HAPPINESS, In a great Measure, Dependant on CONSTITUTION.

WHEN I reflect on the unambitious re­tirement in which I passed the earlier part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those happy days are never to return. In that retreat all nature seemed capable of affording pleasure; I then made no refinements on happiness, but could be pleased with the most aukward efforts of rustic mirth; thought cross-purposes the highest stretch of hu­man wit, and questions and commands the most rational amusement for spending the evening. Happy could so charming an illusion still con­tinue. I find age and knowledge only contribute to sour our dispositions. My present enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure Garrick gives, can no way compare to that I have received from a coun­try wag, who imitated a quaker's sermon. The music of Matei is dissonance to what I felt when our old dairy-maid sung me into tears with Johnny [Page 52] Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen.

Writers of every age have endeavoured to shew that pleasure is in us, and not in the objects of­fered for our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, every thing becomes a subject of enter­tainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in review like the figures of a procession; some may be aukward, others ill dressed; but none but a fool is for this en­raged with the master of the ceremonies.

I remember to have once seen a slave in a for­tification in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He was maimed, de­formed, and chained; obliged to toil from the appearance of day 'till night-fall, and condemned to this for life; yet, with all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practi­cal philosopher was here; an happy constitution supplied philosophy, and though seemingly desti­tute of wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy land around him. Every thing furnished him with an opportunity of mirth; and though some thought him from his insensibility a fool, he was [Page 53] such an ideot as philosophers might wish in vain to imitate.

They, who like him, can place themselves on that side of the world in which every thing appears in a ridiculous or pleasing light, will find some­thing in every occurrence to excite their good humour. The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring no new affliction; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of he­roism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own distress, or the com­plaints of others, as the undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral.

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Car­dinal De Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he was generally foremost to raise the auction. Being an universal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more favourable reception: If she too rejected his ad­dresses, he never thought of retiring into desarts, or pining in hopeless distress. He persuaded him­self, [Page 54] that instead of loving the lady, he only fan­cied he had loved her, and so all was well again. When fortune wore her angriest look, when he at last fell into the power of his most deadly enemy Cardinal Mazarine, and was confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes, he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though secluded from hi [...] friends, though denied all the amusements, and even the conveniencies of life, teized every hour by the impertinence of wretches who were em­ployed to guard him, he still retained his good humour, laughed at all their little spite, and car­ried the jest so far as to be revenged, by writing the life of his goaler.

All that philosophy can teach, is to be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's ex­ample will instruct us to be merry in circumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our good humour be construed by others into insensibility, or even ideotism; it is happiness to ourselves, and none but a fool would measure his satisfaction by what the world thinks of it.

Dick Wildgoose was one of the happiest silly fellows I ever knew. He was of the number of [Page 55] those good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever Dick fell into any misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imi­tating the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiss to Dick. His inattention to money matