, and music's solemn sound : 
 
 Alternately they sing, alternate flow 
 
 Th' obedient tears, melodious in their woe ; 
 
 While deeper sorrows groan from each full heart, 
 
 And nature speaks at every pause of art. Pope. 
 
 Thus, Euphronius, I have brought before 
 you some of the most renowned of our British 
 bards, contending, as it were, for the prize of 
 poetry ; and there can be no debate to wliora 
 
262 
 
 it justly belongs. Mr. Pope seems, indeed, to 
 have raised our numbers to the highest possible 
 perfection of strength and harmony : and, 1 
 fear, all the praise that the best succeeding 
 poets can expect, as to their versification, will 
 be, that they have happily imitated his mamier. 
 FareweL I am, &c. 
 
263 
 
 LETTER LIII. 
 To Orontes. 
 
 July 2, 1741. 
 Your letter found me just upon my return from 
 an excursion into Berkshire, where I had been 
 paying a visit to a friend, who is drinking the 
 waters at Sunning-hili. In one of my morning 
 rides over that delightful country, I accidentally 
 passed through a little village, which afforded 
 me much agreeable meditation ; as in times to 
 come, perhaps, it will be visited by the lovers of 
 the polite arts, with as much veneration as Vir- 
 gil's tomb, or any other celebrated spot of anti- 
 quity. The place I mean is Binfield, where the 
 poet to whom I am indebted (in common with 
 «very reader of taste) for so much exquisite en- 
 tertainment, spent the earliest part of his youth. 
 I will not scruple to confess that I looked upon 
 the scene where he planned some of those beau- 
 tiful performances which first recommended him 
 to the notice of the world, with a degree of en- 
 thusiasm ; and could not but consider the ground 
 as sacred that was impressed with the footsteps 
 
264 
 
 of a genius that undoubtedly does the highest 
 honour to our age and nation. 
 
 The situation of mind in which I foimd my- 
 self upon this occasion, suggested to my remem- 
 brance a passage in Tully, which I thought I 
 never so thoroughly entered into the spirit of 
 before. That noble author, in one of his phi- 
 losophical conversation-pieces, introduces his 
 friend Atticus as observing the pleasing effect 
 which scenes of this nature are wont to have 
 upon one's mind : Alovonur oiim (says that 
 polite Roman) nescio quo pacto, locis ipsis, in 
 (juibiis eoriim, quos dUigimus nut admiramur, 
 adsiint vestigia. Me quidem ipsa ilia nostrcc 
 A theme, non tarn operibus magnijicis e.vquisitis- 
 que antiquorum artibus delectcmt, quam recor- 
 dationc summorum virorum, uhi quisque habitarc^ 
 ubi sedere, ubi disputare sit solitiis. 
 
 Thus, you see, I could defend myself by an 
 example of great authority, were I in danger 
 upon this occasion of being ridiculed as a ro- 
 mantic visionary. But I am too well acquainted 
 with the refined sentiments of Orontes, to be 
 under any apprehension he will condemn the im- 
 pressions I have here acknowledged. On the 
 contrary, I have often heaid you mention with 
 approbation a circumstance of this kind which 
 
265 
 
 is related of Silius Italicus. The annual cere- 
 monies which that poet performed at Virgil's 
 sepulchre, gave you a more favourable opinion 
 of his taste, you confessed, than any thing in his 
 works was able to raise. 
 
 It is certain that some of the greatest names 
 of antiquity have distinguished themselves by the 
 high reverence they shewed to the poetical cha- 
 racter. Scipio, you may remember, desired to 
 be laid in the same tomb with Ennius; and I 
 am inclined to pardon that successful madman 
 Alexander many of his extravagancies, for the 
 generous regard he paid to the memory of Pin- 
 dar, at the sacking of Thebes. 
 
 There seems, indeed, to be something in 
 poetry, that raises the possessors of that very 
 singular talent far hio-her in the estimation of the 
 world in general, than those who excel in any 
 other of the refined arts. And accordingly we 
 find that poets have been distinguished by anti- 
 quity with the most remarkable honours. Thus 
 Homer, we are told, was deified at Smyrna; as 
 the citizens of IVIytilene stamped the image of 
 Sappho upon their public coin : Anacreon re- 
 ceived a solemn invitation to spend his days at 
 Athens, and Hipparchus, the son of Pisistratus, 
 lltted out a splendid vessel in order to transport 
 jjim thither: and when Virgil came into the 
 
266 
 
 theatre at Rome, the whole audience rose up and 
 saluted him with the same respect as they would 
 have paid to Augustus himself. 
 
 Painting, one should imagine, has the fairest 
 pretensions of rivalling her sister art in the num- 
 ber of admirers j and yet, where Apelles is men- 
 tioned once, Homer is celebrated a thousand 
 times. Nor can this be accounted for by urging 
 that the works of the latter are still extant, while 
 those of the former have perished long since : 
 for is not Milton's Paradise Lost more univer- 
 sally esteemed than Raphael's cartoons ? 
 
 The truth, I imagine, is, there are more who 
 are natural judges of the harmony of numbers, 
 than of the grace of proportions. One meets 
 with but few who have not, in some degree at 
 least, a tolerable ear ; but a judicious eye is a 
 far more uncommon possession. For as words 
 are the universal medium which all men employ 
 in order to convey their sentiments to each other, 
 it seems a just consequence that they should be 
 more generally formed for relishing and judging 
 of performances in that way : whereas the art 
 of representing ideas by means of lines and 
 Colours, lies more out of the road of common 
 use, and is therefore less adapted to the taste ot 
 the general run of mankind. 
 
 I hazard this observation, in the hones oi 
 
267 
 
 drawing from you your sentiments upon a sub- 
 ject, in which no man is more qualified to decide : 
 as, indeed, it is to the conversation of Orontes 
 that I am indebted for the discovery of many re- 
 fined delicacies in the imitative arts, which, with- 
 out his judicious assistance, would have lain 
 concealed to me with other common observers. 
 Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
268 
 
 LETTER LIV. 
 
 To Phidippus. 
 
 I AM by no means surprised that the interview 
 you have lately had with Cleanthes, has given 
 you a much lower opinion of his abilities, than 
 what you had before conceived : and since it has 
 raised your curiosity to know my sentiments of 
 his character, you shall have them with all that 
 freedom you may justly expect. 
 
 I have always then considered Cleanthes as 
 possessed of the moet extraordinary talents ; but 
 his talents are of a kind, which can only be 
 exerted upon uncommon occasions. They are 
 formed for the greatest depths of business and 
 affairs ; but absolutely out of all size for the 
 shallows of ordinary life. In circumstances that 
 require the most profound reasonings, in inci- 
 dents that demand the most penetrating politics, 
 there Cleanthes would shine with supreme lustre. 
 But view him in any situation inferior to these, 
 place him where he cannot raise admiration, and 
 he will most probably sink into contempt. 
 Cleanthes, in short, wants nothing but the addi- 
 tion of certain minute accomplishments, to ren- 
 der him a finished character: but being wholly 
 
269 
 
 destitute of those little talents which are neces- 
 sary to render a man useful or agreeable in the 
 daily commerce of the world, those great abili- 
 ties which he possesses lie unobserved or ne- 
 glected. 
 
 He often indeed gives one occasion to reflect 
 how necessary it is to be master of a sort of 
 under-qualities, in order to set off and recom- 
 mend those of a superior nature. To know how 
 to descend with grace and ease into ordinary 
 occasions, and to fall in with the less important 
 parties and purposes of mankind, is an art of 
 more general influence, perhaps, than is usually 
 imagined. 
 
 If I were to form, therefore, a youth for the 
 world, I should certainly endeavour to cultivate 
 in him these secondary qualifications, and train 
 him up to an address in those lovrer arts, which 
 render a man agreeable in conversation, or use- 
 ful to the innocent pleasures and accommoda- 
 tions of life. A general skill and taste of this 
 kind, with moderate abilities, will in iriost in- 
 stances, I believe, prove more successful in the 
 world, than a much higher degree of capacity 
 without them. I am, &c. 
 
270 
 LETTER LV. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 July 17, 1730, 
 
 If the temper and turn of Timanthes had not 
 long prepared me for what has happened, I 
 should have received your account of his death 
 with more surprise ; but 1 suspected, from our 
 earliest acquaintance, that his sentiments and 
 disposition would lead him into a satiety of life, 
 much sooner than nature would probably carry 
 him to the end of it. When unsettled principles 
 fall in with a constitutional gloominess of mind, 
 it is no wonder the tedium xit^ should gain 
 daily strength, till it pushes a man to seek relief 
 against this most desperate of all distempers, 
 from the point of a sword, or the bottom of a 
 river. 
 
 But to learn to accommodate our taste to that 
 portion of happiness which Providence has set 
 before us, is of all the lessons of philosophy surely 
 the most necessary. High and exquisite gratifi- 
 cations are not consistent with the appointed 
 measures of humanity: and, perhaps, if we would 
 fully enjoy the relish of our being, we should 
 rather consider the miseries we escape, than too 
 
271 
 
 nicely examine the intrinsic worth of the happi- 
 ness we possess. It is, at least, the business of 
 true wisdom to bring together every circum- 
 stance which may light up a flame of cheerful- 
 ness in the mind : and though we must be insen- 
 sible if it should perpetually burn with the same 
 unvaried brightness, yet prudence should pre- 
 serve it as a sacred fire, which is never to be 
 totally extinguished. 
 
 I am persuaded this disgust of life is fre- 
 quently indulged out of a principle of mere 
 vanity. It is esteemed as a mark of uncommon 
 refinement, and as placing a man above the or- 
 dinary level of his species, to seem superior to 
 the vulgar feelings of happiness. True good 
 sense, however, most certainly consists, not in 
 despising, but in managing our stock of life to 
 the best advantage ; as a cheerful acquiescence 
 in the measures of Providence is one of the 
 strongest symptoms of a well-constituted mind. 
 Self-weariness is a circumstance that ever at- 
 tends folly; and to contemn our being is the 
 greatest, and indeed the peculiar, infirmity of 
 human nature. It is a noble sentiment which 
 Tully puts into the mouth of Cato, in his trea- 
 tise upon old age: Non lubet on'ihi (says that 
 venerable Roman) deplorare vitam, quod multi^ 
 et ii docti, SiCpt fccerunt ; 7ieque me vixisse pos- 
 
272 
 
 7ntet : quo7mm ita *vivi, ut nonfrustrd me natum 
 ejvistimem. 
 
 It is in the power, indeed, of but a very small 
 proportion of mankind, to act the same glorious 
 part that afforded such high satisfaction to this 
 distinguished patriot : but the number is yet far 
 more inconsiderable of those, who cannot, in any 
 station, secure to themselves a sufficient fund of 
 complacency to render life justly valuable. Who 
 is it that is placed out of the reach of the highest 
 of all gratifications, those of the generous affec- 
 tions ; and that cannot provide for his own hap- 
 piness by contributing something to the welfare 
 of others ? As this disease of the mind generally 
 breaks out with most violence in those who are 
 supposed to be endowed with a greater delicacy 
 of taste and reason, than is the usual allotment 
 of their fellow-creatures ; one may ask them, 
 Whether there is any satiety in the pursuits of 
 useful knowledge ? or. If one can ever be weary 
 of benefiting mankind ? Will not the fine arts 
 supply a lasting feast to the mind ? Or can there 
 be wanting a pleasurable employment, so long as 
 there remains even one advantageous truth to be 
 discovered or confirmed? To complain that life 
 has no joys, while there is a single creature whom 
 we can relieve by our bounty, assist by our 
 counsels, or enliven by our presence, is to lament 
 
^73 
 
 the loss of that which we possess, and is just as 
 rational as to die of thirst with the cup in our 
 hands. But the misfortune is, when a man is 
 settled into a habit of receiving all his pleasures 
 from the mere selfish indulgencies, he wears out 
 of his mind the relish of every nobler enjoy- 
 ment, at the same time that his powers of the 
 sensual kind are growing more languid by each 
 repetition. It is 110 wonder, therefore, he should 
 fill up the measure of his gratifications, long 
 before he has completed the circle of his dura- 
 tion ; and either wretchedly sit down the re- 
 mainder of his days in discontent, or rashly 
 throw them up in despair. Farewel. I am. Sec. 
 
274 
 LETTER LVL 
 
 To TiMOCLEA. 
 
 October 1, 1743. 
 Certain'ly, Timoclea, you have a passion for 
 the marvellous beyond all power of gratification. 
 There is not an adventurer throughout the whole 
 regions of chivalry, with whom you are unac- 
 quainted ; and have wandered through more 
 folios than would furnish out a decent library. 
 Mine, at least, you have totally exhausted ; and 
 have so cleared my shelves of knights-errant, 
 that I have not a single hero remaining that ever 
 was regaled in bower or hall. But, though you 
 have drained me of my whole stock of romance, 
 I am not entirely unprovided for your entertain- 
 ment ; and have inclosed a httle Grecian fable 
 for your amusement, which was lately transmit- 
 ted to me by one of my friends. He discovered 
 it, he tells me, among some old manuscripts,^ 
 which have been long, it seems, in the posses- 
 sion of his family ; and, if you will rely upon his 
 judgment, it is a translation by Spenser's own 
 hand. 
 
 This is all the history I have to give you of 
 the following piece : the genuineness of which I 
 
975 
 
 leave to be settled between my friend and the 
 critics ; and am, &c. 
 
 THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON AND 
 EUPHORMIUS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Deem not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong, 
 
 Ne thou, O man ! who deal'st the tort, misween 
 The equal gods, who heav'n's sky mansions throng, 
 
 (Though viewless to the eyne they distant sheen) 
 
 Spectators reckless of our actions been. 
 Turning the volumes of grave sages old. 
 
 Where auncient saws in fable may be seen. 
 This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd 3 
 Which for ensample drad my Muse shall here unfold. 
 
 11. 
 
 What time Arcadia's flowret vallies fam'd 
 
 Pelasgus, first of monarchs old, obey'd. 
 There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he nam'd, 
 
 Unaw'd by conscience, of no gods afraid, 
 
 Ne justice rul'd his heart, ne mercy sway'd. 
 Some held him kin to that abhorred race. 
 
 Which heav'n's high tow'rs with mad emprize assa/d^ 
 And some his cruel lynage did y trace 
 From fell Erinnys join'd in Pluto's dire embrace. 
 
 III. 
 
 But he, perdy, far other tale did feign. 
 
 And claim'd alliaunce witli the Sisters nine; 
 
 And deem'd himself (what deems not pride so vain?} 
 The peerless paragon of wit divine. 
 Vaunting that ev'ry foe should rue its tine. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 Right doughty wight ! yet, sooth, withouten smart, 
 
 AH pow'rless fell the losel's shafts malign : 
 'Tis vertue's arm to wield wit's heav'nly dart. 
 Point its keen barb with force, and send it to the heart. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One only inipe he had, Pastora hight. 
 
 Whose sweet amenaunce pleas'd each shepherd's eye ; 
 Yet pleas'd she not base Lycon's evil spright, 
 
 Tho' blame in her not malice moten 'spy. 
 
 Clear, without spot, as summer's cloudless sky. 
 Hence poets feign'd, Lycean Pan array'd 
 
 In Lycon's form, enflam'd with passion high, 
 Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade ; 
 And from the stol'ii embrace ysprong the heav'nly maid. 
 
 V. 
 
 Thus fabling they : meanwhile the damsel feir 
 
 A shepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain 
 She deffly pac'd elong so debonair : 
 
 Seem'd she as one of Dian's chosen train. 
 
 Full many a fond excuse he knew to feign, 
 in sweet converse to while with her the day, 
 
 'Till love unwares his heedless heart did gain. 
 Nor dempt he, simple wight, no mortal may 
 The blinded God once harbour'd, when he list, foresay. 
 
 Vi. 
 
 Now much he meditates if yet to speak. 
 And now resolves his passion to conceal : 
 
 But sure, quoth he, my seely lieart will break 
 If aye I smother what I aye must feel. 
 At length by hope embolden'd to reveal. 
 
277 
 
 The lab'ring secret dropped from his tong. 
 
 Whiles frequent singults checked his falt'ring tale. 
 In modest wise her head Pastora hong : 
 For never maid more chaste inspired shepherd's song. 
 
 VII. 
 
 WTiat needs ine to recount in long detail 
 
 The tender parley which these lemans held ? 
 How oft he vow'd his love her ne'er should fail ; 
 
 How oft the stream from forth her eyne outwell'd. 
 
 Doubting if constancy yet ever dwelled 
 In heart of youthful wight: suffice to know, 
 
 Each rising doubt he in her bosome quell'd. 
 So parted they, more blithsome both, I trow : 
 For rankling love concealed, me seems, is deadly woe. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Eftsoons to Lycon swift the youth did fai'e, 
 
 (Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way ?} 
 
 And straight his gentle pm-pose did declare. 
 And sooth the mount'nunce of his herds display. 
 Ne Lycon meant his suiten to foresay : 
 
 " Be thine Pastora (quoth the masker sly) 
 
 And twice two thousand sheep her dow'r shall pay." 
 Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high j 
 
 Ne dempt that aught his bliss could now betray, 
 
 Ne guess'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bosome lay, 
 
 IX. 
 
 So forthe he yode to seek his rev' rend sire 
 
 (The good Euphormius shepherds him did call) 
 
 How sweet Pastora did his bosome fire. 
 
 Her worth, her promis d flocks, he tolden all. 
 " Ah ! nere, my son, let Lycon thee enthral^ 
 
278 
 
 {Reply'cl the sage, in wise experience old) 
 
 " Smooth is his tong, but full of guile withal. 
 In promise faithless, and in vaunting bold : 
 Ne ever lamb of his will bleat within thy fold." 
 
 X. 
 
 With words prophetic thus Euphormius spake : 
 And fact confirm'd what wisdom thus foretold. 
 
 Full many a mean devise did Lycon make. 
 The hoped day of spousal to with-hold. 
 Framing new trains when nought mote serve his old, 
 
 Nathless he vow'd, Cyllene, cloud-topt hill. 
 Should sooner down the lowly delve be roU'd, 
 
 Than he his plighted promise nould fulfill : 
 
 But when, perdy, or where, the caitive sayen nill. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Whiles thus the tedious suns had journey'd round, 
 Ne ought mote now the lovers' hearts divide, 
 
 Ne trust was there, ne truth in Lycon found ; 
 The maid with matron Juno for her guide. 
 The youth by Concord led, in secret hy'd 
 
 To Hymen's sacred fane : The honest deed 
 
 Each god approv'd, and close the bands were ty'd. 
 
 Certes, till happier moments should succeed. 
 
 No prying eyne they ween'd their emprize mote areed. 
 
 XII. 
 
 But prying eyne of Lycon 'twas in vain 
 
 (Right practick in disguise) to hope beware. 
 
 He trac'd their covert steps to Hymen's fane. 
 And joy'd to find them in his long-laid isnare. • 
 Algates, in semWaunt ire, he 'gan to swear. 
 
279 
 
 And roaren loud as in displeasaunce high; 
 
 Then out he hurlen forth his daughter fair, 
 Forelore, the houseless child of misery, 
 Expos'd to killing cold, and pinching penury. 
 
 XIII, 
 
 Ah ! whither now shall sad Pastora wend. 
 
 To want abandon'd, and by wrongs opprest ? 
 Who shall the wretched out-cast's teen befriend } 
 
 Lives mercy then, if not in parent's breast ? 
 
 Yes, Mercy lives, the gentle goddess blest. 
 At Jove's right hand, to Jove for ever dear. 
 
 Aye at his feet she pleads tlie cause diitrest. 
 To sorrow's plaints she turns his equal ear. 
 And wafts to heav'n's star-throne fair vertue's silent te?ir. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 'Twas She that bade Euphormius quell each thought 
 
 That well mote rise to check his gen'rous aid. 
 Tho' hi«-h the torts which Lycon him had wrought, 
 
 Tho' few the flocks his humble pastures fed ; 
 
 When as he learn'd Pastora's hapless sted. 
 His breast humane with wonted pity flows. 
 
 He op'd his gates, the naked exile led 
 Beneath his roof j a decent drapet throws 
 O'er her cold limbs, and soot lis her undeserved woes. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now loud-tongu'd Rumour bruited round the tale : 
 Th' astoned swains uneath could credence give. 
 
 That in Arcadia's unambitious vale 
 A faytor false as Lycon e'er did live. 
 But Jove (who in high heav'n does mortals prive. 
 
2S0 
 
 And ev'ry deed in golden ballance weighs) 
 To earth his flaming charet baden drive. 
 And down descends, enwrapt in peerless blaze. 
 To deal forth guerdon meet to good and evil ways. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Where Eurymanthus, crown'd with many a wood. 
 His silver stream through dasy'd vales does lead, 
 
 Stretch'd on the flow'ry niarge^ in reckless mood. 
 Proud Lycon souglit by charm of jocund reed 
 To lull the dire remorse of tortious deed. 
 
 Him Jove accosts, in rev'rend semblaunce dight 
 Of good Euphormius, and 'gan mild areed 
 
 Of compact oft confirmed, of fay-plight. 
 
 Of nature's tender tye, of sacred rule of right. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With lofty eyne, half loth to looke so low. 
 
 Him Lycon view'd, and with swoU'n surquedry 
 'Gan rudely treat his sacred old : When now 
 
 Forth stood the God confest that rules the sky. 
 
 In sudden sheen of drad divinity: 
 " And know false man," the Lord of thunders said, 
 
 " Not unobserv'd by Heav'n's all-persent eye 
 Thy cruel deeds : nor shall be unappay'd : 
 Go ! be in form that best beseems thy thews, arrayM. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Whiles yet he spake, th* affrayed trembling wight 
 Traasmew'd to blatant beast, with hideous howl 
 
 Rush'd headlong forth, in well-deserved plight, 
 'Midst dragons, minotaurs, and fiends to prowl, 
 A wolf in form as erst a wolf in soul ! 
 
281 
 
 To Pholoe, forest wild, he hy'd away. 
 
 The horrid haunt of savage monsters foul. 
 There helpless innocence is still his prey. 
 Thief of the bleating fold, and shepherd's dire dismay, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then Jove to good Euphormius' cot did wend. 
 
 Where peaceful dwelt the man of vertue high. 
 Each shepherd's praise and eke each shepherd's friend. 
 
 In ev'ry act of sweet humanity. 
 
 Him Jove approaching in mild majesty. 
 Greeted all hail ! then bade him join the throng 
 
 Of glit'rand lights that gild the glowing sky. 
 There shepherds nightly view his orb yhong. 
 Where bright he shines eterne, the brightest stars among. 
 
LETTER LVII. 
 
 To Clytander. 
 
 Feb. S, JJS9. 
 
 If there was any thing in my former letter in- 
 consistent with that esteem which is justly due 
 to the ancients, I desire to retract it in this ; 
 and disavow every expression which might seem 
 to give precedency to the modems in works of 
 geniuSo I am so far indeed from entertaining 
 the sentiments you impute to me, that 1 have 
 often endeavoured to account for that superio- 
 rity which is so visible in the compositions of 
 their poets ; and have frequently assigned their 
 relision as in the number of those causes, which 
 probably concurred to give them this remarkable 
 pre-eminence. That enthusiasm which is so 
 essential to every true artist in the poetical way, 
 was considerably heightened and inflamed by the 
 whole turn of their sacred doctrines ; and the 
 fancied presence of their Muses had almost as 
 wonderful an effect upon their thoughts and 
 language, as if they had been really and divinely 
 inspired. Whilst all nature was supposed to 
 swarm with divinities, and every oak and foun- 
 tain was believed to be the residence of some 
 
S83 
 
 presiding deity ; what wonder if the poet was 
 animated by the imagined influence of sucli 
 exalted society, and found himself transported 
 beyond the ordinary limits of sober humanity? 
 The mind, when attended only by mere mortals 
 of superior powers, is observed to rise in her 
 strength ; and her faculties open and enlarge 
 themselves when she acts in the view of those, 
 for whom she has conceived a more than com- 
 mon reverence. But when the force of super- 
 stition moves in concert with the pou ers of ima- 
 gination, and genius is inflamed by devotion, 
 poetry must shine out in all her brightest per- 
 fection and splendor. 
 
 Whatever therefore the philosopher might 
 think of the religion of his country, it was the 
 interest of the poet to be thoroughly orthodox. 
 If he gave up his creed, he must renounce his 
 numbers ; and there could be no inspiration, 
 where there were no Muses. This is so true, 
 that it is in compositions of the poetical kind 
 alone that the ancients seem to have the prin- 
 cipal advantage over the moderns : in every 
 other species of writing one might venture per- 
 l^ps to assert that these latter ages have, at 
 least, equalled them, \yhen I say so, I do not 
 confine myself to the productions of our own 
 nation, but comprehend likewise those of our 
 neighbours : and with that extent the observa- 
 
284 
 
 tion will possibly hold true, even without an ex-i 
 ception in favour of history and oratory. 
 
 But whatever may with justice be determined 
 concerning that question; it is certain, at least, 
 that the practice of all succeeding poets con- 
 firms the notion for which I am principally con- 
 tending. Though the altars of paganism have 
 many ages since been thrown down, and groves 
 are no longer sacred ; yet the language of the 
 poets has not changed with the religion of the 
 times, but the gods of Greece and Rome are 
 still adored in modern verse. Is not this a con- 
 fession, that fancy is enlivened by superstition, 
 and that the ancient bards catched their rapture 
 from the old mythology? I will own, however, 
 that I think there is something ridiculous in this 
 unnatural adoption, and that a modern poet 
 makes but an awkward figure with his antiquated 
 gods. When the pagan system was sanctified 
 by popular belief, a piece of machinery of that 
 kind, as it had the air of probability, afforded a 
 very striking manner of celebrating any remarka- 
 ble circumstance, or raising any common one. 
 But now that this superstition is no longer sup- 
 ported by vulgar opinion, it has lost its prin- 
 cipal grace and efiicacy, and seems to be, in ge- 
 neral, the most cold and uninteresting method 
 in which a poet can work up his sentiments. 
 What, for instance, can be more unaffecting 
 
^85 
 
 and spiritless, than the compliment which Boileau 
 has paid to Louis the XlVth on his famous 
 passage over the Rhine? He represents the 
 Naiads, you may remember, as alarming the 
 god of that river with an account of the march 
 of the French monarcli ; upon which the river- 
 god assumes the appearance of an old expe- 
 rienced commander, and flies to a Dutch fort, 
 in order to exhort the garrison to sally out and 
 dispute the intended passage. Accordingly they 
 i-ange themselves in form of battle with the Rhine 
 at their head, w ho, after some vain efforts, ob- 
 serving ]\Iars and Bellona on the side of the 
 enemy, is so terrified with the view of those su- 
 perior divinities, that he most gallantly runs 
 aw^ay, and leaves the hero in quiet possession 
 of his banks. I know not how far this may be 
 relished by critics, or justified by custom j but 
 as I am only mentioning my particular taste, I 
 will acknowledge, that it appears to me extreme- 
 ly insipid and puerile. 
 
 I have not however so nmch of the spirit of 
 Typhosus in me, as to make war upon the gods 
 without restriction, and attempt to exclude them 
 from their w^hole poetical dominions. To repre- 
 sent natural, moral, or intellectual qualities and 
 affections as persons, and appropriate to them 
 those general emblems by which their powers 
 
285 
 
 and properties are usually typified in pagan theo- 
 logy, may be allowed as one of the most plea- 
 sing and graceful figures of poetical rhetoric. 
 When Dryden, addressing himself to the month 
 of ]\Iay as to a person, says, 
 
 For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours j 
 
 one may consider him as speaking only in meta- 
 phor : and when sucli shadowy beings are thus 
 just shown to the imagination, and immediately 
 withdrawn again, they certainly have a very 
 powerful effect. But I can relish them no further 
 than as figures only : when they are extended in 
 any serious composition beyond the limits of 
 metaphor, and exhibited under all the vaiious 
 actions of real persons, I cannot but consider 
 them as so many absurdities, which custom has 
 unreasonably authorized. Thus Spenser, in one 
 of his pastorals, represents the god of love as 
 flying, like a bird, from bough to bough. A 
 shepherd, wlio hears a rustling among the bushes, 
 supposes it to be some game, and accordingly 
 discharges his bow. Cupid returns the shot, and 
 after several arrows had been mutually ex- 
 changed bet^veen them, the unfortunate swain 
 discovers whom it is he is contending with : but 
 as he is endeavouring to make his escape, re- 
 ceives a desperate wound in the heel. This fie- 
 
287 
 
 tion makes the subject of a very pretty idyllium 
 in one of the Greek poets ; yet is extremely fiat 
 and disgusting as it is adopted by our British 
 bard. And the reason of the difference is plain : 
 in the former it is supported by a popular su- 
 perstition ; whereas no strain of imagination can 
 give it the least air of probability^ as it is worked 
 up by the latter : 
 
 ^uodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odL 
 
 HoR. 
 
 I must confess, at the same time, that the 
 inimitable Prior has introduced this fabulous 
 scheme with such uncommon grace, and has 
 paid so many genteel compliments to his mis- 
 tress by the assistance of Venus and Cupid, that 
 one is carried off from observing the impropriety 
 of this machinery, by the pleasing address with 
 which he manages it : and I never read his tender 
 poems of this kind, without applying to him what 
 Seneca somewhere says upon a similar occasion: 
 Major ille est qui judicium abstulit, quam qui 
 meruit. 
 
 To speak my sentiments in one word, I would 
 leave the gods in full possession of allegorical 
 and burlesque poems : in all others I would 
 never suffer them to make their appearance in 
 person and as agents, but to enter only in simile. 
 
288 
 
 or allusion. It is thus Waller, of all our poets, 
 has most happily employed them : and his ap- 
 plication of the story of Daphne and Apollo will 
 serve as an instance, in what manner the ancient 
 mythology may be adopted with the utmost pro- 
 priety and beauty. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
289 
 LETTER LVIII. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 August 8, 1741. 
 
 1 KNOW not in what disposition of mind this let- 
 ter may find you ; but I am sure you will not 
 preserve your usual cheerfulness of Lemper, when 
 I tell you that poor Hydaspes died last night. 
 
 I will not at this time attempt to offer that 
 consolation to you, of which I stand in so much 
 need myself. But may it not somewhat abate 
 the anxiety of our mutual grief, to reflect, that 
 however considerable our own loss is, yet, with 
 respect to himself, it scarce deserves to be la- 
 mented that he arrived so much earlier at the 
 grave than his years and his health seemed to 
 promise? For who, my friend, that has any ex- 
 perience of the world, \vould wish to extend his 
 duration to old age? What indeed is length of 
 days, but to survive all one's enjoyments, and, 
 perhaps, to survive even one's very self? I have 
 somewhere met with an ancient inscription 
 founded upon this sentiment, which infinitely 
 pleased me. It was fixed upon a bath, and con- 
 tained an imprecation in the following terms, 
 
against any one who should attempt to remove 
 the building : 
 
 QVISQVIS. HOC. SVSTVLERIT. 
 
 AVT. IVSSERIT. 
 
 VLTIMV^S. SVORVM. MORIATVR. 
 
 The thought is conceived with great delicacy 
 and justness ; as there cannot, perhaps, be a 
 sharper calamity to a generous mind, than to see 
 itself stand single amidst the ruins of whatever 
 rendered the world most desirable. 
 
 Itistances of the sort I am lamenting, w'hile 
 the impressions remain fresh upon the mind, are 
 sufficient to damp the gayest hopes, and chill the 
 warmest ambition. When one sees a person in 
 the full bloom of life, thus destroyed by one 
 sudden blast, one cannot but consider all the 
 distant schemes of mankind as the highest folly. 
 
 It is amazing indeed that a creature such as 
 man, with so many memorials around him of the 
 shortness of his duration, and who cannot ensure 
 to himself even the next moment, should yet 
 plan designs which run far into futurity. The 
 business however of life must be carried on; and 
 it is necessary, for the purposes of human affairs, 
 that mankind should resolutely act upon very 
 precarious contingencies. Too much reflection, 
 therefore, is as inconsistent with the appointed 
 
291 
 
 measures of our station as too little ; and there 
 cannot be a less desirable turn of mind, than 
 one that is influenced by an over-refined philo- 
 sophy. At least it is by considerations of this 
 sort, that I endeavour to call off my thoughts 
 from pursuing too earnestly those reasonings, 
 which the occasion of this letter is apt to sug- 
 gest. This use, however, one may justly make 
 of the present accident, that whilst it contracts 
 the circle of friendship, it should render it so 
 much the more valuable to iis, wlio yet walk 
 ivithin its limits. Adieu. I am. See. 
 
 V 2 
 
292 
 LETTER LIX. 
 
 To HORTENSIUS. 
 
 May 4, 1740. 
 If the ingenious piece you communicated to me 
 requires any farther touches of your pencil, I 
 must acknowledge the truth to be, what you are 
 inclined to suspect, that my friendship has im- 
 posed upon my judgment. But though in the 
 present instance your delicacy seems far too re- 
 fined, yet in general I must agree with you, that 
 works of the most permanent kind are not the 
 effect of a lucky moment, nor struck out at a 
 single heat. The best performances, indeed, 
 have generally cost the most labour ; and that 
 ease, which is so essential to fine wTiting, has 
 seldom been attained without repeated and severe 
 corrections : Luckntis speclem dabit et torquebi- 
 tiir, is a motto that may be applied, I believe, 
 to most successful authors of genius. With as 
 much facility as the numbers of the natural Prior 
 seem to have flowed from him, they were the 
 result (if I am not misinformed) of much appli- 
 cation : and a friend of mine, who undertook to 
 transcribe one of the noblest performances of 
 the finest genius that this or perhaps any age 
 
293 
 
 can lioast, has often assured me, that there is 
 not a sincrle line, as it is now published, which 
 stands in conformity with the original manuscrijit. 
 The truth is, every sentiment has its peculiar 
 expression, and every word its precise place, 
 which do not always immediately present them- 
 selves, and generally demand frequent trials be- 
 fore they can be properly adjusted : not to men- 
 tion the more important difficulties, whichneces- 
 sarily occur in settling the plan, and regulating 
 the higher parts which compose the structure of 
 a finished work. 
 
 Those, indeed, who know what pangs it cost 
 even the most fertile genius to be delivered of a 
 just and regular production, might be inclined, 
 perhaps, to cry out with the most ancient of 
 authors, Oh ! that m'me adversary had xvritten 
 a book! A writer of refined taste has the conti- 
 nual mortification to find himself incapable of 
 taking entire possession of that ideal beauty, 
 which warms and fills his imadnation. His 
 conceptions still rise above all the powers of his 
 art; and he can but faintly copy out those 
 images of perfection, which are impressed upon 
 his mind. Never was any thing, says Tuiiv, 
 more beautiful than the Venus of Apelles, or the 
 Jove of Phidias ; yet were they by no njeans 
 equal to those high notions of beauty which ani- 
 mated the geniuses of those wonderful artists. 
 
294 
 
 In the same manner, he observes, the great mas- 
 ters of oratory imaged to themselves a certain 
 perfection of eloquence, which they could only 
 contemplate in idea, but in vain attempted to 
 draw out in expression. Perhaps no author ever 
 perpetuated liis reputation, who could write up 
 to the full standard of his own judgment: and 
 I am persuaded that he, who upon a survey of 
 his compositions can with entire complacency 
 pronounce them good, will hardly find the world 
 join with him in the same favourable sentence. 
 
 The most judicious of all poets, the inimitable 
 Virgil, used to resemble his productions to those 
 of that animal, who, agreeably to the notions of 
 the ancients, was supposed to bring her young 
 into the world, a mere rude and shapeless mass : 
 he was obliged to retouch them again and again, 
 he acknoAvledged, before they acquired their pro- 
 per form and beauty. Accordingly, we are told, 
 that after having spent eleven years in compo- 
 sing his iEneici, he intended to have set apart 
 three more for the revisal of that glorious per- 
 formance. But being prevented by his last sick- 
 ness from giving those finishing touches, which 
 his exquisite judgment conceived to be still ne- 
 cessary, he directed his friends Tucca and Varius 
 to burn the noblest poem that ever appeared in 
 the Roman language. In the same spirit of de- 
 licacy Mr, Dryden tells us, that had he taken 
 
more time in translating this author, he might 
 possibly have succeeded better ; but never, he 
 assures us, could he have succeeded so well as 
 to have satisfied himself. 
 
 In a word, Hortensius, I agree with you, that 
 there is nothing more difficult than to fill up the 
 character of an author, who proposes to raise a 
 just and lasting admiration ; who is not con- 
 tented with those little transient flashes of ap- 
 plause, which attend the ordinary race of writers, 
 but considers only how he may shine out to po- 
 sterity; who extends his views beyond the pre- 
 sent generation, and cultivates those productions 
 which are to flourish in future ages. AVhat Sir 
 William Temple observes of poetry, may be ap- 
 plied to every other work where taste and ima- 
 gination are concerned : " It requires the great- 
 est contraries to compose it ; a genius both pe- 
 netrating and solid ; an expression both strong 
 and delicate. There must be a great agitation 
 of mind to invent, a great calm to judge and 
 correct : there must be, upon the same tree, and 
 at the same time, both flower and fruit." But 
 though I know you would not value vourself 
 upon any performance, wherein these very op- 
 posite and very singular qualities were not con- 
 spicuous ; yet I must remind you, at the same 
 time, that when, the file ceases to polish, it must 
 necessarily weaken. You will remember, there- 
 
S96 
 
 fore, that there is a medium between the immo- 
 derate caution of that orator, who was three 
 olympiads in writing a single oration ; and the 
 extravagant expedition of that poet, whose fune- 
 ral pile was composed of his own numberless 
 productions. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
297 
 
 LETTER LX. 
 To Palemon. 
 
 May 28, 1739. 
 
 1 write this while Cleora is angling by my side, 
 under the shade of a spreading elm that hangs 
 over the banks of our river. A nightingale, 
 more harmonious even than Strada's, is sere- 
 nading us from a hawthorn bush, which smiles 
 with all the gaiety of youth and beauty ; while 
 
 gentle gales. 
 
 Fanning their odorif rous wings, dispense 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 Those balmy spoils. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Whilst I am thus enjoying the innocent luxury 
 of this vernal delight, I look back upon those 
 scenes of turbulence, wherein I was once en- 
 gaged, with more than ordinary distaste ; and 
 despise myself for ever liaving entertained so 
 mean a thought as to be rich and sreat. One 
 of our monarchs used to say, " that he looked 
 upon those to be the happiest men in the nation. 
 
298 
 
 ^A'hose fortune had placed them in the country, 
 above a high-constabie, and below the trouble 
 of a justice of peace." It is in a mediocrity of 
 this happy kind that I here pass my life: with 
 a fortune far above the necessity of engaging in 
 the drudgery of business, and with desires much 
 too humble to have any relish for the splendid 
 baits of ambition. 
 
 You must not, however, imagine that I affect 
 the Stoic, or pretend to have eradicated all my 
 passions : the sum of my philosophy amounts to 
 no more than to cherish none but such as I may 
 easily and innocently gratify, and to banish all 
 the rest as so many bold intruders upon my re- 
 pose. I endeavour to practise the maxim of 
 a French poet, by considering every thing that 
 is not v.itliin my possession, as not worth 
 having : 
 
 pour m'assurer le seul bien 
 
 Que Ton doit estimer au monde. 
 Tout ce que je n'ai pas, je le comple f>our rieft. 
 
 Is it not possible, Palemon, to reconcile you 
 to these unaspiring sentiments, and to lower your 
 flight to the humble level of genuine happiness? 
 Let me at least prevail with you to spare a day 
 or two from the certamhia divitiarum (as Horace 
 I think calls them), from those splendid contests 
 
299 
 
 in which you are engaged, just to take a view of 
 the sort of life we lead in the country. If there 
 is any thins; wanting to complete the happiness 
 I here find, it is that you are so seldom a wit- 
 ness to it. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
300 
 LETTER LXL 
 
 Tq EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 July 3, 1744. 
 
 The beauties of style seem to be generally con- 
 sidered as below the attention both of an author 
 and a reader. I know not, therefore, whether I 
 may venture to acknowledge, that anoong the 
 numberless graces of your late performance, I 
 particularly admired that strength and elegance 
 with which you have enforced and adorned the 
 noblest sentiments. 
 
 There u as a time however (and it was a period 
 of the truest refinements), when an excellence 
 of this kind was esteemed in the number of the 
 politest accomplishments; as it was the ambi- 
 tion of some of the greatest names of antiquity 
 to distinguish themselves in the improvements of 
 their native tongue. Julius Caesar, who was not 
 only the greatest hero, but the finest gentleman, 
 that ever, perhaps, appeared in the world, was 
 desirous of adding this talent to his other most 
 shining endowments; and vve are told he studied 
 the language of his country with much applica- 
 tion, as we are sure he possessed it in its highest 
 
SOI 
 
 elegance. What a loss, Euphronius, is it to tiie 
 literary world, that the treatise which he wrote 
 upon this subject is perished with many other 
 valuable works of that age ! But though we are 
 deprived of the benefit of his observations, we 
 are happily not without an instance of their ef- 
 fects ; and his own memoirs will ever remain as 
 the best and brightest exemplar, not only of true 
 generalship, but of fine writing. He published 
 them, indeed, only as materials for the use of 
 those who should be disposed to enlarge upon 
 tliat remarkable period of the Roman story ; yet 
 the purity and gracefulness of his style were such, 
 that no judicious writer durst attempt to touch 
 the subject after him. 
 
 Having produced so illustrious an instance in 
 favour of an art for which I have ventured to 
 admire you ; it would be impertinent to add a 
 second, were I to cite a less authority than that 
 of the immortal TuUy. This noble autlior, in 
 his dialo2:ue concernino; the celebrated lloman 
 orators, frequently mentions it as a very high 
 encomium, that they possessed the elegance of 
 their native language ; and introduces Brutus as 
 declaring, that he should prefer the honour of 
 being esteemed the great master and improver 
 of Roman eloquence, even to the glory of many 
 triumphs. 
 
302 
 
 But to add reason to precedent, and to view 
 this art in its use as well as its dignity, will it 
 not be allowed of some importance, when it is 
 considered that eloquence is one of the most con- 
 siderable auxiliaries of truth? Nothing indeed 
 contributes more to subdue the mind to the force 
 of reason, than her being supported by the pow- 
 erful assistance of masculine and vigorous ora- 
 tory. As, on the contrary, the most legitimate 
 arguments may be disappointed of that success 
 they deserve, by being attended with a spiritless 
 and enfeebled expression. Accordingly, that 
 most elegant of writers, the inimitable Mr. Ad- 
 dison, observes, in one of his essays, that *' there 
 is as much difference between comprehending a 
 thought clothed in Cicero's language, and that 
 of an ordinary writer, as between seeing an ob- 
 ject by the light of a taper and the light of the 
 sun. 
 
 It is surely then a very strange conceit of the 
 celebrated IMalbranche, who seems to think the 
 pleasure which arises from perusing a well writ- 
 ten piece, is of the criminal kind, and has its 
 source in the weakness and effeminacy of the 
 human heart. A man must have a very un- 
 common severity of temper indeed, who can 
 find any thing to condemn in adding charms to 
 truth, and gaining the heart by captivating the 
 
303 
 
 ear; in uniting roses ^vith the thorns of science, 
 and joining pleasure with instruction. 
 
 The truth is, the mind is aeiiijiiied with a fine 
 style, upon the same principle that it prefers re- 
 gularity to coniiision, and beauty to deformity. 
 A taste of this sort is indeed so far from beinff a 
 
 o 
 
 mark of any depravity of our nature, that I 
 should rather consider it as an evidence, in some 
 degree, of the moral rectitude of its constitution ; 
 as it is a proof of its retaining some relish, at 
 least, of harmony and order. 
 
 One might be apt, indeed, to suspect that cer- 
 tain writers amons;st us had considered all beau- 
 ties of this sort in the same gloomy view with 
 Malbranche : or at least that they avoided every 
 refinement in style, as unworthy a lover of truth 
 and philosophy. Their sentiments are sunk by 
 the lowest expressions, and seem condemned to 
 the first curse, of creeping upon the ground all 
 the days of their life. Others, on the contrary, 
 mistake pomp for dignity ; and, in order to raise 
 their expressions above vulgar language, lift 
 them upbeyond common apprehensions; esteem- 
 ing it (one should imagine) a mark of their 
 genius, that it requires some ingenuity to pene- 
 trate their meaning. But how few writers, like 
 Euphronius, know to hit that true medium which 
 lies between those distant extremes? How sel- 
 
304 
 
 clom do we meet with an author, whose expres- 
 sions, like those of my friend, are glowing but 
 not glaring, whose metaphors are natural but 
 not common, whose periods are harmonious but 
 not poetical ; in a word, whose sentiments are 
 well set, and shewn to the understanding in 
 their truest and most advantageous lustre. I am, 
 &:c. 
 
305 
 
 LETTER LXII. 
 
 To Orontes. 
 
 I INTENDED to have closed with your proposal, 
 and passed a few weeks with you at * * * ; but 
 some unlucky affairs have intervened, which will 
 engage me, I fear, the remaining part of the 
 season. 
 
 Among the amusements which the scene you 
 are in affords, I should have esteemed the con- 
 versation of Timoclea as a very principal enter- 
 tainment ; and as I know you are fond of sin- 
 gular characters, I recommend that lady to your 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Timoclea was once a beauty; but ill health, 
 and worse fortune, have ruined those charms, 
 which time would yet have spared. However, 
 what has spoiled her for a mistress, lias improved 
 her as a companion ; and she is far more con- 
 versable now, as she has much less beauty, than 
 when I used to see her once a week triumphin^r 
 in tlie drawing-room. For, as few women (what- 
 ever they may pretend) will value themselves 
 upon their minds, wljile they can gain admirers 
 by their persons, Timoclea never thought of 
 charming by her wit, till she had no chance of 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 making conquests by her beauty. She has seen 
 a good deal of the world, and of the best com- 
 pany in it, as it is from thence she has derived 
 whatever knowledge she possesses. You can- 
 not, indeed, flatter her more, than by seeming to 
 consider her as fond of reading and retirement. 
 But the truth is, nature formed her for the joys 
 of society ; and she is never so thoroughly pleased 
 as when she has a circle round her. 
 
 It is upon those occasions she appears to full 
 advantage; as I never knew any person who was 
 endowed with the talents for conversation to a 
 higher degree. If I were disposed to write the 
 characters of the age, Timoclea is the first per- 
 son in the world to wliose assistance I should 
 apply. She has the happiest art of marking out 
 the distinguishing cast of her acquaintance, that 
 I ever met with ; and I have known her, in an 
 afternoon's conversation, paint the manners with 
 greater delicacy of judgment and strength of 
 colouring, than is to be found either in Theo- 
 phrastus or Bruyere. 
 
 She has an inexhaustible fund of wit ; but if 
 I may venture to distinguish, where one knows 
 not even how to define, I should say, it is rather 
 brilliant than strong. This talent renders her 
 the terror of all her female acquaintance ; yet 
 she never sacrificed the absent, or mortified the 
 present, merely for the sake of displaying the 
 
307 
 
 force of her satire: if any feel its sting, it is those 
 only who first provoke it. Still, however, it 
 must be owned, that her resentments are fre- 
 quently without just foundation, and almost al- 
 ways beyond measure. But though she has 
 much warmth, she has great generosity in her 
 temper; and, with all her faults, she is well worth 
 your knowing. 
 
 And now, having given you this general plan 
 of the strength and weakness of the place, I 
 leave you to make your approaches as you shall 
 see proper. I am, &c. 
 
 x' Q 
 
308 
 
 LETTER LXIir. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 I LOOK upon verbal criticism, as it is generally 
 exercised, to be no better than a sort of learned 
 legerdemain, by which the sense or nonsense of 
 a passage is artfully conveyed away, and some 
 other introduced in its stead, as best suits with 
 the purpose of the profound juggler. The dis- 
 sertation you recommended to my perusal has 
 but served to confirm me in these sentiments : 
 for though I admired the ingenuity of the artist, 
 I could not but greatly suspect the justness of 
 an art, which can thus press any author into the 
 service of any hypothesis. 
 
 I have sometimes amused myself with con- 
 siderins the entertainment it would atFord to 
 those ancients, whose works have had the honour 
 to be attended by our commentators, could they 
 rise out of their sepulchres, and peruse some of 
 those curious conjectures, that have been raised 
 upon their respective compositions. Were Ho- 
 race, for instance, to read over only a few of 
 
309 
 
 those numberless restorers of his text, and expo- 
 sitors of his meaning, that have infested the re- 
 pubHc of letters, — what a fund of pleasantry 
 might he extract for a satire on critical erudi- 
 tion ! How many harmless words would he see 
 cruelly banished from their rightful possessions, 
 merely because they happened to disturb some 
 unmerciful philologist 1 On the other hand, he 
 would undoubtedly smile at that penetrating sa- 
 gacity, which has discovered meanings which 
 never entered into his thoughts, and found out 
 concealed allusions in his most plain and artless 
 expressions. 
 
 One could not, I think, set the general ab- 
 surdity of critical conjectures in a stronger light, 
 than by applying them to something parallel in 
 our own writers. If the English tongue should 
 ever become a dead language, and our best au- 
 thors be raised into the rank of classic writers, 
 much of the force and propriety of their ex- 
 pressions, especially of such as turned upon hu- 
 mour, or alluded to any manners peculiar to the 
 age, would inevitably be lost ; or, at best, would 
 be extremely doubtful. How would it puzzle, 
 for instance, future commentators to explain 
 Swift's epigram upon our musical contests ! I 
 imagine one might fmd them descanting upon 
 
310 
 
 that little humorous sally of our English Ra- 
 belais, in some such manner as this : 
 
 EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL 
 AND BONONCINI. 
 
 Strange all this difference should be 
 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee! 
 
 NOTES OF VARIOUS AUTHORS. 
 
 " Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee.^ I am per- 
 suaded the poet gave it Tzviddle drum and 
 Twiddle key. To twiddle signifies to make a cer- 
 tain ridiculous motion with the fingers: what word, 
 therefore, could be more proper to express this 
 epigram- writer's contempt of the performances 
 of those musicians, and of the folly of his con- 
 temporaries in running into parties upon so ab- 
 surd an occasion? The drum was a certain mar- 
 tial instrument used in those times; as the word 
 key is a technical term in music, importing the 
 fundamental note which regulates the whole 
 composition. It means also those little pieces 
 of wood which the fingers strike against in an 
 orsan, &c. in order to make the instrument 
 sound. The alteration here proposed is so oh- 
 vious and natural, that I am surprised none of 
 the commentators hit upon it before. L. C. DT 
 
311 
 
 " Txoeedle-dum and Tzveedk-dee.] These words 
 have greatly embarrassed the critics, who are ex- 
 tremely expert in finding a difficulty where there 
 is none. Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee are 
 most undoubtedly the names of the two musi- 
 cians : and though they are styled bj different 
 appellations in the title of this epigram, yet that 
 is no objection; for it is well known that persons 
 in those times had more surnames than one. 
 S. J-/."' " Absurd ! here is evidently an error 
 of the press, for there is not a single hint in all 
 antiquity of the family of the Tzveedk-dums and 
 Txveedle-dees. The learned S. M. therefore nod- 
 ded when he undertook to explain this passage. 
 The sense will be very plain, if we read, with a 
 small alteration, WJteedle-Tom, and JVaddk- 
 THE i THE being a known contraction for 
 Theodore, as Tom is for Thomas. JVaddle and 
 IVheedle are likewise classical words. Thus 
 Pope: 
 
 As when a dab-chick waddles through the copse. 
 
 Dun. ii. 59. 
 
 Obliquely waddling to the mnrk in view. 
 
 lb. ii, 150. 
 
 And though, indeed, I do not recollect to have 
 met with the verb to xvheedle in any pure author, 
 yet it is plain that it was in use, since we find 
 
312 
 
 the participle xvJiecdling in an ancient tragedy 
 composed about these times : 
 
 A laughing, toying, wheedling, whimp'ring she 
 Will make him amble on a gossip's message. 
 And hold the distaff with a hand as patient 
 As e'er did Hercules. Jane Shore. 
 
 Thomas and Theodore therefore were most cer- 
 tainly the Christian names of these two musi- 
 cians, to the contractions of w^hich the words 
 zvheedle and waddle are added as characteristical 
 of the persons and dispositions of the men ; the 
 former implying that Tom was a mean sycophant, 
 and the latter that THE had an awkward and 
 ridiculous gait. F. J. Z." 
 
 I know not, Orontes, how I shall escape your 
 satire, for venturing to be thus free with a science 
 which is sometimes, I think, admitted into a 
 share of your meditations : yet, tell me honestly, 
 is not this a faithful specimen of the spirit and 
 talents of the general class of critic- writers? Far 
 am I, however, from thinking irreverently of 
 those useful members of the republic of letters, 
 who with modesty and proper diftidence have 
 offered their assistance in throwing a light upon 
 obscure passages in ancient authors. Even when 
 this spu'it breaks out in its highest pride and 
 petulance of reformation, if it confines itself to 
 
313 
 
 classical inquiries, I can be contented with treat- 
 ing it only as an object of ridicule. But I must 
 confess, when I find it, with an assured and con- 
 fident air, supporting religious or political doc- 
 trines upon the very uncertain foundation of 
 various readings, forced analogies, and preca- 
 rious conjectures, it is not without some diffi- 
 culty I can suppress my indignation. Farewel. 
 I am, &c. 
 
514 
 
 LETTER LXIV. 
 To Philotes. 
 
 Tunbridge, Aug. 4. 
 I THINK I promised you a letter from this place; 
 yet have nothing more material to write than 
 that I got safe hither. To any other man I 
 should make an apology for troubling him with 
 an information so trivial : but among true friends 
 there is nothing indifferent; and what would 
 seem of no consequence to others, has, in inter- 
 courses of this nature, its weight and value. A 
 by-stander, unacquainted with play, may fancy, 
 perhaps, that the counters are of no more worth 
 than they appear ; but those who are engaged 
 in the game, know they are to be considered at 
 a higher rate. You see I draw my allusions 
 from the scene before me : a propriety which 
 the critics, I think, upon some occasions, recom- 
 mend. 
 
 I have often wondered what odd whim could 
 first induce the healthy to follow the sick into, 
 places of this sort, and lay the scene of their di- 
 versions amidst the most wretched part of our 
 species ; one should imagine an hospital the last 
 spot in the world, to which those who are in 
 
315 
 
 pursuit of pleasure would think of resorting. 
 However, so it is, and by this means the com- 
 pany here furnish out a tragi-comedy of the 
 most singular kind. While some are literally 
 dying, others are expiring in metaphor; and in 
 one scene you are presented with the real, and 
 in another with the fantastical pains of mankind. 
 An ignorant spectator might be apt to suspect, 
 that each party was endeavouring to qualify it- 
 self for acting in the opposite character : for the 
 infirm cannot labour more earnestly to recover 
 the strength they have lost, than the robust to 
 dissipate that which they possess. Thus the 
 diseased pass not more anxious nights in their 
 beds, than the healthy at the hazard-tables ; and 
 I frequently see a game at quadrille occasion as 
 severe disquietudes as a fit of the gout. As for 
 myself, I perform a sort of middle part in this 
 motley drama ; and am sometimes disposed to 
 join with the invalids in envying the healthy, and 
 sometimes have spirits enough to mix with the 
 gay in pitying the splenetic. 
 
 The truth is, I have found some benefit by 
 the waters : but I shall not be so sano;uine as to 
 pronounce with certainty of their eifects, till I 
 see how they enable me to pass through the ap- 
 proaching winter. That season, you know, is 
 the time of trial with me ; and if I get over the 
 next with more ease than the last, 1 shall think 
 
316 
 
 myself obliged to celebrate the nymph of these 
 springs in grateful sonnet. 
 
 But let times and seasons operate as they may, 
 there is one part of me over which they will have 
 no power; and in all the changes of this uncer- 
 tain constitution, my heart will ever continue 
 fixed and firmly yours. I am, &c. 
 
ai7 
 
 LETTER LXV. 
 To Orontes. 
 
 May 6, 1735. 
 Let others consider you for those ample pos- 
 sessions you enjoy : suffer me to say, that it is 
 your application of them alone which renders 
 either them or you valuable in my estimation. 
 Your splendid roofs and elegant accommoda- 
 tions I can view without the least emotion of 
 envy : but when I observe you in the full power 
 of exerting the noble purposes of your exalted 
 generosity — it is then, I confess, I am apt to 
 reflect, with some regret, on the humbler sup- 
 plies of my own more limited finances. Nihil 
 habet (to speak of you in the same language 
 that the first of orators addressed the greatest 
 of emperors) fo?'tu7ia tua majus, qudm utpossis ; 
 nee natura melius , qm ut velis sernare quam- 
 plurimos. To be able to soften the calamities 
 of mankind, and inspire gladness into a heart 
 oppressed with want, is indeed the noblest pri- 
 vilege of an enlarged fortune : but to exercise 
 that privilege in all its generous refinements, is 
 an instance of the most uncommon elegance 
 both of temper and understanding. 
 
SIS 
 
 In the ordinary dispensations of bounty, little 
 address is required : but when it is to be ap- 
 plied to those of a superior rank and more ele- 
 vated mind, there is as much charity discovered 
 in the mxmner as in the measure of one's bene- 
 volence. It is something extremely mortifying 
 to a well-formed spirit, to see itself considered 
 as an object of compassion ; as it is the part 
 of improved humanity to humour this honest 
 pride in our n^iture, and to relieve the necessi- 
 ties without oifending the delicacy of the dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 I have seen charity (if charity it might be 
 called) insult with an air of pity, and wound 
 at the same time that it healed. But I have 
 seen too the highest munificence dispensed with 
 the most refined tenderness, and a bounty con- 
 ferred with as much address as the most artful 
 would employ in soliciting one. Suffer me, 
 Orontes, upon this single occasion, to gratify 
 my own inclinations in violence to yours, by 
 pointing out the particular instance I have in 
 my view ; and allow me, at the same time, to 
 join ray acknowledgments with those of the un- 
 fortunate person I recommended to your pro- 
 tection, for the generous asaistance you lately 
 afforded him. I am, &c. <, 
 
319 
 
 LETTER LXVI. 
 To Cleora. 
 
 Sept. 5, 1737. 
 Shall I own to .you that I cannot repent of 
 an offence which occasioned so agreeable a re- 
 proof? A censure conveyed in such genteel 
 terms, charms more than corrects, and tempts 
 rather than reforms. I am sure, at least, though 
 I should regret the crime, I shall always admire 
 the rebuke, and long to kiss the hand that 
 chasteneth in so pleasing a manner. However, 
 I shall for the future strictly pursue j'our 
 orders; and have sent you, in this second parcel, 
 no other books than what my own library sup- 
 plied. Among these you will find a collection 
 of letters : I do not recommend them to you, 
 having never read them ; nor indeed am I ac- 
 quainted with their characters ; but they pre- 
 sented themselves to my hands as I was tum- 
 bling over some others : so I threw them in with 
 the rest, and gave them a chance of adding to 
 your amusement. I wish I could meet with 
 any thing that had even the least probability of 
 contributing to mine. But, 
 
320 
 
 forlorn of thee, 
 Wliither shall I betake me, where subsist ? 
 
 MiLTOsr. 
 
 Time, that reconciles one to most things, ha? 
 not been able to render your absence in any 
 degree less uneasy to me. I may rather be 
 said to haunt the house in which I live, than to 
 make one of the family. I walk in and out of 
 the rooms like a restless spirit : for I never 
 speak till I am spoken to, and then generally 
 answer, like Banco's ghost in Macbeth, with a 
 deep sigh and a nod. Thus abstracted from 
 every thing about me, I am yet quite ruined 
 for a hermit ; and find no more satisfaction 
 in retirement, than you do in the company 
 of * * *. 
 
 How often do I wish myself in possession of 
 that famous ring you were mentioning the other 
 day, which had the property of rendering those 
 who wore it invisible ! I would rather be master 
 of this wonderful unique, than of the kingdom 
 which Gyges gained by means of it ; as I might 
 then attend you, like your guardian angel, 
 w ithout censure or obstruction. How agreeable 
 would it be to break out upon you, like ^Eneas 
 from his cloud, where you least expected me; 
 and join again the dear companion of my for- 
 tunes, in spite of that relentless power who has 
 
321 
 
 raised so many cruel storms to destroy us ! 
 But whilst I employed this extraordinary ring 
 to these and a thousand other pleasing pur- 
 poses, you would have nothing to apprehend 
 from my being invested with such an invisible 
 faculty. That innocence which guards and 
 adorns my Cleora in her most gay and public 
 hours, attends her, I well know, in her most 
 private and retired ones ; and she who always 
 acts as under the eye of the Best of Beings, has 
 nothing to fear from the secret inspection of any 
 mortal. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
LETTER LXVII. 
 
 To EUPHRONIUS. 
 
 May 5, 1745. 
 If you received the first account of my loss 
 from other hands than mine, you must impute 
 it to the dejection of mind into which that acci- 
 dent ttirew me. The blow, indeed, fell with 
 too much severity, to leave me capable of re- 
 collecting myself enough to write to you imme- 
 diately ; as there cannot, perhaps, be a greater 
 shock to a breast of any sensibility, than to see 
 its earliest and most valuable connexions irre- 
 parably broken ; than to find itself for ever 
 torn from the first and most endeared object of 
 its highest veneration. At least, the affection 
 and esteem I bore to that excellent parent were 
 founded upon so many and such uncommon 
 motives, that his death has given me occasion 
 to lament not only a most tender father, but a 
 a most valuable friend. 
 
 That I can no longer enjoy the benefit of his 
 animating example, is one among the many 
 aggravating circumstances of my affliction ; and 
 I often apply to myself, what an excellent an- 
 cient has said upon a similar occasion, Vei^eor 
 
323 
 
 ne nunc negligentiks vivam. There is nothing, 
 in truth, puts us so much upon our guard, as to 
 act under the constant inspection of one, whose 
 virtues, as well as years, have rendered vene- 
 rable. Never, indeed, did the dignity of good- 
 ness appear more irresistible in any man : yet 
 there was something, at the same time, so 
 gentle in his manners, such an innocency and 
 cheerfulness in his conversation, that he was as 
 sure to gain affection as to inspire reverence. 
 
 It has been observed (and I think by Cowley) 
 " That a man in much business must either 
 make himself a knave, or the world will make 
 him a fool.'"' If there is any truth in this obser- 
 vation, it is not, however, without an exception. 
 j\fy father was early engaged in the great scenes 
 of business, where he continued almost to his 
 very last hour ; yet he preserved his integrity 
 firm and unbroken, through all those powerful 
 assaults he must necessarily have encountered 
 in so long a course of action. 
 
 If it were justice, indeed, to his other virtues, 
 to single out any particular one as shining with 
 superior lustre to the rest, I should point to his 
 probity as the brightest part of his character. 
 But the truth is, the whole tepor of his conduct 
 was one uniform exercise of every moral quality 
 that can adorn and exalt human nature. To 
 
 y 2 
 
3'i4 
 
 defend the injured, to relieve the indigent, tO 
 protect the distressed, vvas the chief end and 
 aim of all his endeavours ; and his principal 
 motive both for engaging and persevering in his 
 profession was, to enable himself more abun- 
 dantly to gratify so glorious an ambition. 
 
 N6 man had a higher relish of the pleasures 
 of retired and contemplative life ; as none was 
 more qualified to enter into those calm scenes 
 with greater ease and dignity. He had nothing 
 to make him desirous of flying from the reflec- 
 tions of his own mind, nor any passions which 
 his moderate patrimony would aot have been 
 more than suflicient to have gratified. But to 
 live for himself only was not consistent with his 
 generous and enlarged sentiments. It was a 
 spirit of benevolence thatled him intathe active 
 scenes of the world ; which, upon any other 
 principle, he would either never have entered, 
 or soon have renounced. And it was that god- 
 like spirit which conducted and supported him 
 through his useful progress, to the honour and 
 interest of his family and friends, and to the 
 benefit of every creature that could possibly be 
 comprehended within the extensive circle of his 
 beneficence. 
 
 I well know, my dear Euphronius, the high 
 regard you pay to every character of merit i« 
 
39.5 
 
 general, and the esteem in which you held this 
 most valuable man in particular. I am sure, 
 therefore, you would not forgive me, were I 
 to make an apology for leaving with you this 
 private monument of my veneration for a parent, 
 whose least and lowest claim to my gratitude 
 and esteem is, that I am indebted to him for my 
 birth. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
326 
 
 LETTER LXVIIl. 
 
 To Philotes. 
 
 I AM particularly pleased with a passage in 
 Homer, wherein Jupiter is represented as taking 
 off his eyes, with a sort of satiety, from the 
 horror of the field of battle, and relieving him- 
 self with a view of the Hippomolgi, a people 
 famous, it seems, for their innocence and sim- 
 plicity of manners. It is in order to practise 
 the same kind of experiment, and give myself a 
 short remission from that scene of turbulence 
 and contention in which I am engaged, that I 
 now turn my thoughts on you, Philotes, whose 
 temperance and moderation may well justify me 
 in calling you a modern Hippomolgian. 
 
 I forget which of the ancients it is, that re- 
 commends this method of thinking over the vir- 
 tues of one's acquaintance : but I am sure it is 
 sometimes necessary to do so, in order to keep 
 one's self in humour with our species, and pre- 
 serve the spirit of philanthropy from being 
 entirely extinguished. Those who frequeftt the 
 ambitious ualks of life, are apt to take their 
 estimate of mankind from the small part of it 
 that lies before them, and consider the rest of 
 
S'27 
 
 the world as practising, in different and under 
 parts, the same treachery and dissimulation 
 which mark out the characters of their supe- 
 riors. It is difficult indeed to preserve the mind 
 from faUing into a general contempt of our 
 race, whilst one is conversant with the worst 
 part of it. I labour, however, as much as pos- 
 sible, to guard against that ungenerous disposi- 
 tion ; as nothing is so apt to kill those seeds of 
 benevolence, which every man should endeavour 
 to cultivate in his breast, 
 
 111 surely, therefore, have those wits employ- 
 ed their talents, who have made our species the 
 object of their satire, and affected to subdue 
 the vanity, by derogating from the virtues of 
 the human heart. But it will be found, I be- 
 lieve, upon an impartial examination, that there 
 is more folly than malice in our natures, and 
 that mankind oftener act \vrong through igno- 
 rance than design. Perhaps the true measure 
 of human merit is neither to be taken from the 
 histories of former times, nor from what passes 
 in the more striking scenes of the present gene- 
 ration. The greatest virtues have, probably, 
 been ever the most obscure ; and I am per- 
 suaded, in all ages of the world, more genuine 
 heroism has been overlooked and unknown, 
 than either recorded or observed. That aliquid 
 ilkimun, as Tully calls it, that celestial spark, 
 
328 
 
 which every man, who coolly contemplates his 
 own mind, may discover within him, operates 
 where we least look for it ; and often raises the 
 noblest productions of virtue in the shade and 
 obscurity of life. 
 
 But it is time to quit speculation for action, 
 and return to the common affairs of the world. 
 I shall certainly do so wil;.( more advantage, by 
 keeping Philotes still \\> my view ; as I shall 
 enter into the interests of mankind nith more 
 alacrity, by thus considering the virtues of his 
 ijonest heart as less singular than I am some- 
 times inclined to suppose. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
329 
 
 LETTER LXIX. 
 
 To the same. 
 
 August 3, 1735. 
 Let it not be any discouragement to you, Phi- 
 lotes, that you have hitherto received but little 
 satisfaction from those noble speculations ^'.here- 
 in you are employed. *' Truth," (to use the 
 expression of the excellent Mr. Wollaston) " is 
 the offspring of unbroken meditations, and of 
 thoughts often revised and corrected." It re- 
 quires indeed great patience and resolution to 
 dissipate that cloud of darkness which surrounds 
 her ; or (if you will allow me to go to an old 
 philosopher for my allusion) to araw her up 
 from that profound well in which she lies con- 
 cealed. 
 
 There is, however, such a general connexion 
 in the operations of nature, that the discovery 
 even of a single truth opens the way to num- 
 berless others ; and when once the mind has 
 hit upon a right scent, she cannot wholly pur- 
 sue her inquiries in vain. 
 
 .... Canes ut montivagae persaepe ferai 
 ^s^aribus inveniunt intectas fronde quietes. 
 
330 
 
 Cum sciKel institerint vestigia certa via'i : 
 Sic aliud ex alio per te tute ipse videre 
 .... in rebus potcriS; caecasque latebias 
 Insinuare omnis, et verum protrahere inde 
 
 LVCP.EI. 
 
 It must be owned, nevertheless, that after 
 having exerted all our sagacity and industry^ 
 we shall scarce arrive at certainty in many spe- 
 culative truths- Providence does not seem to 
 have intended that we should ever be in posses- 
 sion of dcmomtrat'we knowledge, beyond a very 
 limited compass; though at the same time it 
 cannot be supposed, without the highest injus- 
 tice to the benevolent Author of our natures, 
 that he has left any necessary truths without 
 evident notes of distinction. But while the 
 powers of the mind are thus limited in their 
 extent, and greatly fallible likewise in their 
 operations, is it not amazing, Philotes, that 
 mankind should insult each other for difference 
 in opinion, and treat every notion, that opposes 
 their own, with obloquy and contempt? Is it 
 not amazing that a creature, with talents so pre- 
 carious and circumscribed, should usurp that 
 confidence which can only belong to much 
 superior beings, and claim a deference which is 
 due to perfection alone? Surely the greatest 
 arrogance that ever entered into the human 
 
331 
 
 heart, is that which not only pretends to Ije 
 positive itself in points wherein the best and 
 wisest have disagreed, but looks down with all 
 the insolent superiority of contemptuous pity on 
 those whose impartial reasonings have led them 
 into opposite conclusions. 
 
 There is nothing, perhaps, more evident, than 
 that our intellectual faculties are not formed bv 
 one general standard ; and, consequently, that 
 diversity of opinion is of the very essence of 
 our natures. It seems probable that this dis- 
 parity extends even to our sensitive powers : 
 and though we agree indeed in giving the same 
 names to certain visible appearances, — as white- 
 ness, for instance, to snow, — yet it is by no 
 means demonstration, that the particular body 
 which affects us with that sensation, raises the 
 same precise idea in any two persons who shall 
 happen to contemplate it together. Thus I 
 have often heard you mention your youngest 
 daughter as being the exact counter-part of her 
 mother : now she does not appear to me to re- 
 semble her in any single feature. To what can 
 this disagreement in our judgments be owing, 
 but to a difference in the structure of our organs 
 of sight? Yet as justly, Philotes, might you 
 disclaim me for your friend, and look upon me 
 with contempt, for not discovering a similitude 
 whic h appears so evident to your eyes, as any 
 
33'2 
 
 inaii can abuse of despise another for not ap- 
 prehending the force of that argument which 
 Carries conviction to his own understanding. 
 
 Happy had it been for the peace of the world, 
 if our maintainers of systems, either in rehgion 
 or politics, had conducted thei^ several debates 
 with the full impression of this truth upon their 
 minds. Genuine philosophy is ever, indeed, 
 the least dogmatical; and I am always inclined 
 to suspect the force of that argument which is 
 obtruded with arrggance and sufficiency. 
 
 I am wonderfully pleased with a passage I 
 met with the other day in the preface to Mr. 
 Boyle's Philosophical Essays ; and would re- 
 commend that cautious spirit, by which he pro- 
 tases to have conducted himself in his physical 
 researches, as worthy the ii;nitation of inquirers 
 after truth of every kind. 
 
 " Perhaps you will wonder," says he, " that 
 in almost every one of the following essays, I 
 should use so often, perhaps, it seems, it is not 
 improbable, as argue a diffidence of the truth of 
 the opinions I incline to ; and that I should be 
 so shy of laying down principles, and sometimes 
 of so much as venturing at explications. But 
 I must freely confess, that having met with 
 many things of which I could give myself no 
 one probable cause, and some things of which 
 several causes may be assigned, so differing ^s 
 
333 
 
 not to agree in any thing, unless in their being 
 all of them probable enough ; I have often 
 found such difficulties in searching into the 
 causes and manner of tilings, and I am so sen- 
 sible of my own disability to surmount those 
 difficulties, thafc I dare speak confidently and 
 positively of very few things, except matter of 
 fact. And when I venture to deliver any thing 
 by way of opinion, I should, if it were not for 
 mere shame, speak yet more diffidently than I 
 have bef n wont to do. Nor have my thoughts 
 been altogether idle — in forming notions, and 
 attempting to devise hypotheses. But I have 
 hitherto (though not always, yet not unfrequent- 
 ly) found, that what pleased me for a while, was 
 soon after disgraced by some further or new 
 experiment. And, indeed, I have the less en- 
 vied many (for I say not all) of those writers, 
 who have taken upon them to deliver the causes 
 of things, and explicate the mysteries of nature; 
 since I have had an opportunity to observe how 
 many of their doctrines, after having been for a 
 while applauded and even admired^ have after- 
 wards been confuted by some new phcenomenon 
 in nature, which was either unknown to such 
 writers, or not sufficiently considered by them." 
 If positiveness could become any man in any 
 point of mere speculation, it must have been 
 this truly noble philosopher, when he was de- 
 
334 
 
 livering the result of his studies in a science, 
 wherein, by the united confession of the whole 
 world, he so eminently excelled. But he had 
 too much generosity to prescribe his own notions 
 as a measure to the judgment of others, and 
 too much good sense to assert, them with heat 
 or confidence. 
 
 Whoever, Philotes, pursues his speculations 
 with this humble, unarrogating temper of mind, 
 and with the best exertion of those faculties 
 which Providence has assigned him, though he 
 should not find the conviction, never, surely, can 
 he fail of the reward, of truth. I am, &c. 
 
r335 
 
 LETTER LXX. 
 
 To Palamedes. 
 
 If malice had never broke loose upon the 
 world till it seized your reputation, I might 
 reasonably condole with you on falling the first 
 prey to its unrestrained rage. But this spectre 
 has haunted merit almost from its earliest ex- 
 istence : and when all mankind were as yet in- 
 cluded within a single family, one of them, we 
 know, rose up in malignity of soul against his 
 innocent brother. Virtue, it should seem, 
 therefore, has now been too long acquainted 
 with this her constant persecutor, to be either 
 terrified or dejected at an appearance so com- 
 mon. The truth of it is, she must either re- 
 Dounce her noblest theatre of action, and se- 
 clude herself in cells and deserts, or be con- 
 tented to enter upon the stage of the world with 
 this fiend in her train. She cannot triumph, if 
 she will not be traduced ; and she should con- 
 sider the clamours of censure, when joined with 
 her own conscious applause, as so many accla- 
 mations that confirm her victory. 
 
 Let those who harbour this worst of human 
 dispQsitions, consider the many wretched and 
 
OOO 
 
 conteinptible circumstances which attend it : 
 but it is the business of him who unjustly suffers 
 from it, to reflect how it may be turned to his 
 advantage. Remember then, my friend, that 
 generosity would lose half her dignity, if malice 
 did not contribute to her elevation ; and he that 
 has never been injured, has never had it in his 
 power to exercise the noblest privilege of heroic 
 virtue. There is another consolation which 
 may be derived from the rancour of the world, 
 as it will instruct one in a piece of knowledge of 
 the most singular benefit in our progress through 
 it : it will teach us to distinguish genuine 
 friendship from counterfeit. For he only who 
 is warmed with the real flame of amity, will 
 rise up to support his single negative, in oppo- 
 sition to the clamorous votes of an undistin- 
 guishing nmltitude. 
 
 He, indeed, who can see a cool and delibe- 
 rate injury done to his friend, without feeling 
 himself wounded in his most sensible part, has 
 never known the force of the most generous of 
 all the human affections. Every man, who has 
 not taken the sacred name of friendship in vain, 
 will subscribe to those sentiments which Homer 
 puts into the mouth of Achilles, and wdiich Mr. 
 Pope has opened and enlarged with such ini- 
 mitable strength and spirit : 
 
337 
 
 A gen'rous friendship no cold medium knows. 
 Burns with one love, with one resentment glows ; 
 One should our int' rests and our j>assions be ; 
 My friend must hate the man that injures me. 
 
 ix. 609. 
 
 It may greatly also allay the pain which attends 
 the wounds of defamation, and which are al- 
 ways most severely felt by those who least de- 
 serve them, to reflect, that though malice gene- 
 rally flings the first stone, it is folly and igno- 
 rance, it is indolence or irresolution, which are 
 principally concerned in sweUing the heap. 
 When the tide of censure runs strongly against 
 any particulaj: character, the generality of man- 
 kind are too careless or too impotent to with- 
 stand the current ; and thus, without any par- 
 ticular malice in their own natures, are often 
 indolently carried along with others, by tamely 
 falling in with the general stream. The num- 
 ber of those who really mean one harm, will 
 wonderfully lessen after the deductions which 
 may fairly be made of this sort : and the cup 
 of unjust reproach must surely lose much of 
 its bitterness, where one is persuaded that 
 malevolence has the least share in mingling th& 
 draught. For nothing, perhaps, slings a gene- 
 rous mind more sensibly in wrongs of this sort, 
 than to consider them as evidences of a general 
 malignity in human nature. But from what- 
 
338 
 
 ever causes these storms tnay arise, virtue would 
 not be true to her own native privileges, if she 
 suffered herself to sink under them. It is from 
 that strength and firmness, which upright in- 
 tentions will ever secure to an honest mind, that 
 Palamedes, I am persuaded, will stand superior 
 to those unmerited reproaches which assa;ult his 
 character, and preserve an unbroken repose 
 amidst the little noise and strife of ignorant or 
 malicious tongues. Farewel. I am, &c. 
 
:y39 
 
 LETTER LXXL 
 To Philotes. 
 
 Apiil 9, 1740. 
 
 There is no advantage which attends a popu- 
 lar genius that I am so much inclined to envy, 
 as the privilege of rendering merit conspicuous. 
 An author who has raised the attention of the 
 public to his productions, and gained a whole 
 nation for his audience, may be considered as 
 guardian of the temple of Fame, and invested 
 with the prerogative of giving entrance to whom- 
 §oever he deems worthy of that glorious dis- 
 tinction. But the praise of an ordinary writer 
 obstructs rather than advances the honour due 
 to merit, and sullies the lustre it means to cele- 
 brate. Impotent panegyric operates like a 
 blight wherever it falls, and injures all that it 
 touches. Accordingly, Henry the Fourth of 
 France was wont humorously to ascribe his 
 early grey hairs to the effect of numberless 
 viretched compliments, which were paid him 
 by a certain ridiculous orator of his times. But 
 though the wreaths of folly should not disgrace 
 the temple they surround, they wither, at least, 
 as sov;n as received ; and if they should not be 
 
 z 2 
 
340 
 
 offensive, most certainly, however, they will be 
 transient. Whereas those, on the contrary, 
 with which an Horace or a Boileau, an Addi- 
 son or a Pope, have crowned the virtues of their 
 contemporaries, are as permanent as they are 
 illustrious, and will preserve their colours and 
 fragrance to remotest ages. 
 
 If I could thus weave the garlands of un- 
 fading applause, — if I were in the number of 
 those chosen spirits whose approbation is 
 fame, — your friend should not want that dis- 
 tinguishing tribute v/hich his virtues deserve, 
 and you request. I would tell the world (and 
 tell it in a voice that should be heard far and 
 remembered long) that Eusebes, with all the 
 knowledge and experience of these later ages, 
 has all the innocence and simplicity of the 
 earliest : that he enforces the doctrines of his 
 sacred function, not with the vain pomp of 
 ostentatious eloquence, but ^vith the far more 
 powerful persuasion of active and exemplary 
 virtue : that he softens the severity of precept 
 with the ease and familiarity of conversation ; 
 and by generously mingling with the meanest 
 committed to his care, insinuates the instructor 
 under the air of the companion : that whilst he 
 thus fills up the circle of his private station, he 
 still turns his regards to the public, and employs 
 his genius, his industry, and his fortune, in pro- 
 
341 
 
 securing and perfecting those discoveries, which 
 tend most to the general benefit of mankind : 
 in a word, that whilst others of his order are 
 contending for the ambitious prizes of eccle- 
 siastical dignities, it is his glorious pre-eminence 
 to merit the highest, without enjoying or solicit- 
 ing even the lowest. This, and yet more than 
 this, the world should hear of your friend, if the 
 world were inclined to listen to my voice. But 
 though you, perhaps, Philotes, may be willing 
 to give audience to my muse, 
 
 namque tu solebas 
 Meas esse aliquid putare nugas. Catul. 
 
 can she hope to find favour likewise in the sight 
 of the public? Let me, then, rather content 
 myself with the silent admiration of those vir- 
 tues, which 1 am not worthy to celebrate ; and 
 leave it to others to place the good works of 
 Eusebes where they may shine forth before men. 
 I am, &c. 
 
312 
 
 LETTER LXXIi. 
 lo the same. 
 
 Dec. 7> 1737. 
 The \i:<il's oi a Iriend, like those of the sun at 
 this season, are extremely enlivening. 1 am 
 sure at least they would both be particularly 
 acceptable to ine at present, wlien my mind is 
 as much overcast as the heavens. 1 hope, 
 therefore, you will not drop the design your 
 letter intimates, of spending a few days with 
 me in your way to ^' * *. Your company will 
 greatly contribute to disperse those clouds of 
 melancholy wiiich the loss of a very valuable 
 friend has hunsa; over me. There is somethinjx, 
 indeed, in the first moments of separation from 
 those, whom a daily commerce and long habi- 
 tude of friendship has grafted upon the heart, 
 that disurdeis our whole frame of thought, and 
 discolouis all one's enjoyments. Let philoso- 
 phy assist with the utmost of her vaunted 
 strenutli, the mind cannot immediately recover 
 the firnmes.-i of its posture, when those arnicable 
 props, upon which it used to rest, are totally 
 removed. Even the most indifferent objects 
 
343 
 
 with which we have long been familiar, take 
 some kind of root in our hearts ; and *• I should 
 hardly care," as a celebrated author has with 
 great good-nature observed, "to have an old 
 post pulled up, which I remembered ever since 
 I was a child." 
 
 To know how to receive the full satisfaction 
 of a present enjoyment, with a disposition pre- 
 pared at the same time to yield it up without 
 reluctance, is hardly, I doubt, reconcileable to 
 humanity : pain, in being disunited from those 
 we love, is a tax we must be contented to pay, 
 if we would enjoy the pleasures of the social 
 atfections. One would not wish, indeed, to be 
 wholly insensible to disquietudes of this kind ; 
 and we must renounce tlie most refined relish 
 of our being, if we vv'ould upon all occasions 
 possess our souls in a stoical tranquillity. 
 
 That ancient philosopher, whose precept it 
 was, to converse with our friends as if thev 
 might one day prove our enemies, has been 
 justly censured as advancing a very ungenerous 
 maxim. To remember, however, that we must 
 one day most certainly be divided from them, 
 is a redection, methinks, that should enter with 
 us into our tender connexions of every kind. 
 From the present discomposure, therefore, of 
 mv own breast, and from that share which [ 
 
take in whatever may affect the repose of yours, 
 I cannot bid you adieu, without reminding you 
 at the same time of the useful caution of one of 
 your poetical acquaintance : 
 
 Quicquid araas, cupias non placuisse nimis. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
345 
 
 LETTER LXXIIL 
 To Palamedes. 
 
 Feb. 13, 1741. 
 
 If one would rate any particular merit accord- 
 ing to its true valuation, it may be necessary, 
 perhaps, to consider how far it can be justly 
 claimed by mankind in general. I am sure, at 
 least, when I read the very uncommon senti- 
 ments of your last letter, I found their judicious 
 author rise in my esteem, by reflecting, that 
 there is not a more singular character in the 
 world, than that of a thinking man. It is not 
 merely having a succession of ideas, which 
 lightly skim over the mind, that can with any 
 propriety be styled by that denomination. It 
 is observing them separately and distinctly, and 
 Tanging them under their respective classes ; it 
 is calmly and steadily viewing our opinions on 
 every side, and resolutely tracing them through 
 all their consequences and connexions, that 
 constitutes the man of reflection, and distin- 
 guishes reason from fancy. Providence, in- 
 deed, does not seem to have formed any very 
 considerable number of pur species for an ex- 
 
346 ■ 
 
 tensive exercise of this higher t'aculty ; as the 
 thoughts of the far greater part of mankind are 
 necessarily restrained within the ordinary pur- 
 poses of animal life. But even if we look up 
 to those who move in much superior orbits, and 
 who have opportunities to improve, as well as 
 leisure to exercise, their understandings ; we 
 shall fmd, that thinking is one of the least 
 exerted privileges of cultivated humanity. 
 
 It is, indeed, an operation of the mind which 
 meets with many obstructions to check its just 
 and free direction ; but there are two principles 
 which prevail more or less in the constitutions 
 of most men, that particularly contribute to 
 keep this faculty of the soul unemployed-: I 
 mean pride, and jndalence. To descend i^o 
 truth through the tedious progression of well- 
 examined deductions, is considered as a re- 
 proach to the quickness of understanding ; as 
 it is much too laborious a method for any but 
 those who are, possesseid of a vigoJiOus and res^- 
 Lute.activity of mind. For this reason the greater 
 .pact of our species generally choose ■ either . t^ 
 seize upon their conclusions at once, or J^p take 
 them by rebound from others, as best &.uiting 
 w ith their vanity or their laziness. Accordingly 
 •Mr. Locke observes, tljat^ there are notso nw^y 
 .errois and wrong opinions in .the workL^sJs 
 
347 
 
 generally imagined. Not that he thinks man- 
 kind are by any means uniform in embracing 
 truth ; but because the majority of them, he 
 maintains, have no thought or 0!>inion at all 
 about those doctrines concerning which thev 
 raise the greatest clamour. Like the common 
 soldiers in an army, tiie.y follow where their 
 leaders direct, without knowing, or even in- 
 quiring, into the cause for which they so warm- 
 ly contend. 
 
 This will account for the slow steps by which 
 truth has advanced in the world, on one side ; 
 and for those absurd systems which, at different 
 periods, have had an universal currency on the 
 other. For there is a strange disposition in 
 human nature, either blindly to tread tlie same 
 paths that have been traversed by others, or to 
 strike out into the most devious extravagancies : 
 the greater part of the world will either totally 
 renounce their reason, or reason only from the 
 wild suggestions of an heated imagination. 
 
 From the same source may be derived those 
 divisions and animosities, which break tije union 
 both of public and private societies, and turn 
 the peace and harmony of human intercourse 
 into dissonance and contention. For while men 
 judge and act by such njeasures as have not 
 been proved by the standard of dispassionate 
 
348 
 
 reason, they must equally be mistaken in their 
 estimates both of their own conduct and that of 
 others. 
 
 If we turn our view from active to contem- 
 plative life, we may have occasion, perhaps, to 
 remark, that thinking is no less uncommon in 
 the literary than the civil world. The number 
 of those writers who can with any justness of 
 expression be termed thinking authors, would 
 not form a very copious library, though one 
 were to take in all of that kind which both an- 
 cient and modern times have produced. Neces- 
 sarily, I ima^iine, must one exclude from a col- 
 lection of this sort, all critics, commentators, 
 modern Latin poets, translators, and, in short, 
 all that numerous under-tribe in the common- 
 wealth of literature that owe their existence 
 merely to the thoughts of others. I should 
 reject for the same reason such compilers as 
 Valerius Maximus and Aulus Gellius : though 
 it must be owned indeed, their works have ac- 
 quired an accidental value, as they preserve to 
 us several curious traces of antiquity, which 
 time would otherwise have entirely worn out. 
 Those teeming geniuses likewise, who have pro- 
 pagated the fruits of their studies through a 
 long series of tracts, would have little pretence, 
 I believe, to be admitted as vTriters of reflec- 
 
349 
 
 tion. For this reason I cannot regret the loss 
 of those incredible numbers of compositions 
 which some of the ancients are said to have 
 produced : 
 
 Quale fuit Cassi rapido ferventius amni 
 Ingenium 5 capsis quein fania est esse librisque 
 Ambustum propriis. HoR. 
 
 Thus Epicurus, we are told, left behind him 
 three hundred volumes of his own works, where- 
 in he had not inserted a single quotation ; and 
 we have it upon the authority of Varro's own 
 words,* that he himself composed four hundred 
 and ninety books. Seneca assures us, that 
 Didymus the grammarian \\rote no less than 
 four thousand ; but Origcn, it seems, was yet 
 more prolific, and extended his performances 
 even to six thousand treatises. It is obvious to 
 imao;ine with what sort of materials the produc- 
 tions of such expeditious workmen were wrought 
 up : sound thought and well-matured reflections 
 
 * This passag;e is to be found in Aul. Gellius, who quotes 
 it. from a treatise which Varro had written concerning 
 the wonderful effects of the number Seven. But the sub- 
 ject of this piece cannot be more ridiculous than the style 
 in which it appears to have been composed ; for that most 
 learned author of his times (as Cicero, if I mistake not, 
 soiTiewhcre calls him) informed his readei-s in that per- 
 formance, se jam duo'lecimam annoruvi hebdomadam in- 
 gressuni esse, el ad euvi diem septuaginla hfbdomadas libro- 
 rum coni>cripsisse. Aul. Gell. iii. 10. 
 
350 
 
 could have no share, we may be sure, in thes» 
 hasty performances. Thus are books multi- 
 plied, whilst authors are scarce ; and so much 
 easier is it to writ^ than to think ! But shall I 
 not myself, Palamedes, prove an instance thnt 
 it is so, if 1 suspend any longer your own more 
 important reflections, by interrupting you with 
 ^uch as mine ? Adieu. I am, Sic. 
 
351 
 
 LETTER LXXIV. 
 
 To Oroxtes. 
 
 It is with mucli pleasure I look back upon that 
 philosophical week which I lately enjoyed at 
 * * * ; as there is no part, perhaps, of social life, 
 which affords more real satisfaction, than those 
 hours which one passes in rational and unre- 
 served conversation. The free communication 
 of sentiments amongst a set of ingenious and 
 speculative friends, such as those you gave me 
 the opportunity of meeting, throws the mind into 
 the most advantageous exercise, and shows the 
 strength or weakness of its opinions with greater 
 force of conviction, than any other method we 
 can employ. 
 
 That it is fiot good for man to be alone, is true 
 in more views of our species than one ; and so- 
 ciety gives strength to our reason, as well as 
 polish to our manners. The soul, when left en- 
 tirely to her own solitary contemplations, is in- 
 sensibly drawn by a sort of constitutional bias, 
 which generally leads her opinions to the side of 
 her inclinations. Hence it i^ that she contracts 
 -those peculiarities of reasoning, and little Jiabits. 
 
352 
 
 of thinkirio; whrch so often confirm her in the 
 most fantastical errors. But nothing is more 
 likely to recover the mind from this false bent, 
 than the counter- warmth of impartial debate. 
 Conversation opens our views, and gives our fa- 
 culties a more vigorous play ; it puts us upon 
 turning our notions on every side, and holds them 
 up to a light that discovers those latent flaws, 
 which would probably have lain concealed in the 
 gloom of unagitated abstraction. Accordingly 
 one may remark, that most of those wild doc- 
 trines which have been let loose upon the world, 
 have generally owed their birth to persons, whose 
 circumstances or dispositions have given them 
 the fewest opportunities of canvassing their re- 
 spective systems, in the way of free and friendly 
 debate. Had the authors of many an extrava- 
 gant hypothesis discussed their principles in pri- 
 vate circles, ere they had given vent to them in 
 public, the observation of Varro had never, per- 
 haps, been made (or never at least with so much 
 justice) that " there is no opinion so absurd, but 
 has some philosopher or other to produce in its 
 support." 
 
 Upon this principle, I imagine, it is, that some 
 of the finest pieces of antiquity are written in 
 the dialogue manner. Plato and Tully, it should 
 seem, thought truth could never be examined 
 
353 
 
 with more advantage, than amidst the amicable 
 opposition of well-regulated converse. It is 
 probable, indeed, that subjects of a serious and 
 philosophical kind were more frequently the to- 
 pics of Greek and Roman conversations, than 
 they are of ours; as the circumstances of the 
 world had not yet given occasion to those pru- 
 dential reasons which may now, perhaps, restrain 
 a more free exchan^-e of sentiments amongst us. 
 There was something, likewise, in the very scenes 
 themselves, where they usually assembled, that 
 almost unavoidably turned the stream of their 
 conversations into this useful channel. Their 
 rooms and gardens were generally adorned, you 
 know, with the statues of the greatest masters of 
 reason that had then appeared in the world ; 
 and while Socrates or Aristotle stood in their 
 view, it is no wonder their discourse fell upon 
 those subjects, which such animating represen- 
 tations would naturally suggest. It is probable, 
 therefore, that many of those ancient pieces 
 which are drawn up in the dialogue manner, 
 were no imaginary conversations invented by 
 their authors, but faithful transcripts from real 
 life : and it is this circumstance, perhaps, as 
 much as any other, which contributes to give 
 them tliat remarkable advantacje over the sene- 
 
 2 A 
 
554 
 
 rality of modern compositions, which have been 
 formed upon the same plan. I am sure, at least, 
 I could scarce name more than three or four of 
 this kind, which have appeared in our language, 
 worthy of notice. My lord Shaftesbury's dia- 
 logue, entitled The Moralists ; Mr. Addison's 
 upon Ancient Coins ; IVIr. Spence's upon the 
 Odyssey ; together with those of my very inge- 
 nious friend Philemon to Hydaspes, are almost 
 the only productions in this way, which have 
 hitherto come forth amongst us with advantage. 
 These, indeed, are all master-pieces of the kind, 
 and written in the true spirit of learning and 
 politeness. The conversation in each of these 
 most elegant performances is conducted, not in 
 the usual absurd method of introducing one dis- 
 putant to be tamely silenced by the other, but 
 in the more lively dramatic manner, where a just 
 contrast of characters is preserved throughout, 
 and where the several speakers support their re- 
 spective sentiments with all the strength and 
 spirit of a well-bred opposition. 
 
 But of all the conversation pieces, whether 
 ancient or modern, either of the moral or polite 
 kind, I know not one which is more elegantly 
 written than the little anonymous dialogue con- 
 cernino; the rise and decline of eloquence amonjr 
 
965 
 
 the Romans. I call it anonymous, thouy;h I am 
 sensible it has been ascribed not only to Tacitus 
 and Quintilian, but even to Suetonius. The 
 reasons, however, which the critics have respec- 
 tively produced are so exceedingly precarious 
 and inconclusive, that one must have a very ex- 
 traordinary share of classical faith indeed, to re- 
 ceive it as the performance of any of those cele- 
 brated writers. It is evidentl}', however, a com- 
 position of that period in which they flourished ; 
 and if I were disposed to indulge a conjecture, 
 I should be inclined to give it to the younfrer 
 Pliny. It exactly coincides with his age ; it is 
 addressed to one of his particular friends and 
 correspondents; it is marked with some similar 
 expressions and sentiments. But as arguments 
 of this kind are always more imposing than solid, 
 I recommend it to you as a piece, concernincy 
 the author of which nothing satisfactory can be 
 collected. This I may one day or other, per- 
 haps, attempt to prove in form, as I have amused 
 myself with giving it an English dress. In the 
 mean time I have inclosed my translation in this 
 packet; not only with a view to your sentiments, 
 but in return to your favour. I was persuaded 
 I could not make you a better acknowledgment 
 for the pleasure of that conversation which I 
 
 2 A 2 
 
356 
 
 lately participated through your means, than by 
 introducing you to one, which (if my copy is not 
 extremely injurious to its original) I am sure, 
 you cannot attend to without equal entertain- 
 ment and advantage. Adieu. I am, &c. 
 
357 
 
 DIALOGUE* 
 
 CONCERNING 
 
 ORATORY. 
 
 To Fabius. 
 
 You have frequently, my friend, required me to 
 assign a reason whence it has happened, that 
 the oratorical character, which spread such a 
 glorious lustre upon former ages, is now so to- 
 tally extinct amongst us, as scarce to preserve 
 even its name. It is the ancients alone, you ob- 
 served, whom we distinguish with that appella- 
 tion ; while the eloquent of the present times are 
 styled only pleaders, patrons, advocates, or any 
 thing, in short, but orators. 
 
 * It is necessary to inform those readers of the follow- 
 ing dialogue, who may be disposed to compare it with the 
 original, that the edition of Heumannus, printed at Got- 
 tingen, 1719, has been generally followed. 
 
358 
 
 Hardly, I believe, should I have attempted a 
 solution of your difficulty, or ventured upon the 
 examination of a question, wherein the genius of 
 the moderns, if they cannot, or their judgment, 
 if they will not, rise to the same heights, must 
 necessarily be given up; had I nothing of greater 
 authority to offer upon the subject, than my own 
 particular sentiments. But having been present, 
 in the very early part of my life, at a conversa- 
 tion between some persons of great eloquence, 
 considering the age in which they lived, who dis- 
 cussed this very point, my memory, and not my 
 judgment, will be concerned, whilst 1 endeavour, 
 in their own style and manner, and according to 
 the regular course of their debate, to lay before 
 you the several reasonings of those celebrated 
 geniuses : each of them, indeed, agreeably to the 
 peculiar turn and character of the speaker, al- 
 leging different, though probable causes of the 
 same fact; but all of them supporting their re- 
 spective sentiments with ingenuity and good 
 sense. Nor were the orators of the present age 
 without an advocate in this debate : for one of 
 the company took the opposite side, and treat- 
 ing the ancients with much severity and con- 
 tempt, declared in favour of modern eloquence. 
 Marcus Aper and Julius Secundus, two dis- 
 tinguished geniuses of our forum, made a visit to 
 Maternus the day after he had publicly recited 
 
359 
 
 his tragedy of Cato : a piece, which gave, it 
 seems, great offence to those in power, and was 
 much canvassed in all conversations. Maternus, 
 indeed, seemed throughout that whole perform- 
 ance to have considered only what was suitable 
 to the character of his hero, without paying a 
 proper regard to those prudential restraints, 
 which were necessary for his own security. I 
 was at that time a warm admirer and constant 
 follower of those great men ; insomuch that I 
 not only attended them w^ien they were engasjed 
 in the courts of judicature ; but, from my fond 
 attachment to the arts of eloquence, and with a 
 certain ardency peculiar to youth, I joined in all 
 their parties, and was present at their most pri- 
 vate conversations. Their great abilities, how- 
 ever, could not secure them from the critics. 
 They alleged, that Secundus had by no means 
 an easy elocution ; whilst Aper, they pretended, 
 owed his reputation as an orator, more to nature 
 than to art. It is certain, nevertheless, that 
 their objections were without foundation. The 
 speeches of the former were always delivered 
 with sufficient fluency; and his expression was 
 clear, though concise; as the latter had, most 
 undoubtedly, a general tincture of literature. The 
 truth is, one could not so properly say, he was 
 without, as above the assistance of learning. He 
 imagined, perhaps, tlie powers and application 
 
360 
 
 of his genius would be so much the more ad- 
 mh'ed, as it should not appear to derive any of 
 its lustre from the acquired arts. 
 
 We found ]\Iaternus, when we entered his 
 apartment, with the tragedy in his hand which 
 he had recited the day before. Are you then 
 (said Secundus, addressing himself to him) so 
 little discouraged with the malicious insinuations 
 of these ill-natured censures, as still to cherish 
 this obnoxious tragedy of yours ? Or, perhaps, 
 you are revising it, in order to expunge the ex- 
 ceptionable passages ; and purpose to send your 
 Cato into the world, I will not say with superior 
 charms, but at least with greater security than 
 in its original form ? You may peruse it, (re- 
 turned he) if you please; you will find it re- 
 mains just in the same situation as when you 
 heard it read. I intend, however, that Thyestes 
 shall supply the defects of Cato : for I am me- 
 ditating a tragedy upon that subject, and have 
 already, indeed, formed the plan. I am hasten- 
 ing, therefore, the publication of this play in my 
 hand, that 1 may apply myself entirely to my 
 new design. Are you then, in good earnest (re- 
 plied Aper) so enamoured of dramatic poetry, 
 as to renounce the business of oratory in order 
 to consecrate your whole leisure to — Medea, I 
 think, it was before, and now it seems, to 
 Thyestes? when the causes of so many worthy 
 
361 
 
 friends, the interests of so many powerful com- 
 munities, demand you in the forum : a tasl-: 
 more than sufficient to employ your attention, 
 though neither Cato nor Domitius had any share 
 of it; though you were not continually turning 
 from one dramatic performance to another, and 
 adding the tales of Greece to the history of 
 Rome. 
 
 I should be concerned, answered Maternus, 
 at the severity of your rebuke, if the frequency 
 of our debates upon this subject had not render- 
 ed it somewhat familiar to me. But how (added 
 he, smiling) can you accuse me of deserting the 
 business of my profession, when I am every day 
 engaged in defending poetry against your accu- 
 sations? And I am glad (continued he, looking 
 towards Secundus) that we have now an o])por- 
 tunity of discussing this point before so compe- 
 tent a judge. His decision will either determine 
 me to renounce all pretensions to poetry for the 
 future, or (which I rather hope) will be a sanc- 
 tion for my quitting that conhned species of ora- 
 tory, in which, methinks, I have sufticiently la- 
 boured, and authorise the devoting myself to 
 the more enlarged and sacred eloquence of the 
 IMuses. 
 
 Give me leave, interposed Secundus, before 
 Aper takes exception to his judge, to say, what 
 &11 honest ones usually do in the same circum- 
 
362 
 
 stances, that I desire to be excused from sitting 
 in judgment upon a cause, wherein I must ac- 
 knowledge myself biassed in favour of a party 
 concerned. All the world is sensible of that 
 strict friendship which has so long subsisted be- 
 tween me and that excellent man, as well as 
 great poet, Saleius Bassus, To which let me 
 add, if the Muses are to be arraigned, I know 
 of none who can offer more prevailing bribes. 
 
 I have nothing to allege against Bassus (re- 
 turned Aper) or any other man, who, not having 
 talents for the bar, chooses to establish a repu- 
 tation of the poetical kind. Nor shall I sufter 
 Maternus (for I am willing to join issue with 
 him before you) to evade my charge, by draw- 
 inw others into his party. My accusation is 
 levelled singly against him ; who, formed as he 
 is by nature with a most masculine and truly 
 oratorical genius, chooses to sufter so noble a 
 faculty to lie waste and uncultivated. I must 
 remind him, however, that by the exercise of 
 this commanding talent, he might at once both 
 acquire and support the most important friend- 
 ships, and have the glory to see whole provinces 
 and nations rank themselves under his patron- 
 age; a talent, of all others, the most advanta- 
 geous, whether considered with respect to inter- 
 est, or to honours ; a talent, in short, that af- 
 fords the most illustrious means of propagating 
 
363 
 
 a reputation, not only within our own walls, but 
 throug;hout the whole compass of the Roman 
 empire, and indeed to the most distant nations 
 of the globe. 
 
 If utility ouo;ht to be the 2:overnin2: motive of 
 every action and every design of our lives ; can 
 we possibly be employed to better purpose, than 
 in the exercise of an art, which enables a man, 
 upon all occasions, to support the interest of his 
 friend, to protect the rights of the stranger, to 
 defend the cause of the injured? that not only 
 renders him the terror of his open and secret ad- 
 versaries, but secures him, as it were, by the 
 most firm and permanent guard ? 
 
 The particular usefulness, indeed, of this 
 profession is evidently manifested in the oppor- 
 tunities it supplies of serving others, though we 
 should have no occasion to exert it in our own 
 behalf : but should we, upon any occun'ence, 
 be ourselves attacked, the sword and buckler 
 is not a more powerful defence in the day of 
 battle, than oratory in the dangerous season of 
 public arraignment. What had iMarcellus lately 
 to oppose to the united resentment of the whole 
 senate, but his eloquence? Yet supported by 
 that formidable auxiliary, he stood firm and un- 
 moved, amidst all tlie assaults of the artful 
 Heividius ; who, notwithstanding he was a man 
 of sense and elocution, was totally inexpert iu 
 
364> 
 
 the manasement of this sort of contests. But 
 I need not insist further on this head ; well 
 persuaded as I am, that Maternus will not con- 
 trovert so clear a truth. Rather let me observe 
 the pleasure which attends the exercise of the 
 persuasive art : a pleasure, which does not arise 
 only once, perhaps, in a whole life, but flows in 
 a perpetual series of gratifications. What can 
 be more agreeable to a liberal and ingenuous 
 mind, formed with a relish of rational enjoy- 
 ments, than to see one's levee crowded with a 
 concourse of the most illustrious personages, 
 not as followers of your interest or your power; 
 not because you are rich and destitute of heirs ; 
 but singly in consideration of your superior 
 qualifications. It is not unusual upon these 
 occasions, to observe the wealthy, the powerful, 
 and the childless, addressing themselves to a 
 young man (and probably no rich one) in favour 
 of themselves or their friends. Tell me now, 
 has authority or wealth a charm equal to the 
 satisfaction of thus beholding persons of the 
 hio'hest dii2;nitv, venerable by their a2;e, or 
 powerful by their credit, in the full enjoyment 
 of every external advantage, courting your as- 
 sistance, and tacitly acknowledging, that, great 
 and distinguished as they are, there is some- 
 lliinG: still wanting; to them more valuable than 
 all their possessions ? Represent to yourself the 
 
365 
 
 honourable crowd of clients conducting the ora- 
 tor from his house, and attending him in his re- 
 turn ; think of the izlorious appearance he makes 
 in public, the distinguishing respect that is paid 
 to him in the courts of judicature, the exultation 
 of heart when he rises up before a full audience, 
 hushed in solemn silence, and fixed attention, 
 pressing round the admired speaker, and re- 
 ceiving every passion he deems proper to raise ! 
 Yet these are but the ordinary joys of elo- 
 quence, and visible to every common observer. 
 There are others, and those far superior, of a 
 more concealed and delicate kind, and of which 
 the orator himself can alone be sensible. Does 
 he stand forth prepared v/ith a studied harangue? 
 As the composition, so the pleasure, in this in- 
 stance, is more solid and equal. If, on the 
 other hand, he rises in a new and unexpected 
 debate, the previous solicitude, which he feels 
 upon such occasions, recommends and improves 
 the pleasure of his success; as indeed the most 
 exquisite satisfaction of this kind is, when he 
 boldly hazards the unpremeditated speech. For 
 it is in the productions of genius, as in the fruits 
 of the earth ; those which arise spontaneously, 
 are ever the most agreeable. If I may venture 
 to mention myself, I must acknowledge, that 
 neither the satisfaction I received when I Avas 
 first invested with the laticlave, nor even when 
 
566 
 
 I entered upon the several high posts in the 
 state; though the pleasure was heightened to 
 me, not only as those honours were new to my 
 family, but as I was born in a city by no means 
 favourable to my pretensions : — the warm tran- 
 sports, I say, which I felt at those times, were 
 far inferior to the joy which has glowed in my 
 breast, when I have successfully exerted my 
 humble talents in defence of those causes and 
 clients commilted to my care. To say truth, I 
 imaf^ined myself, at such seasons, to be raised 
 above the highest dignities, and in the posses- 
 sion of something far more valuable, than either 
 the favour of the great, or the bounty of the 
 wealthy, can ever bestow. 
 
 Of all the arts or sciences, there is no one, 
 which crowns its votaries with a reputation in 
 any degree comparable to that of eloquence. 
 It is not only those of a more exalted rank in 
 the state, who are witnesses of the orator's fame ; 
 it is extended to the observation even of our 
 very youth of any hopes or merit. Whose ex- 
 ample, for instance, do parents more frequently 
 recommend to their sons ? or who are more the 
 gaze and admiration of the people in general ? 
 whilst every stranger that arrives, is curious of 
 seeing the man, of whose character he has heard 
 such honourable report. I will venture to 
 affirm, that Marcelius, v.hom I just now men- 
 
367 
 
 tioned, and Vibius (for I choose to produce my 
 instances from modern times, rather than from 
 those more remote) are as well known in the 
 most distant corners of the empire, as they are 
 at Capua or Vercellas, the places, it is said, of 
 their respective nativity : an honour, for whicli 
 they are by no means indebted to their immense 
 riches. On the contrary, their wealth may 
 justly, it should seem, be ascribed to their elo- 
 quence. Every age, indeed, can produce per- 
 sons of genius, who, by means of this powerful 
 talent, have raised themselves to the most ex- 
 alted station. But the instances I just now 
 mentioned, are not drawn from distant times : 
 they fall within the observation of our own eyes. 
 Now the more obscure the original extraction 
 of those illustrious persons was, the more hum- 
 ble the patrimony to which they were born, so 
 much stronger proof they afford of the great 
 advantage of the oratorical arts. Accordindv, 
 without the recommendation of family or for- 
 tune ; without any thing very extraordinary in 
 their virtues (and one of them rather contempti- 
 ble in his address), they have for many years 
 maintained the highest credit and authority 
 among; their fellow-citizens. Thus, from being 
 chiefs in the forum, where they preserved their 
 distinguished eminence as long as they thought 
 proper: they have passed on to the enjoyment 
 
368 
 
 of the same high rank in Vespasian's favour, 
 whose esteem for them seems to be mixed even 
 \\ ith a degree of reverence : as indeed they both 
 support and conduct the whole weight of his 
 administration. That excellent and venerable 
 prince (whose singular character it is, that he 
 can endure to hear truth) well knows that the 
 rest of his favourites are distinguished only as 
 ihcy are the objects of his munificence; the 
 supphcs of which he can easily raise, and with 
 the same facility confer on others. Whereas 
 Crispus and Marceilus recommended them- 
 selves to his notice by advantages which no 
 earthly potentate either did or could bestow. 
 The truth of it is, inscriptions, and statues, and 
 ensigns of dignity could claim but the lowest 
 rank, amidst their more illustrious distinctions. 
 Not that they are unpossessed of honours of 
 this kind, any more than they are destitute of 
 wealth or power : advantages, much oftener 
 affectedly depreciated, than sincerely despised. 
 Such, my friends, are the ornaments, and such 
 the rewards, of an early application to the busi- 
 ness of the forum, and the arts of oratory ! But 
 poetry, to which Maternus washes to devote his 
 days (for it was that which gave rise to our de- 
 bate) confers neither dignity to her followers in 
 particular, nor advantage to society in general. 
 The whole amount of her pretensions is nothing 
 
369 
 
 more than the transient pleasure of a vain and 
 fruitless applause. Perhaps what I have al- 
 ready said, and am going to add, ma\^ not be 
 very agreeable to my friend Maternus ; how- 
 ever, I will venture to ask him, what avails the 
 eloquence of his Jason or Agamemnon ? what 
 mortal does it either defend or oblige ? Who is 
 it that courts the patronage, or joins the train, 
 of Bassus, that ingenious (or if 3'ou think the 
 term more honourable) that illustrious poet? 
 Eminent as he may be, if his friend, his rela- 
 tion, or himself, were involved in any litigated 
 transactions, he would be under the necessity 
 of having recourse to Secundus, or perhaps to 
 you, my friend :* but by no means, however, 
 as you are a poet, and in order to solicit you 
 to bestow some verses upon him : for verses 
 he can compose himself, fair, it seems, and 
 goodly. — Yet after all, when he has, at the cost 
 of much time and many a laboured lucubra- 
 tion, spun out a single canto, he is obliged to 
 traverse the whole town in order to collect an 
 audience. Nor can he procure even this com- 
 pliment, slight as it is, without actually pur- 
 chasing it : for the hiring a rootn, erecting a 
 stage, and dispersing his tickets, are articles 
 which must necessarily be attended with some 
 
 * Maternus. 
 
 ^ B 
 
370 
 
 expense. — And let us suppose bis poem is ap- 
 proved : the whole admiration is over in a day 
 or two, like that of a fine flower which dies away 
 without producing any fruit. In a word, it 
 secures to him neither friend nor patron, nor 
 confers even the most inconsiderable favour 
 upon a single creature. The whole amount of 
 his humble gains is the fleeting pleasure of a 
 clamorous applause ! We looked upon it, late- 
 ly, as an uncommon instance of generosity in 
 Vespasian, that he presented Bassus with fifty 
 thousand sesterces.* Honourable, I grant, it is, 
 to possess a genius which merits the imperial 
 bounty : but how much more glorious (if a 
 man's circumstances will admit of it) to exhibit 
 in one's own person an example of munificence 
 and liberality ? Let it be remembered likewise, 
 if you would succeed in your poetical labours, 
 and produce any thing of real worth in that art, 
 you must retire, as the poets express themselves, 
 
 To silent grottoes and sequester'd groves : 
 
 that is, you must renounce the conversation of 
 your friends, and every civil duty of life, to be 
 concealed in gloomy and unprofitable solitude. 
 If we consider the votaries of this idle art 
 with respect to fame, that single recompence 
 
 * About four hundred pounds of our money. 
 
S7l 
 
 which they pretend to derive, or indeed to seek, 
 from their studies; we shall find they do not 
 by any means enjoy an equal proportion of it 
 with the sons of Oratory. For even the best 
 poets fall within the notice of but a very small 
 proportion of mankind ; whilst indifferent ones 
 are universally disregarded. Tell me, j\Iater- 
 nus, did ever the reputation of the rriost ap- 
 proved rehearsal of the poetical kind, reach the 
 cognizance even of half the town ; much less 
 extend itself to distant provinces? Did ever 
 any foreigner, upon his arrival here, inquire 
 after Bassus? Or if he did, it was merely as he 
 would after a picture or a statue ; just to look 
 upon him, and pass on. I would in no sort 
 be understood as discouraging the pursuit of 
 poetry in those who have no talents for oratory ; 
 if happily they can, by that means, amuse their 
 leisure, and establish a just character. I look 
 upon every species of eloquence as venerable 
 and sacred ; and prefer her, in whatever guise 
 she may think proper to appear, before any 
 other of lier sister-arts : not only, Maternus, 
 when she exhibits herself in your chosen fa- 
 vourite, the solemn tragedy, or lofty heroic, but 
 even in the pleasant lyric, the wanton elegy, the 
 severe iambic, the witty epigram, or, in one 
 word, in whatever other habit she is pleased to 
 assume. But (T repeat it again) my complaint 
 
 2 H 2 
 
372 
 
 is levelled singly against you ; who, designed as 
 you are by nature for the most exalted rank of 
 eloquence, choose to desert your station, and 
 deviate into a lower order. Had you been 
 endued Avith the athletic vigour of Nicostratus, 
 and born in Greece, vi?here arts of that sort are 
 esteemed not unworthy of the most refined cha- 
 racters ; as I could not patiently have suffered 
 that uncommon strength of arm, formed for the 
 nobler combat, to have idly spent itself in 
 throwing the javelin, or tossing the coit : so I 
 now call you forth from rehearsals and theatres, 
 to the forum, and business, and high debate : 
 especially since you cannot urge the same plea 
 for engaging in poetry which is now generally 
 alleged, that it is less liable to give offence 
 than oratory. ¥ov the ardency of your genius 
 has already flamed forth, and you have incurred 
 the displeasure of our superiors : not, indeed, 
 for the sake of a friend ; — that would have been 
 far less dangerous ; but in support truly of 
 Cato ! Nor can you offer in excuse, either the 
 duty of your profession, justice to your client, 
 or the unguarded heat of debate. You fixed, 
 it'should seem, upon this illustrious and popular 
 subject with deliberate design, and as a charac- 
 ter that would give weight and authority to your 
 sentiments. You will reply (I am aware) It 
 uari that very circumstance which gained you 
 
OiO 
 
 such universal applause, and rendered you the 
 general topic of discourse. — Talk no more 
 then, 1 beseech you, of security and repose, 
 whilst you thus industriously raise up to your- 
 self so potent an adversary. For my own part, 
 at least, I am contented with engaging in ques- 
 tions of a more modern and private nature ; 
 wherein, if in defence of a friend I am under a 
 necessity of taking liberties unacceptable, per- 
 haps, to my superiors, the honest freedom of 
 my zeal will, I trust, not only be excused, but 
 applauded. 
 
 Aper having delivered this with his usual 
 warmth and earnestness, — I am prepared (replied 
 iVIaternus, in a milder tone, and with an air of 
 pleasantry) to draw up a charge against the 
 orators, no less copious than my friend's pane- 
 gyric in their behalf. I suspected, indeed, he 
 would turn out of his road, in order to attack 
 the poets : though I must own, at the same time, 
 he has somewhat softened the severity of his 
 satire, by certain concessions he is pleased to 
 make in their favour. He is willing, I perceive, 
 to allow those whose genius does not point to 
 oratory, to apply themselves to poetry. Never- 
 theless, I do not scruple to acknowledge, that 
 with some talents, perhaps, for the forum, I 
 choose to build my reputation on dramatic 
 poetry. The first attempt I made for this pur- 
 
574! 
 
 pose, was by exposing the dangerous power of 
 Vatinius : a power which even Nero himself 
 disapproved, and which that infamous favourite 
 abused, to the profanation of the sacred Muses. 
 And I am persuaded, if I enjoy any share of 
 fame, it is to poetry rather than to oratory that 
 i am indebted for the acquisition. It is my 
 fixed purpose, therefore, entirely to withdraw 
 myself from the fatigue of the bar. I am by 
 no means ambitious of that splendid concourse 
 of clients, which A per has represented in such 
 pompous colours, any more than I am of those 
 sculptured honours which he mentioned ; though 
 I must confess they have made their way into 
 my family, notwithstanding my' inclinations to 
 the contrary. Innocence is, now at least, a 
 surer guard than eloquence ; and I am in no 
 apprehension I shall ever have occasion to open 
 my lips in the senate, unless, perhaps, in de- 
 fence of a friend. 
 
 Woods, and groves, and solitude, the objects 
 of Aper's invective, afford me, I will own to 
 him, the most exquisite satisfaction. Accord- 
 ingly, I esteem it one of the great privileges of 
 poetry, that it is not carried on in the noise and 
 tumult of the world, aaiidst the painful impor- 
 tunity of anxious suitors, and the affecting tears 
 of distressed criminals. On the contrary, a 
 mind enamoured of the Muses retires into scenes 
 
376 
 
 of innocence and repose, and enjoys the sacred 
 haunts of silence and contemplation. Here 
 genuine eloquence received her birth, and here 
 she fixed her sacred and sequestered habitation. 
 'Twas here, in decent and becoming garb, she 
 recommended herself to the early notice of 
 mortals, inspiring the breasts of the blameless 
 and the good : here first the voice divine of 
 oraclfes was heard. But she of modern growth, 
 offspring of lucre and contention, was born in 
 evil days, and employed (as Aper very justly 
 expressed it) instead of weapon : whilst happier 
 times, or, in the language of the Muses, the 
 golden age, free alike from orators and from 
 crimes, abounded with inspired poets, who 
 exerted their noble talents, not in defending the 
 guilty, but in celebrating the good. Accordingly, 
 no character was ever more eminently distin- 
 guished, or more augustly honoured : first by 
 the gods themselves, to whom the poets were 
 supposed to serve as ministers at their feasts, 
 and messengers of their high behests, and after- 
 wards by that sacred offspring of the gods, the 
 first venerable race of legislators. In that 
 glorious list we read the names, not of orators 
 indeed, but of Orpheus, and Linus, or, if we 
 are inclined to trace the illustrious roll still 
 higher, even of Apollo himself. 
 
 But these, perhaps, will be treated by Aper 
 
370 
 
 us heroes of romance. He cannot however 
 deny, that Homer has received as signal honours 
 from posterity as Demosthenes ; or that the 
 fame of Sophocles or Euripides is as extensive 
 as that of Lysias or Hyperides ; that Cicero's 
 merit is less universallv confessed than Virjiil's ; 
 or that not one of the compositions of Asinius 
 or Messalla is in so much request as the Medea 
 of Ovid, or the Thyestes of Varius. 1 will ad- 
 vance even further, and venture to compare the 
 iinenvied fortune and happy self-converse of the 
 poet, with the anxious and busy life of the ora- 
 tor ; notwithstanding the hazardous contentions 
 of the latter may possibly raise him even to the 
 consular dignity. Far more desirable, in my 
 estimation, was the calm retreat of Virgil : 
 where yet he lived not unhonoured by his prince, 
 nor unregarded by the world. If the truth of 
 either of these assertions should be questioned, 
 the letters of Augustus will witness the former ; 
 as the latter is evident from the conduct of the 
 ■whole Ron)an people, who, when some verses of 
 that divine poet were repeated in the tlieatre, 
 ■where he happened to be present, rose up to a 
 man, and saluted him with the same respect 
 that they would have paid to Augustus himself. 
 But to mention our own times : I would ask 
 M'hether Secundus Pomponius is any thing in- 
 ferior, either in dignity of life or solidity of re- 
 
377 
 
 putation, to Afer Domitius ? As to Crispus or 
 Martellus, to whom Aper refers me for an ani- 
 mating example, what is there in their present 
 exalted fortunes really desirable ? Is it that the}' 
 pass their whole lives either in being alarmed for 
 themselves, or in striking terror into others ? Is 
 it that they are daily under a necessity of courtincr 
 the very men they hate ; that, holding their dig- 
 nities by unmanly adulation, their masters never 
 think them sufficiently slaves, nor the people 
 sufficiently free ? And, after all, what is this their 
 so much envied power ? Nothing more, in truth, 
 than what many a paltry freed-man has frequent- 
 ly enjoyed. But — " Me let the lovely Muses 
 lead," (as Virgil sings) " to silent groves and 
 heavenly-haunted streams, remote from business 
 and from care ; and still superior to the painful 
 necessity of acting in wretched opposition to my 
 better heart. Nor let me more, with anxious 
 steps and dangerous, pursue pale Fame amidst 
 the noisy forum ) May never clamorous suitors, 
 nor panting freed-man with officious haste, 
 awake my peaceful slumbers ! Uncertain of 
 futurity, and equally unconcerned, ne'er may I 
 bribe the favour of the great ; by rich bequests 
 to avarice insatiate ; nor accumulation vain ! 
 amass more wealth than I may transfer as in- 
 clination prompts, whenever shall arrive my 
 JJfe's last fatal period : and then, not in horrid 
 
$7S 
 
 2;uise of mournful pomp, but crowned with 
 chaplets gay, may I be entombed ; nor let a 
 friend, with unavailing zeal, solicit the useless 
 tribute of posthumous memorials !" 
 
 jMaternus had scarce finished these words, 
 which he uttered with great emotion, and with 
 an air of inspiration, when Messalla entered the 
 room ; who, observing much attention in our 
 countenances, and imagining the conversation 
 turned upon something of more than ordinary 
 import; Perhaps, said he, you are engaged in a 
 consultation; and I doubt, I am guilty of an 
 unseasonable interruption. — By no means, an- 
 swered Secundus : on the contrary, I wish you 
 had given us your company sooner ; for I am 
 persuaded you would have been extremely en- 
 tertained. Our friend Aper has, with great elo- 
 quence, been exhorting Maternus to turn the 
 whole strength of his genius and his studies to 
 the business of the forum; while Maternus, on 
 the other hand, agreeably to the character of one 
 who was pleading the cause of the Muses, has 
 defended his favourite art with a boldness and 
 elevation of style more suitable to a poet than 
 an orator. 
 
 It would have afforded me infinite pleasure, 
 replied Messalla, to have been present at a de- 
 bate of this kind. And I cannot but express my 
 satisfaction, in finding the most eminent orators 
 
379 
 
 of our times, not confining their geniuses to 
 points relating to their profession ; but canvass- 
 ing such other topics in their conversation, as 
 give a very advantageous exercise to their facul- 
 ties, at the same time that it furnishes an enter- 
 tainment of the most instructive kind, not only 
 to themselves, but to those who have the privi- 
 lege of being joined in their party. And believe 
 me, Secundus, the world received with much ap- 
 probation your history of J. Asiaticus, as an ear- 
 nest that you intend to publish more pieces of 
 the same nature. On the other side (continued 
 he, with an air of irony), it is observed with equal 
 satisfaction, that Aper has not yet bid adieu to 
 the questions of the schools, but employs his 
 leisure rather after the example of the modern 
 rhetoricians, than of the ancient orators. 
 
 I perceive, returned Aper, that you continue 
 to treat the moderns with your usual derision and 
 contempt; while the ancients alone are in full 
 possession of your esteem. It is a maxim, in- 
 deed, I have frequently heard you advance (and, 
 allow me to say, with much injustice to yourself 
 and to your brother), that there is no such thing 
 in the present age as an orator. This you are 
 the less scrupulous to maintain, as you imagine 
 it cannot be imputed to a spirit of envy ; since 
 you are willing at the same time to exclude your- 
 
380 
 
 self from a character, which every body else is 
 inclined to give you. 
 
 I have hitherto, replied Messalla, found no 
 reason to change my opinion : and I am per- 
 suaded, that even you yourself, Aper, (what- 
 ever you may sometimes affect to the contrary,) 
 as well as my other two friends here, join with 
 me in the same sentiments. I should, indeed, 
 be glad, if any of you would discuss this matter, 
 and account for so remarkable a disparity, which 
 I have often endeavoured in my own thoughts. 
 And what to some appears a satisfactory solu- 
 tion of this phcenomenon, to me, I confess, 
 heightens the difficulty : for I find the very same 
 difiference prevails among the Grecian orators ; 
 and that the priest Nicetes, together with others 
 of the Ephesian and Mitylenean schools, who 
 humbly content themselves with raising the ac- 
 clamations of their tasteless auditors, deviate 
 much further from iEschines or Demosthenes, 
 than you, my friends, from TuUy or Asinius. 
 
 The question you have started, said Secundus, 
 is a very important one, and well worthy of con- 
 sideration. But who so capable of doing justice 
 to it as yourself? who, besides the advantages of 
 a fine genius and great literature, have given, it 
 seems, particular attention to this inquiry. I 
 am very willing, answered Messalla, to lay before 
 
381 
 
 you my thoughts upon the subject, provided you 
 will assist me with yours as I s;o along. I will 
 engage for two of us, replied Maternus: Secun- 
 dus and myself will speak to such points as you 
 shall, I do not say omit, but think proper to 
 leave us. As for Aper, you just now informed 
 us, it is usual with him to dissent from you in 
 this article : and, indeed, I see he is already pre- 
 paring to oppose us, and will not look with in- 
 difference upon this our association in support 
 of the ancients. 
 
 Undoubtedly, returned Aper, I shall not 
 tamely suffer the moderns to be condemned, un- 
 heard and undefended. But first let me ask, 
 whom it is you call ancients? What age of ora- 
 tors do you distinguish by that designation? Tlie 
 word always suggests to me a Nestor, or an 
 Ulysses, men who lived above a thousand years 
 since ; whereas you seem to apply it to De- 
 mosthenes and Hyperides, who, it is agreed, 
 flourished so late as the times of Philip and 
 Alexander, and, indeed, survived them. It ap- 
 pears from hence, that there is not much above 
 four hundred years distance between our age and 
 that of Demosthenes : a portion of time, which, 
 considered with respect to human duration, ap- 
 pears, I acknowledge, extremely long; but, if 
 compared with tiiat immense sera which the phi- 
 losophers talk of. is exceedingly contracted, and 
 
382 
 
 seems aiinost but of yesterday. For if it be 
 true, what Cicero observes in iiis treatise in- 
 scribed to Hortensius, that the great and genuine 
 year is that period in which the heavenly bodies 
 return to the same position, wherein they wei'c 
 placed when they first began their respective or- 
 bits; and this revolution contains 12,9-54 of our 
 solar years; then Demosthenes, this ancient De- 
 mosthenes of yours, lived in the same year, or 
 rather I might say, in the same month, with 
 ourselves. But to mention the Roman ora- 
 tors : I presume, you will scarcely prefer Me- 
 nenius Agrippa (who may with some propriety, 
 indeed, be called an ancient) to the men of elo- 
 quence among the moderns. It is Cicero, then, 
 I suppose, together with Coelius, Caesar, and 
 Calvus, Brutus, Asinius, and Messalla, to whom 
 you give this honourable precedency : yet I am 
 at a loss to assign a reason, why these should be 
 deemed ancients rather than moderns. To in- 
 stance in Cicero : he was killed, as his freed- 
 man Tiro informs us, on the 26th of December, 
 in the consulship of Hirtius and Pansa, in which 
 year Augustus and Pedius succeeded them in 
 that dignity. Now, if we take fifty- six years 
 for the reign of Augustus, and add twenty- 
 three for that of Tiberius, about four for that 
 of Caius, fourteen a-piece for Claudius and 
 Nero, one for Galba, Otho, and Vitellius, toge- 
 
383 
 
 ther with the six that our present excellent 
 prince has enjoyed the empire,* we shall have 
 about one hundred and twenty years from the 
 death of Cicero to these times : a period to which 
 it is not impossible that a man's life may extend. 
 I remember, when I was in Britain, to have met 
 with an old soldier, who assured me, he had 
 served in the army which opposed Caesar's de- 
 scent upon that island. If we suppose this per- 
 son, by being taken prisoner, or by any other 
 means, to have been brought to Rome, he might 
 have heard Cassar and Cicero, and likewise any 
 of our contemporaries. I appeal to yourselves, 
 whether at the last public donative, there were 
 not several of the populace who acknowledged 
 they had received the same bounty, more than 
 once, from the hands of Augustus? It is evident, 
 therefore, that these people might have been 
 present at the pleadings both of Corvinus and 
 Asinius : for Corvinus was alive in the middle 
 of the reign of Augustus, and Asinius towards 
 the latter end. Surely, then, you will not split 
 a century, and call one orator an ancient, and 
 
 * From this passage Fabricius asserts, that this dialogue 
 was written in the 6th year of Vespasian's reign ; but he 
 evidently mistakes the time in which the scene of it is laid, 
 for that in which it was composed. It is upon arguments 
 not better founded, that the critics have given Tacitus and 
 jQuintilian the honour of this elegant performance. Hd. 
 Fabric. Bib. Lat. V. I. 559. 
 
:384 
 
 another a modern, when the very same person 
 might be an auditor of both ; and thus, as it were, 
 render them contemporaries. 
 
 The conclusion I mean to draw from this ob- 
 servation is, that whatever advantages these ora- 
 tors might derive to their characters, from the 
 period of time in which they flourished, the same 
 will extend to us : and indeed, with much more 
 reason than to S. Galba, or to C. Carbonius. 
 It cannot be denied that the compositions of 
 these last are very inelegant and unpolished per 
 formances ; as I could wish, that not only your 
 admired Calvus and Coelius, but, I will venture 
 to add too, even Cicero himself (for I shall de- 
 liver my sentiments with great freedom) had not 
 considered them as the proper models of their 
 imitation. Suffer me to premise, however, as I 
 go along, that eloquence changes its qualities as 
 it runs through different ages. Thus as Grac- 
 chus, for instance, is much more copious and 
 florid than old Cato, so Crassus rises into a far 
 higher strain of politeness and refinement than 
 Gracchus. Thus, likewise, as the speeches of 
 Tully are more regular, and marked with supe- 
 rior elegance and sublimity, than those of the 
 two orators last mentioned ; so Corvinus is con- 
 siderably more smooth and harmonious in his 
 periods, as well as more correct in his language, 
 than Tully. I am not considering, which of 
 
385 
 
 them is most eloquent : all I endeavour to prove 
 at present is, that oratory does not manifest itself 
 in one uniform figure, but is exhibited by the 
 ancients under a variety of different appearances. 
 However, it is by no means a just way of rea- 
 soning, to infer, that one thing must necessarily 
 be worse than another, merely because it is not 
 the same. Yet such is the unaccountable per- 
 versity of human nature, that whatever has an- 
 tiquity to boast, is sure to be admired, as every 
 thing novel is certainly disapproved. There are 
 critics, I doubt not, to be found, who prefer even 
 Appius Cascus to Cato ; as it is well known that 
 Cicero had his censurers, who objected that his 
 style was swelling and redundant, and by no 
 means agreeable to the elegant conciseness of 
 Attic eloquence. You have certainly read the 
 letters of Calvus and Brutus to Cicero. It ap- 
 pears by those epistolary collections, that Cicero 
 considered Calvus as a dry, unanimated orator, 
 at the same time that he thought the style of 
 Brutus negligent and unconnected. These, in 
 their turn, had their objections, it seems, to 
 Cicero : Calvus condemned his oratorical com- 
 positions, for being weak and enervated ; as 
 Brutus (to use his own expression) esteemed 
 them feeble and disjointed. If 1 were to give 
 my opinion, I should say, they each spoke truth 
 of one another. But I shall examine these ora- 
 
 2 c 
 
386' 
 
 tors separately liereafter ; my present design is 
 only to consider them in a general view. 
 
 The admirers of antiquity are agreed, I think, 
 in extending the asra of the ancients as far as 
 Cassias Severus, whom they assert to have been 
 the first that struck out from the plain and simple 
 manner, which till then prevailed. Now 1 affirm 
 that he did so, not from any deficiency in point 
 of genius or learning, but from his superior judg- 
 ment and good sense. He saw it was necessary 
 to accommodate oratory, as I observed before, 
 to the different times and taste of the audience. 
 Our ancestors, indeed, might be contented (and 
 it was a mark of their ignorance and want of 
 politeness that they were so) with the immoderate 
 and tedious length of speeches, which was in 
 vogue in those ages ; as, in truth, to be able to 
 harangue for a whole day together, was itself 
 looked upon, at that illiterate period, as a talent 
 worthy of the highest admiration. The im- 
 measurable introduction, the circumstantial de- 
 tail, the endless division and subdivision, the 
 formal argument drawn out into a dull variety 
 of logical deductions, together with a thousand 
 other impertinencies of the same tasteless stamp, 
 which you may find laid down among the pre- 
 cepts of those driest of all writers, Hermagoras 
 and Apollodorus, were then held in supreme 
 honour. And, to complete all, if the orator had 
 
387 
 
 just dipped into philosophy, and could sprinkle 
 his haran<^ue with some of the most trite maxims 
 of that science, they thundered out his applauses 
 to the skies. For these were new and uncom- 
 mon topics to them ; as indeed very few of the 
 orators themselves had the least acquaintance 
 with the writings either of the philosophers or the 
 rhetoricians. But in our more enliiihtened acre, 
 where even the lowest part of an audience have 
 at least some general notion of literature, elo- 
 quence is constrained to find out new and more 
 florid paths. She is obliged to avoid every thinn^ 
 that may fatigue or offend the ears of her au- 
 dience ; especially as she must now appear be- 
 fore judges, who decide, not by law, but by au- 
 thority; who prescribe what limits they think 
 proper to the orator's speech : nor calmly wait 
 till he is pleased to come to the point, but call 
 upon him to return, and openly testify their im- 
 patience whenever he seems disposed to wander 
 from the question. Who, I beseech you, would, 
 in our days, endure an orator, who should open 
 his harangue with a tedious apology for the 
 weakness of his constitution ? Yet almost every 
 oration of Corvinus sets out in that manner. 
 Would any man noxo have patience to hear out 
 the five long books against Verres? or those 
 endless volumes of pleading in favour of Tully, 
 or Caecina? The vivacity of our modern judges 
 
 2 c 2 
 
588 
 
 even prevents the speaker; and they are apt to 
 conceive some sort of prejudice against all he 
 utters, unless he has the address to bribe their 
 attention by the strength and spirit of his argu- 
 ments, the liveliness of his sentiments, or the 
 elegance or brilliancy of his descriptions. The 
 very populace have some notion of the beauty 
 of language, and would no more relish the 
 uncouthness of antiquity in a modern orator, 
 than they would the gesture of old Roscius 
 or Ambivius in a modern actor. Our young 
 students too, who are forming themselves to elo- 
 quence, and for that purpose attend the courts 
 of judicature, expect not merely to hear, but 
 to carry home something worthy of remem- 
 brance : and it is usual with them not only to 
 canvass among themselves, but to transmit to 
 their respective provinces, whatever ingenious 
 thought or poetical ornament the orator has hap- 
 pily employed. For even the embellishments of 
 poetry are now required ; and those too, not 
 copied from the heavy and antiquated manner of 
 Attius or Pacuvius, but formed in the lively and 
 elegant spirit of Horace,* Virgil, and Lucan. 
 Agreeably, therefore, to the superior taste and 
 judgment of the present age, our orators appear 
 with a more polished and graceful aspect. And 
 most certainly it cannot be thought that their 
 speeches are the less efficacious, because they 
 
389 
 
 soothe the ears of the audience with the pleasing 
 modulation of harmonious periods. Has elo- 
 quence lost her pouer, because she has improved 
 her charms? Are our temples less durable than 
 those of old, because they are not formed of 
 rude materials, but shine out in all the polish 
 and splendour of the most costly ornaments ? 
 
 To confess the plain truth, the effect which 
 many of the ancients have upon me, is to dis- 
 pose me either to laugh or sleep. Not to men- 
 tion the more ordinary race of orators, such as 
 Canutius, Arrius, or Furnius, with some others 
 of the same dry and unafFecting cast ; even 
 Calvus himself scarce pleases me in more than 
 one or two short orations : though he has left 
 behind him, if I mistake not, no less than one 
 and twenty volumes. And the world in general 
 seems to join with me in the same opinion of 
 them : for how few are the readers of his in- 
 vectives against Asinius or Drusus ? Whereas 
 those against Vatinius are in every body's hands, 
 particularly the second, which is indeed, both 
 in sentiment and language, a well-written piece. 
 It is evident, therefore, that he had an idea of 
 just composition, and rather wanted genius than 
 inclination, to reach a more graceful and ele- 
 vated manner. As to the orations of Coelius, 
 though they are by no means valuable upon the 
 whole, yet they have their merit, so far as they 
 approach to the exalted elegance of the present 
 
'390 
 
 times. Whenever, indeed, his composition is 
 careless and unconnected, his expression low, 
 and his sentiments gross ; it is then he is truly 
 an ancient : and I will venture to affirm, there 
 is no one so fond of antiquity as to admire him 
 in that part of his character. We may allow 
 Caesar, on account of the great affairs in which 
 he was engaged, as we may Brutus, in consi- 
 deration of his philosophy, to be less eloquent 
 than might otherwise be expected of such su- 
 perior geniuses. The truth is, even their warmest 
 admirers acknowledge, that, as orators, they by 
 no means shine with the same lustre which dis- 
 tinguished every other part of their reputation. 
 Caesar's speech in favour of Decius, and that 
 of Brutus in behalf of king Dejotarus, with some 
 others of the same coldness and languor, have 
 scarcely, I imagine, met with any readers ; un- 
 less, perhaps, among such who can relish their 
 verses. For verses, we know, they writ (and 
 published too), 1 will not say with more spirit, 
 but undoubtedly with more success, than Cicero, 
 because they had the good fortune to fall into 
 much fewer hands. Asinius, one would guess, 
 by his air and manner, to have been contem- 
 porary with Menenius, and Appius ; though in 
 fact he lived much nearer to our times. It is 
 visible he was a close imitator of Attius and 
 Pacuvius, not only in his tragedies, but also in 
 his orations ; so remarkably dry and unpolished 
 
391 
 
 are all his compositions ! But the beauty of elo- 
 quence, like that of the human form, consists in 
 the smoothness, strength, and colour of its seve- 
 ral parts. Corvinus I am inclined to spare ; 
 though it was his own fault that he did not 
 equal the elegant refinements of modern com- 
 positions, as it must be acknowledged his genius 
 was abundantly sufficient for that purpose. 
 
 The next I shall take notice of, is Cicero ; 
 who bad the same contest with those of his own 
 times, as mine, my friends, with you. They, it 
 seems, were favourers of the ancients j whilst 
 he preferred the eloquence of his contem- 
 poraries : and, in truth, he excels the orators of 
 his own age in nothing more remarkably than 
 in the solidity of his judgment. He was the 
 first who set a polish upon oratory ; who seem- 
 ed to have any notion of delicacy of expression, 
 and the art of composition. Accordingly, he 
 attempted a more florid style ; as he now and 
 then breaks out into some lively flashes of wit ; 
 particularly in his later performances, when 
 much practice and experience (those best and 
 surest guides) had taught him a more improved 
 manner. But his earlier compositions are not 
 without the blemishes of antiquity. He is 
 tedious in his exordiums, too circumstantial 
 in his narrations, and careless in retrenching 
 luxuriances. He seems not easily affected, and 
 
392 
 
 is but rarely fired ; as his periods are seldom 
 either properly rounded, or happily pointed : 
 he has nothing, in fine, you would wish to make 
 your own. His speeches, like a rude edifice, 
 have strength, indeed, and permanency ; but 
 are destitute of that elegance and splendour 
 which are necessary to render them perfectly 
 agreeable. The orator, however, in his compo- 
 sitions, as the man of wealth in his buildings, 
 should consider ornament as well as use : his 
 structure should be, not only substantial, but 
 striking ; and his furniture not merely conve- 
 nient, but rich, and such as will bear a close 
 and frequent inspection ; whilst every thing 
 that has a mean and awkward appearance ought 
 to be totally banished. Let our orator, then, 
 reject every expression that is obsolete, and 
 grown rusty, as it were, by age : let him be 
 careful not to weaken the force of his sentiments 
 by a heavy and inartificial combination of 
 words, like our dull compilers of annals : let 
 him avoid all low and insipid raillery; in a 
 word, let him vary the structure of his periods, 
 nor end every sentence with the same uniform 
 close. 
 
 I will not expose the meanness of Cicero's 
 conceits, nor his affectation of concluding al- 
 most every other period with, as it should seem, 
 instead of pointing them with some lively and 
 
393 
 
 spirited turn. I mention even these with re- 
 luctance, and pass over many others of the same 
 injudicious cast. It is singly, however, in little 
 affectations of this kind, that they who are 
 pleased to style themselves ancient orators seem 
 to admire and imitate him. I shall content 
 myself with describing their characters, without 
 mentioning their names : but, you are sensible, 
 there are certain pretenders to taste who prefer 
 Lucilius to Horace, and Lucretius to Vu'gil ; 
 who hold the eloquence of your favourite Bassus 
 or Nonianus in the utmost contempt, when 
 compared with that of Sisenna or Varro : in a 
 word, who despise the prod uctions of our modern 
 rhetoricians, yet are in raptures with those of 
 Calvus. These curious orators prate in the 
 courts of judicature after the manner of the an- 
 cients (as they call it) till they are deserted by 
 the whole audience, and are scarce supportable 
 even to their very clients. The truth of it is, 
 that soundness of eloquence which they so 
 much boast, is but an evidence of the natural 
 weakness of their genius, as it is the effect alone 
 of tame and cautious art. No physician would 
 pronounce a man to enjoy a proper constitution, 
 whose health proceeded entirely from a studied 
 and abstemious regimen. To be only not in- 
 disposed, is but a small acquisition ; it is spirits, 
 vivacity, and vigour, that I require : whatever 
 
394 
 
 comes short of this, is but one remove from 
 imbecility. 
 
 Be it then (as with great ease it may, and in 
 fact is) the glorious distinction of you, my illus- 
 trious friends, to ennoble our age with the most 
 refined eloquence. It is with infinite satisfac- 
 tion, Messalla, I observe, that you single out 
 the most florid among the ancients for your 
 model. And you, my other two ingenious 
 
 , friends,* so happily unite strength of sentiment 
 with beauty of expression ; such a pregnancy of 
 imagination, such a symmetry of ordonnance 
 distinguish your speeches ; so copious or so 
 concise in your elocution, as different occasions 
 require ; such an inimitable gracefulness of style, 
 and such an easy flow of wit, adorn and dignify 
 your compositions : in a word, so absolutely 
 you command the passions of your audience, 
 
 ' and so happily temper your own, that, how- 
 ever the envy and malignity of the present age 
 may withhold that applause which is so justly 
 your due, posterity, you may rely upon it, will 
 speak of you in the advantageous terms which 
 you well deserve. 
 
 When Aper had thus finished : It must be 
 owned, said Maternus, our, friend has spoken 
 with much force and spirit. What a torrent of 
 
 * Maternus and Secundus. 
 
395 
 
 learning and eloquence has he poured forth in 
 defence of the moderns ! and how completely 
 vanquished the ancients with those very weapons 
 which he borrowed from them ! However, (con- 
 tinued he, applying himself to Messalla,) you 
 must not recede from your engagement. Not 
 that we expect you should enter into a defence 
 of the ancients, or suppose (however Aper is 
 pleased to compliment) that any of us can stand 
 in competition with then). Aper himself does 
 not sincerely think so, I dare say ; but takes 
 the opposite side in the debate, merely in imi- 
 tation of the celebrated manner of antiquity. 
 We do not desire you, therefore, to entertain us 
 with a panegyric upon the ancients : their well- 
 established reputation places them far above the 
 want of our encomiums. But what we request 
 of you is, to account for our having so widely 
 departed from that noble species of eloquence 
 which they displayed : especially since we are 
 not, according to Aper's calculation, more than 
 a hundred and twenty years distant from Cicero. 
 I shall endeavour, returned Messalla, to pur- 
 sue the plan you have laid down to me. — I 
 shall not enter into the question with Aper, 
 (though indeed he is the first that ever made it 
 one,) whether those who flourished above a cen- 
 tury before us, can properly be styled ancients. 
 I am not disposed to contend about words : let 
 
396 
 
 them be called ancients or ancestors, or what- 
 ever other name he pleases, so it be allowed 
 their oratory was superior to ours. I admit 
 too, what he just now advanced, that there are 
 various kinds of eloquence discernible in the 
 same period ; much more in different ages. 
 But as among the Attic orators Demosthenes is 
 placed in the first rank, then jEschines, Hy- 
 perides next, and after him Lysias and Lycur- 
 gus : an aera which on all hands is agreed to 
 have been the prime season of oratory ; s'o 
 amongst us, Cicero is by universal consent pre- 
 ferred to all his contemporaries ; as after him, 
 Calvus, Asinius, Caesar, Coelius, and Brutus, 
 are justly acknowledged to have excelled all 
 our preceding or subsequent orators. Nor is 
 it of any importance to the present argument, 
 that they differ in manner, since they agree in 
 kind. The compositions of Calvus, it is con- 
 fessed, are distinguished by their remarkable 
 conciseness ; as those of Asinius are by the 
 harmonious flow of his language. Brilliancy of 
 sentiment is Caesar's characteristic ; as poig- 
 nancy of wit is that of Coelius. Solidity re- 
 commends the speeches of Brutus ; while co- 
 piousness, strength, and vehemence are the pre- 
 dominant qualities in Cicero. Each of them, 
 however, displays an equal soundness of elo- 
 quence ; and one may easily discover a general 
 
397 
 
 resemblance and kindred likeness run through 
 their several works, though diversified, indeed, 
 according to their respective geniuses. Tiiat 
 they mutually detracted from each other, (as it 
 must be owned there are some remaining traces 
 of malignity in their letters,) is not to be imputed 
 to them as orators, but as men. Calvus, Asi- 
 nius, and even Cicero himself, were liable, no 
 doubt, to be infected with jealousy, as well as 
 with other human frailties and imperfections. 
 Brutus, however, I will singly except from all 
 imputations of malignity, as I am persuaded he 
 spoke the sincere and impartial sentiments of 
 his heart : for can it be supposed that He 
 should envy Cicero, who does not seem to 
 have envied even Caesar himself? As to Galba, 
 Laelius, and some others of the ancients, whom 
 Aper has thought proper to condemn; I am 
 willing to admit that they have some defects, 
 which must be ascribed to a growing and yet 
 immature eloquence. 
 
 After all, if we must relinquish the nobler 
 kind of oratory, and adopt some lower species, 
 I should certainly prefer the impetuosity of 
 Gracchus, or the incorrectness of Crassus, to 
 the studied foppery of Maecenas, or the childish 
 jingle of Gallio : so much rather would I see 
 eloquence clothed in the most rude and negli- 
 gent garb, than decked out w ith the false colours 
 
3i}8 
 
 of affected ornament ! 'J'liere is somethinji in 
 our present manner of elocution, which is so far 
 from being oratorical, that it is not even manly; 
 and one would imagine our modern pleaders, 
 by the levity of their wit, the affected smooth- 
 ness of their periods, and licentiousness of their 
 style, had a view to the stage in all their com- 
 positions. Accordingly, some of them are not 
 ashamed to boast (which one can scarce even 
 mention without a blush) that their speeches 
 are adapted to the soft modulation of stage- 
 music. It is this depravity of taste which has 
 given rise to the very indecent and preposterous, 
 though very frequent, expression, that such an 
 orator speaks smoothly, and such a dancer moves 
 doqumtlij. I am willing to admit therefore, 
 that Cassius Severus (the single modern whom 
 Aper has thought proper to name), when com- 
 pared to these his degenerate successors, may 
 justly be deemed an orator ; though, it is cer- 
 tain, in the greater part of his compositions 
 there appears far more strength than spirit. He 
 was the first who neglected chastity of style, and 
 propriety of method. Inexpert in the use of 
 those very weapons with which he engages, he 
 ever lays himself open to a thrust, by always 
 endeavouring to attack ; and one may much 
 more properly say of him, that he pushes at 
 random, than that he comports himself accord- 
 
399 
 
 ing to the just rules of regular combat. Never- 
 theless, he is greatly superior, as I observed 
 before, in the variety of his learning, the agree- 
 ableness of his wit, and the strength of his genius, 
 to those who succeeded him : not one of whom, 
 however, has Aper ventured to bring into the 
 field. I imagined, that after having deposed 
 Asinius, and Ccehus, and Calvus, he would 
 have substituted another set of orators in their 
 place, and that he had numbers to produce in' 
 opposition to Cicero, to Caesar, and the rest 
 whom he rejected ; or at least, one rival to each 
 of them. On the contrary, he has distinctly 
 and separately censured all the ancients, while 
 he has ventured to commend the moderns in 
 general only. He thought, perhaps, if he 
 singled out some, he should draw upon himself 
 the resentment of all the rest ; for every de- 
 claimer among them modestly ranks himself, in 
 his own fond opinion, before Cicero, though 
 indeed after Gabinianus. But what Aper was 
 not hardy enough to undertake, I will be bold 
 to execute for him ; and draw out his oratorical 
 heroes in full view, that it may appear by \vhat 
 degrees the s[)irit a ]d vigour of ancient elo- 
 quence was impaired and broken. 
 
 Let me rather entreat you (said Maternus, 
 interrupting him) to enter, without any further 
 preface, upon the difficulty you first undertook 
 
400 
 
 to clear. That we are inferior to the ancients 
 in point of eloquence, I by no means want to 
 have proved ; being entirely of that opinion : 
 but my present inquiry is how to account for 
 our sinking so far below them? a question, it 
 seems, you have exaniined, and which I am per- 
 suaded you would discuss with much calmness, 
 if Aper's unmerciful attack upon your favourite 
 orators had not a little discomposed you. — I am 
 nothing offended, returned Messalla, with the 
 sentiments which Aper has advanced ; neither 
 ought you, my friends, remembering always 
 that it is an established law in debates of this 
 kind, that every man may with entire security 
 disclose his unresei*ved opinion. — Proceed then, 
 I beseech you, replied Maternus, to the exami- 
 nation of this point concerning the ancients, 
 with a freedom equal to theirs : from which I 
 suspect, alas ! we have more widely degene- 
 rated than even from their eloquence. 
 
 The cause (said Messalla, resuming his dis- 
 course) does not lie very remote : and, though 
 you are pleased to call upon me to assign it, is 
 well known, 1 doubt not, both to you and to 
 the rest of this company. For is it not obvious 
 that eloquence, together with the rest of the 
 politer arts, has fallen from her ancient glory, 
 not for want of admirers, but through the dis- 
 soluteness of our youth, the negligence of 
 
401 
 
 parents, the ignorance of preceptors, and the 
 oniversal disregard of ancient manners ? evils 
 which derived their source fiom Rome, and 
 thence spread themselves through Italy, and 
 over all the provinces ; though the mischiefj 
 indeed, is most observable within our o\vn walls* 
 I shall take notice, therefore, of those vices to 
 which the youth of this city are more peculiarly 
 exposed ; which rise upon them in number as 
 they increase in years. But before I enter fur-^ 
 ther into this subject, let me premise an obser- 
 vation or two concerning the judicious method 
 of discipline practised by our ancestors, in train-^ 
 ing up their children. 
 
 In the first place, then, the virtuous matrons 
 of those wiser ages did not abandcHi their in- 
 fants to the mean hovels of mercenary nurses, 
 but tenderly reared them up at their ov^^n breasts ; 
 esteeming the careful regulation of their children 
 and domestic concerns, as the highest point of 
 female merit. It was customar}'^ with them 
 likewise to choose out some elderly female re- 
 lation, of approved conduct, with whom the 
 family in general intrusted the care of their re- 
 spective children, during their infant years. 
 This venerable person strictly regulated, not 
 only their more serious pursuits, but even their 
 very amusements ; restraining them, by her re- 
 spected presence, from saving or acting any 
 
 2 D 
 
402 
 
 thing contrary to decency and good manners. 
 In this manner, we are" informed, Cornelia, the 
 mother of the two Gracchi, as also Aurelia and 
 Attia, to whom Julius and Augustus Caesar 
 owed their respective births, undertook this 
 office of family education, and trained up those 
 several noble youths to whom they were re- 
 lated. This method of discipline was attended 
 with one very singular advantage : the minds of 
 young men were conducted sound and untainted 
 to the study of the noble arts. Accordingly, 
 whatever profession they determined upon, 
 ■whether that of arms, eloquence, or law, they 
 entirely devoted themselves to that single pur- 
 suit, and, with undissipated application, possess- 
 ed the whole compass of their chosen science. 
 
 But in the present age, the little boy is de- 
 legated to the care of some paltry Greek cham- 
 ber-maid, in conjunction with two or three 
 other servants (and even those generally of the 
 worst kind), who are absolutely unfit for every 
 rational and serious office. From the idle tales 
 and gross absurdities of these worthless people, 
 the tender and uninstructed mind is suffered to 
 receive its earliest impressions. It cannot, in- 
 deed, be supposed, that any caution should be 
 observed among the domestics ; since the parents 
 themselves are so far from training their young 
 families to virtue and modesty, that they set 
 
403 
 
 them the first examples of luxury and licen- 
 tiousness. Thus our youth gradually acquire 
 a confirmed habit of impudence, and a total 
 disregard of that reverence they owe both to 
 themselves and to others. To say truth, it 
 seems as if a fondness for horses, actors, and 
 gladiators, the peculiar and distinguishing folly 
 of this our city, was impressed upon them even 
 in the womb : and when once a passion of this 
 contemptible sort has seized and engaged the 
 mind, what opening is there left for the noble 
 arts? 
 
 All conversation in general is infected with 
 topics of this kind ; as they are the constant 
 subjects of discourse, not only amongst our 
 youth in their academies, but even of their 
 tutors themselves. For it is not by establishing 
 a strict discipline, or by giving proofs of their 
 genius, that this order of men gain pupils : it is 
 by the meanest compliances and most servile 
 flattery. Not to mention how ill-instructed our 
 youth are in the very elements of literature, 
 sufficient pains is by no means taken in bring- 
 ing them acquainted with the best authors, or 
 in giving them a proper notion of history, toge- 
 ther with a knowledge of men and things. The 
 whole that seems to be considered in their edu- 
 cation, is, to find out a person for them called 
 a rhetorician. I shall take occasion imme- 
 
 2 D 2 
 
404 
 
 diately, to give yoa some account of the rise 
 and progress of this profession in Rome, and 
 show you with what contempt it was received 
 by our ancestors. But it will be necessary to 
 lay before you a previous view of that scheme 
 of discipline which the ancient orators prac- 
 tised ; of whose amazing industry and un- 
 wearied application to every branch of the 
 polite arts, we meet with many remarkable ac- 
 counts in their own writings. 
 
 I need not inform you, that Cicero, in the 
 latter end of his treatise entitled " Brutus" (th6 
 former part of which is employed in commemo- 
 rating the ancient orators), gives a sketch of the 
 several progressive steps by which he formed 
 his eloquence. He there acquaints us, that he 
 studied the civil law under Q. Mucins ; that 
 he was instructed in the several branches of 
 philosophy by Philo the academic, and Diodo- 
 rus the stoic ; that, not satisfied with attending 
 the lectures of those eminent masters, of which 
 there were at that time great numbers in Rome, 
 he made a vovao;e into Greece and Asia, in 
 order to enlarge his knowledge, and embrace 
 the whole circle of sciences. Accordingly he 
 appears by his writings to have been master of 
 logic, ethics, astronomy, and natural philosophy, 
 besides being well versed in geometry, music, 
 grammar, and, in short, in every one of the fine 
 
 I 
 
405 
 
 arts. For thus it is, my worthy friends, from 
 deep learning and the united confluence of the 
 arts and sciences, the resistless torrent of that 
 amazing eloquence derived its strength and 
 rapidity. 
 
 The faculties of the orator are not exercised, 
 indeed, as in other sciences, within certain pre- 
 cise and determinate limits : on the contrary, 
 eloquence is the most comprehensive of the 
 whole circle of arts. Thus he done can justly 
 be deemed an orator, who knows how to employ 
 the most persuasive arguments upon every ques- 
 tion ; who can express himself suitably to the 
 dignity of his subject, with all the powers of 
 grace and harmony ; in a word, who can pe- 
 netrate into every minute circumstance, and 
 manage the whole train of incidents to the 
 greatest advantage of his cause. Such, at least, 
 •was the high idea which the ancients formed of 
 this illustrious character. In order, however, to 
 attain this eminent qualification, they did not 
 think it necessary to declaim in the schools, and 
 idly waste their breath upon feigned or frivolous 
 controversies. It was their wiser method, to 
 apply themselves to the study of such useful 
 arts as concern life and manners, as treat of 
 moral good and evil, of justice and injustice, of 
 the decent and the unbecoming in actions. And, 
 indeed, it is upon points of this nature that the 
 
406 
 
 business of the orator principally turns. For ex- 
 ample, in the judiciarj^ kind, it relates to matters 
 of equity; as in the deliberative it is employed 
 in determining the fit and the expedient : still 
 however these two branches are not so abso- 
 lutely distinct, but that they are frequently 
 blended with each other. Nov/ it is impossible^ 
 \vhen questions of this kind fall under the con- 
 sideration of an orator, to enlarge upon them in 
 all the elegant and enlivening spirit of an effi- 
 cacious eloquence, unless he is perfectly well 
 acquainted w ith human nature ; unless he un- 
 derstands the power and extent of moral duties, 
 and can distinguish those actions which do not 
 partake either of vice or virtue. 
 
 From the same source, likewise, he must 
 derive his influence over the passions. For if 
 he is skilled, for instance, in the nature of in- 
 di2;nation, he will be so much the more capable 
 of soothing or inflaming the breasts of his 
 judges : if he knows wherein compassion con- 
 sists, and by what workings of the heart it is 
 moved, he will the more easily raise that tender 
 affection of the soul. An orator trained up in 
 this discipline, and practised in these arts, 
 will have full com.mand over the breasts of his 
 audience, in whatever disposition it may be his 
 chance to fmd them : and thus furnished with 
 all the numberless powers of persuasion, will 
 
407 
 
 judiciously vary and accommodate his elo- 
 quence, as particular circumstances and con- 
 junctures shall require. There are some, we 
 find, who are most struck with that manner of 
 elocution, where the arguments are drawn up 
 in a short and close style : upon such an occa- 
 sion the orator will experience the great ad- 
 vantage of being; conversant in lode. Others, 
 on the contrary, admire flowing and diffusive 
 periods, where the illustrations are borrowed 
 from the ordinary and familiar images of com- 
 mon observation : here the Peripatetic writers 
 will give him some assistance ; as indeed they 
 will, in general, supply him with many useful 
 hints in all the different methods of popular 
 address. The Academics will inspire him with 
 a becoming warmth : Plato with sublimity of 
 sentiments, and Xenophon with an easy and 
 elegant diction. Even the exclamatory manner 
 of Epicurus, or Metrodorus, may be found, 
 in some circumstances, not altogether unser- 
 viceable. In a word, what the stoics pretend 
 of their wise man, ought to be veritied in 
 our orator ; and he should actually possess all 
 human knowledge. Accordingly, the ancients 
 w^ho applied themselves to eloquence, not only 
 studied the civil laws, but also grammar, poetry, 
 music, and geometry. Indeed, there are few 
 causes (perhaps I might justly say there are 
 
408 
 
 none) wherein a skill in the first is not abso- 
 lutely necessary ; as there are many in which 
 an acquaintance with the last-mentioned sciences 
 is highly requisite. 
 
 If it should be objected, that " eloquence is 
 the single science requisite for the orator ; as 
 an occasional recourse to the others will be suf- 
 ficient for all his purposes ;" I answer, in the 
 first place, there will always be a remarkable 
 difference in the manner of applying what we 
 take up, as it were, upon loan, and what we 
 properly possess ; so that it will ever be mani- 
 fest, whether the orator is indebted to others 
 for what he produces, or derives it from his 
 own unborrowed fund. And in the next, the 
 sciences throw an inexpressible grace over our 
 compositions, even where they are not imme- 
 diately concerned; as their effects are discer- 
 nible where we least expect to find them. This 
 powerful charm is not only distinguished by the 
 learned and the judicious, but strikes even the 
 most common and popular class of auditors ; 
 insomuch that one may frequently hear them 
 applauding a speaker of thi^ improved kind, as 
 a man of genuine erudition ; as enriched with 
 the whole treasures of eloquence ; and, in one 
 word, acknouledi7,e the complete orator. But 
 I will take the liberty to affirm, that no man 
 ever did, nor indeed ever can, maintain that 
 
409 
 
 exalted character, unless he enters the forum 
 supported by the full strength of the united 
 arts. Accomplishments, however, of this sort 
 are now so totally neglected, that the pleadings 
 of our oratora are debased by the lowest expres- 
 sions ; as a general ignorance both of the laws 
 of our country and the acts of the senate is 
 visible throughout their performances. All 
 knowledge of the rights and customs of Rome 
 is professedly ridiculed, and philosophy seems 
 at present to be considered as something that 
 ought to be shunned and dreaded. Thus elo- 
 quence, like a dethroned potentate, is banished 
 her rightful dominions, and confined to barren 
 points and low conceits : and she who was once 
 mistress of the whole circle of sciences, and 
 charmed every beholder with the goodly appear- 
 ance of her glorious train, is now stripped of 
 all her attendants (I had almost said of all her 
 genius), and seems as one of the meanest of the 
 mechanic arts. This, therefore, I consider as 
 the first, and the principal reason of our having 
 so greatly declined from the spirit of the an- 
 cients. 
 
 If I were called upon to support my opinion 
 by authorities, might I not justly name, among 
 the Grecians, Demosthenes? who, we are in- 
 formed, constantly attended the lectures of 
 Plato : as, among our own countrymen, Cicero 
 
410 
 
 himself assures us, (and in these very words, if 
 I rightly remember,) that he owed whatever ad- 
 vances he had made in eloquence, not to the 
 rhetoricians, but to the Academic philosophers. 
 
 Other, and very considerable reasons might 
 be produced for the decay of eloquence. But 
 I leave them, my friends, as it is proper I should, 
 to be mentioned by you ; having performed my 
 share in the examination of this question : and 
 with a freedom, which will give, I imagine, as 
 usual, much offence. I am sure, at least, if cer- 
 tain of our contemporaries were to be informed 
 of what I have here maintained, I should be 
 told, that in layhig it down as a maxim, that a 
 knowledge both of law and philosophy are es- 
 sential qualifications in an orator, 1 have been 
 fondly pursuing a phantom of my own imagina- 
 tion, 
 
 I am so far from thinking, replied Maternus, 
 you have completed the part you undertook, that 
 I should rather im.agine you had only given us 
 the first general sketch of your design. You 
 have marked out to us, indeed, those sciences 
 wherein the ancient orators were instructed, and 
 have placed in strong contrast their successful 
 industry, with our unperforming ignorance. But 
 something further still remains : and as you have 
 shown us the superior acquirements of the ora- 
 tors in those more improved ages of eloquence, 
 
411 
 
 as well as the remarkable deficiency of those in 
 our own times, I should be glad you would pro- 
 ceed to acquaint us with the particular exercises 
 by which the youth of those earlier days were 
 wont to strengthen and improve their geniuses. 
 For I dare say you will not deny that oratory is 
 acquired by practice far better than by precept: 
 and our other two friends here seem willing, I 
 perceive, to admit it. 
 
 To which, when Aper and Secundus had sig- 
 nified their assent, jMessalla, resuming his dis- 
 course, continued as follows : 
 
 Having then, as it should seem, disclosed to 
 your satisfaction the seeds and first principles of 
 ancient eloquence, by specifying the several kinds 
 of arts to which the ancient orators were trained; 
 I shall no^v lay before you the method they pur- 
 sued, in order to gain a facility in the exertion 
 of eloquence. This, indeed, I have in some mea- 
 sure anticipated, by mentioning the preparatory 
 arts to which they applied themselves : for it is 
 impossible to make any progress in a compass 
 so various and so abstruse, unless we not only 
 strengthen our knowledge by reflection, but im- 
 prove a general aptitude by frequent exercise. 
 Thus it appears that the same steps must be 
 pursued in exerting our oratory, as in attainincr 
 it. But if this truth should not be universally 
 admitted; if any should think that eloquence 
 
4IS 
 
 may be possessed without paying previoas court 
 to her attendant sciences ; most certainly, at 
 least, it will not be denied, that a mind duly im- 
 pregnated with the poHte arts, will enter with 
 so much the more advantage upon those exer- 
 cises peculiar to the oratorical circus. 
 
 Accordingly, our ancestors, when they de- 
 signed a young man for the profession of elo- 
 quence, having previously taken due care of his 
 domestic education, and seasoned his mind with 
 useful knowledge, introduced him to the most 
 eminent orator in Rome. From that time the 
 youth commenced his constant folioiver, attend- 
 ing him upon all occasions, whether he appeared 
 in the public assemblies of the people, or in the 
 courts of civil judicature. Thus he learned, if I 
 may use the expression, the arts of oratorical 
 conflict in the very field of battle. The advan- 
 tages Mhich flowed from this method were con- 
 siderable : it animated the courage and quicken- 
 ed the judgment of youth, thus to receive their 
 instructions in the eye of the world, and in the 
 midst of affairs ; wlien no man could advance an 
 absurd or a weak argument, without being re- 
 jected by the bench, exposed by his adversary, 
 and, in a word, despised by the whole audience. 
 By this method they imbibed the pure and un- 
 corrupted streams of genuine eloquence. But 
 though they chiefly attached themselves to one 
 
413 
 
 particular orator, they heard likewise all the rest 
 of their contemporary pleaders, in many of their 
 respective debates. Hence also they had an op- 
 portunity of acquainting themselves with the va- 
 rious sentiments of the people, and of observing 
 what pleased or disgusted them most in the se- 
 veral orators of the forum. By this means they 
 were supplied with an instructor of the best and 
 most improving kind, exhibiting, not the feigned 
 semblance of eloquence, but her real and lively 
 manifestation : not a- pretended, but a genuine 
 adversary, armed in earnest for the combat ; an 
 audience, ever full and ever new, composed of 
 foes as well as friends, and where not a sinde 
 expression could fall uncensured, or unapplaud- 
 ed. For you will agree with me, I am well per- 
 suaded, when I assert, that a solid and lasting 
 reputation of eloquence must be acquired by the 
 censure of our enemies, as w^ell as by the ap- 
 plause of our friends; or rather, indeed, it is 
 from the former that it derives its surest and 
 most unquestioned strength and firmness. Ac- 
 cordingly, a youth thus formed to the bar, a fre- 
 quent and attentive hearer of the most illustrious 
 orators and debates, instructed by the experience 
 of others, acquainted with the popular taste, and 
 daily conversant in the laws of his country ; to 
 whom the solemn presence of the judges, and 
 the awful eyes of a full audience were familiar, 
 
414 
 
 rose at once into affairs, and was equal to every 
 cause. Hence it was that Crassus at the age of 
 nineteen, Caesar at twenty-one, Pollio at twenty- 
 two, and Calvus when he was but a few years 
 older, pronounced those several speeches against 
 Carbo, Dolabella, Cato, and Vatinius, which we 
 read to this hour with admiration. 
 
 On the other hand, our modern youth receive 
 their education under certain declaimers called 
 rhetoricians : a set of men who made their first 
 appearance in Rome, a little before the time of 
 Cicero. And that they were by no means ap- 
 proved by our ancestors, plainly appears from 
 their being enjoined, under the censorship of 
 Crassus and Domitius, to shut up their schools 
 of impudence^ as Cicero expresses it. — But I was 
 going to say, we are sent to certain academies, 
 where it is hard to determine whether the place, 
 the company, or the method of instruction is 
 most likely to infect the minds of young people, 
 and produce a wrong turn of thought. For no- 
 thing, certainly, can there be of an affecting so- 
 lemnity in an audience, where all who compose 
 it are of the same low degree of understanding; 
 nor any advantage to be received from their fel- 
 low-students, where a parcel of boys and raw 
 youths of unripe judgments harangue before each 
 other, without the least fear or danger of criti- 
 cism. And as for their exercises, they are ridi- 
 
415 
 
 culous in their very nature. They consist of two 
 kinds, and are either declamatory or controver- 
 sial. The first, as being easier and requiring less 
 skill, is assigned to the younger lads : the other 
 is the task of more mature years. But, good 
 gods ! with what incredible absurdity are they 
 composed ! The truth is, the style of their decla- 
 mations is as false and contemptible, as the sub- 
 jects are useless and fictitious. Thus, being 
 taught to harangue in a most pompous diction, 
 on the rewards due to tyrannicides, on the elec- 
 tion to be made by deflowered virgins,* on the 
 licentiousness of married women, on the cere- 
 monies to be observed in times of pestilence, 
 with other topics of the same unconcerning kind, 
 which are daily debated in the schools, and scarce 
 ever at the bar; " they appear absolute novices 
 in the affairs of the world, and are by much too 
 elevated for common life. 
 
 " Here Messalla paused : t when Secundus, 
 taking his turn in the conversation, began with 
 
 * It was one of the questions usually debated in these 
 rhetoric- schools, whether the party wlio had been ravished 
 should choose to marry the violator of her chastity, or rather 
 have him put to death. 
 
 t The latter part of Meisalla's discourse, together with 
 what immediately followed it in the original, is lost. The 
 chasm, however, does not seem to be so great as some of 
 the commentators suspect. Tlie translator therefore has 
 rentured to fill it up in his own v\ay, with those lines 
 
4l(> 
 
 observing, that" the true and lofty spirit of 
 genuine eloquence, like that of a clear and vi- 
 gorous flame, is nourished by proper fueh ex- 
 cited by agitation, and stiil briglitens as it burns. 
 It was in this manner, said he, that the oratory 
 of our ancestors was kindled and spread it- 
 self. The moderns have as much merit of this 
 kind, perhaps, as can be acquired under a set- 
 tled and peaceable government; but far inferior, 
 no doubt, to that which shone out in the times 
 of licentiousness and confusion, when he was 
 deemed the ablest orator, who had most influ- 
 ence over a restless and un^overned multitude. 
 To this situation of public affairs was owing those 
 continual debates concerning the Agrarian laws, 
 and the popularity consequent thereupon; those 
 long harangues of the magistrates, those impeach- 
 
 which are distinguished by inverted commas. He has like- 
 wise given the next subsequent part of the conversation to 
 Secundusj though it does not appear in the original to 
 whom it belongs. It would be of no great importance to 
 the English reader, to justify this last article ; though, 
 j)erhaps, it would not be very difficult, if it were neces-; 
 savy. 
 
 To save the reader the trouble of turning to a second 
 note upon a like occasion, it is proper to observe in this 
 place, that he will find the same inverted commas in 
 p. 448, 9. The words included between them are also an 
 addition of the translator's j and for the same reason aia 
 that just now mentioned. 
 
417 
 
 ments of the great, those factions of the nobles, 
 those hereditary enmities in particular families ; 
 and in fine, those incessant struggles between 
 the senate and the commons ; which, thouizli 
 each of them prejudicial to the state, yet most 
 certainly contributed to produce and encourage 
 that rich vein of eloquence which discovered it- 
 self in those tempestuous davs. The way to 
 dignities lay directly through the paths of Elo- 
 quence. The more a man signalized himself by 
 his abilities in this art, so much the more easily 
 he opened his road to preferment, and maintain- 
 ed an ascendant over his colleagues, at the same 
 time that it heightened his interest with the 
 nobles, his authority with the senate, and his re- 
 putation with the people in general. The pa- 
 tronage of tliese admired orators was courted 
 even by foreign nations ; as the several magis- 
 trates of our own endeavoured to recommend 
 themselves to their favour and protection, by 
 showing them the highest marks of honour 
 whenever they set out for the administration of 
 their respective provinces, and by studiously cul- 
 tivating a friendship with them at their return. 
 They were called upon, without any solicitation 
 on their own part, to fill up the supreme digni- 
 ties of the state. Nor were they even in a pri- 
 vate station witl:iout great power, as by means of 
 
 2 s 
 
418- 
 
 the persuasive arts they had a very considerable 
 influence over both the senate and the people. 
 The truth is, it was an established maxim in 
 those days, that, without the oratorical talents, 
 no man could either acquire or maintain any high 
 post in the government. And no wonder indeed, 
 that such notions should universally prevail; since 
 it was impossible for any person endued with 
 this commanding art, to pass his life in obscu- 
 rity, how much soever it might be agreeable to 
 his own inclinations; since it was not sufficient 
 merely to vote in the senate, without supporting 
 that vote with good-sense and eloquence; since 
 in all public impeachments or civil causes, the 
 accused was obliged to answer to the charge in 
 his own person; since written depositions were 
 not admitted in judicial matters, but the wit- 
 nesses were called upon to deliver their evidence 
 in open court. Thus our ancestors were elo- 
 quent, as much by necessity as by encourage- 
 ments. To be possessed of the persuasive ta- 
 lents, was esteemed the highest glory; as the 
 contrary character was held in the utmost con- 
 tempt. In a word, they were incited to the pur- 
 suit of oratory, by a principle of honour as well 
 as by a view of interest. They dreaded the dis- 
 grace of being considered rather as clients than 
 patrons ; of losing those dependents which their 
 
419 
 
 ancestors had transmitted to them, and seeing 
 them mix in the train of others; in short, of 
 being looked upon as men of mean abilities, and 
 consequently either passed over in the disposal 
 of high offices, or despised in the administration 
 of them. 
 
 I know not whether those ancient historical 
 pieces, which were lately collected and publish- 
 ed by Alucianus, from the old libraries where 
 they have hitherto been preserved, have yet 
 fallen into your hands. This collection consists 
 of eleven volumes of the public journals, and 
 three of epistles; by which it appears that Pom- 
 pey and Crassus gained as much advantage from 
 their eloquence as their arms; that LucuUus, 
 Metellus, Lentulus, Curio, and the rest of those 
 distinguished chiefs, devoted themselves with 
 great application to this insinuating art; in a 
 woi-d, that not a single person in those times 
 rose to any considerable degree of power, with- 
 out the assistance of the rhetorical talents. 
 
 To these considerations may be further added, 
 that the dignity and importance of the debates in 
 which the ancients were engaged, contributed 
 greatly to advance their eloquence. Most cer- 
 tain, indeed, it is, that an orator must necessa- 
 rily find great difference with respect to his 
 powers, when he is to harangue only upon some 
 
 O y O 
 
420 
 
 trifling robbery, or a little paltry foriu ot plead- 
 ing ; and when the faculties of his mind are 
 warmed and enlivened by such interesting and 
 animating topics as bribery at elections, as the 
 oppression of our allies, or the massacre of our 
 fellow-citizens. Evils these, which, beyond all 
 perad venture, it were better should never hap- 
 pen; and we have reason to rejoice that we live 
 under a government vvhere we are stranG;ers to 
 such terrible calamities : still it must be ac- 
 knowledged, that wherever^they did happen, they 
 were wonderful incentives to eloquence. For 
 the orator's genius rises and expands itself in 
 proportion to the dignity of the occasion upon 
 which it is exerted ; and I will lay it down as a 
 maxim, that it is impossible to shine out in all 
 the powerful lustre of genuine eloquence, with- 
 out being inflamed by a suitable importance of 
 subject. Thus the speech of Demosthenes against 
 his guardians, scarcely, I imagine, established 
 his character; as it was not the defence of Ar- 
 chias, or Quinctius, that acquired Cicero the re- 
 putation of a consummate orator. It was Cati- 
 line, and Milo, and Verres, and Mark xA.ntony, 
 that warmed him with that noble glow of elo- 
 quence, which gave the finishing brightness to 
 his unequalled fame. Far am I froin iiibinuating, 
 that such infamous characters deserve to be to- 
 
421 
 
 lerated in a state, in order to supply convenient 
 matter of oratory : All I contend for is, tliat this 
 art flourishes to most advantage in turbulent 
 times. Peace, no doubt, is infinitely preferable 
 to war; but it is the latter only that forms the 
 soldier. It is just the same with Eloquence ; the 
 oftener she enters, if I mav so say, the field of 
 battle, the more wounds she gives and receives; 
 the more powerful the adversary witli which she 
 contends, so much the more ennobled she ap- 
 pears in the eye of mankind. For it is the dis- 
 position of human nature always to admire what 
 we see is attended with danger and difficulty in 
 others, how much soever we may choose ease and 
 security for ourselves. 
 
 Another advantage which the ancient orators 
 had over the moderns, is, that they were not 
 confined in their pleadings, as we are, to a few 
 hours. On the contrary, they were at liberty to 
 adjourn as often as they thought proper : thev 
 were unlimited as to the number of days or of 
 counsel, and every orator might extend his speech 
 to the length most agreeable to himself. Pom-^ 
 pey, in his third consulship, was the first who 
 curbed the spirit of eloquence : still, however, 
 permitting all causes to be heard, agreeably to 
 the laws, in the forum and before the prastors. 
 How much more considerable the business of 
 
422 
 
 those magistrates was, than that of the centum-" 
 virs, who at present determine all causes, is evi- 
 dent, from this circumstance, that not a single 
 oration of Cicero, Caesar, or Brutus, or in short 
 of any one celebrated orator, was spoken before 
 these last, excepting only those of Pollio in fa- 
 vour of the heirs of Urbinia. But then it must 
 be remembered, that these were delivered about 
 the middle of the reign of Augustus, when a long 
 and uninterrupted peace abroad, a perfect tran- 
 quillity at home, together with the general good 
 conduct of that wise prince, had damped the 
 flames of eloquence as well as those of sedition. 
 You will smile, perhaps, at what I am going 
 to say, and I mention it for that purpose ; but 
 is there not something in the present confined 
 garb of our orators, that has an ill effect even 
 upon their elocution, and makes it appear low 
 and contemptible? May we not suppose like- 
 wise, that much of the spirit of oratory is sunk, 
 by that close and despicable scene wherein many 
 of our causes are now debated ? For the orator, 
 'like a generous steed, requires a free and open 
 space wherein to expatiate; otherwise, the force 
 of his powers is broken, and half the energy of 
 his talents is checked in their career. Tliere is 
 another circumstance also exceedingly prejudi- 
 cial to the interest of eloquence, as it prevents 
 
423 
 
 a due attention to style : we are now obliged to 
 enter upon our speecli whenever the judge calls 
 upon us; not to mention the frequent interrup- 
 tions which arise by the examination of witnesses. 
 Besides, the courts of judicature are at present 
 so unfrequented, that the orator seems to stand 
 alone, and talk to bare walls. But eloquence 
 rejoices in the clamour of loud applause, and 
 exults in a full audience, such as used to press 
 round the ancient orators when the forum stood 
 thronged with nobles: when a numerous retinue 
 of clients, when foreign ambassadors, and whole 
 cities assisted at the debate; and when even 
 Rome herself was concerned in the event. The 
 very appearance of that prodigious concourse 
 of people, which attended the trials of Bestia, 
 Cornelius, Scaurus, Milo, and Vatinius, must 
 have enflamed the breast of the coldest orator. 
 Accordingly we find, that of all the ancient ora- 
 tions now extant, there are none which have 
 more eminently distinguished their authors, than 
 those which were pronounced under such fa- 
 vourable circumstances. To these advantages 
 we may further add likewise, the frequent gene- 
 ral assemblies of the people, the privilege of ar- 
 raigning the most considerable personages, and 
 the popularity of such impeachments ; when the 
 sons of oratory spared not even Scipio, Sylla, 
 
424 
 
 or Pompey; and when, in consequence of such 
 acceptable attacks uj)on suspected power, they 
 were sure of being heard by the people with the 
 utmost attention and regard. How must these 
 united causes contribute to raise the genius, and 
 inspire the eloquence of the ancients ! 
 
 " Maternus, who, you will remember, was in 
 the midst of his harangue in favour of poetry 
 when Messalla first entered into the room, find- 
 ing Secundus was now silent, took that, oppor- 
 tunity of resuming his invective against the exer- 
 cise of the oratorical arts in general." That 
 species of eloquence, said he, wherein poetry is 
 concerned, is calm and peaceable, moderate and 
 virtuous : whereas that other supreme kind which 
 my two friends here have been describing, is the 
 offspring of licentiousness (by fools miscalled 
 liberty) and the companion of sedition ; bold, 
 obstinate, and haughty, unknowing how to yield 
 or how to obey, an encourager of a lawless po- 
 pulace, and a stranger in all well-regulated com- 
 munities. Who ever heard of an orator in La- 
 cedtemon or Crete ? cities which exercised the 
 severest discipline, and were governed by the 
 strictest laws. We have no account of Persian 
 or Macedonian eloquence, or indeed of that of 
 any other state which submitted to a regular ad- 
 ministration of government. Whereas Rhodes 
 
425 
 
 and Athens (places of popular rule, where all 
 things lay open to all men) swarmed ^vith orators 
 innumerable. In the same manner, Rome, while 
 she was under no settled policy ; while she was 
 torn with parties, dissensions, and factions; 
 while there was no peace in the forum, no har- 
 mony in the senate, no moderation in the judges; 
 while there was neither reverence paid to supe- 
 riors, nor bounds prescribed to magistrates — 
 Rome, under these circumstances, produced, be- 
 yond all dispute, a stronger and brighter vein of 
 eloquence ; as some valuable plants will flourish 
 even in the wildest soil. But the tongue of the 
 Gracchi did nothing compensate the republic for 
 their seditious laws; nor the superior eloquence 
 of Cicero make him any amends for his sad ca- 
 tastrophe. 
 
 The truth is, the forum (that single remain 
 which now survives of ancient oratory) is, even 
 in its present situation, an evident proof that all 
 things amongst us are not conducted in that 
 well-ordered manner one could wish. For, tell 
 me, is it not the guilty or the miserable alone, 
 that fly to us for assistance? When any com- 
 munity implores our protection, is it not because 
 it either is insulted by some neighbouring state, 
 or torn by domestic feuds ? And what province 
 ever seeks our patronage, till she has been plun- 
 
 2f 
 
426- 
 
 dercd or oppressed ? But far better it surely is, 
 never to have been injured, than at last to be 
 redressed. If there was a government in the 
 world free from commotions and disturbances, 
 the profession of oratory would there be as use- 
 less, as that of medicine to the sound : and as 
 the physician would have little practice or profit 
 among the healthy and the strong, so neither 
 would the orator have much business or honour 
 where obedience and good manners universally 
 prevail. To what purpose are studied speeches 
 in a senate, where the better and the major part 
 of the assembly are already of one mind? What 
 the expediency of haranguing the populace, 
 Avhere public affairs are not determined by the 
 voice of an ignorant and giddy multitude, but 
 by the steady wisdom of a single person? To 
 what end voluntary informations, where crimes 
 are unfrequent and inconsiderable? or of la- 
 boured and invidious defences, where the cle- 
 mency of the judge is ever on the side of the 
 accused ? Believe me then, my worthy (and, as 
 far as the circumstances of the age require, my 
 eloquent) friends, had the gods reversed the 
 date of your existence, and placed you m the 
 times of those ancients we so much admire, and 
 them in yours; you would not have fallen short 
 of that glorious spirit which distinguished their 
 
427 
 
 oratory, nor would theij have been destitute of 
 a proper temperature and moderation. But 
 since a liigh reputation for eloquence is not con- 
 sistent witii great repose in the public, let every 
 age enjoy its own peculiar advantages, without 
 derogating from those of a former. 
 
 Maternus having ended, Messalla observed, 
 that there were some points which his friend 
 had laid down, that were not perfectly agreeable 
 to his sentiments : as there were others, which 
 he wished to hear explained more at large : but 
 the time is now, said he, too far advanced. If 
 I have maintained any tiling, replied Maternus, 
 which requires to be opened more explicitly, I 
 shall be ready to clear it up in some future con- 
 ference : at the same time, rising from his seat 
 and embracing Aper; Messalla and I (continued 
 he smiling) shall arraign you, be well assured, 
 before the poets and admirers of the ancients. 
 And I both of you (returned Aper) before tiie 
 rhetoricians. Tiius we parted in mutual good 
 humour. 
 
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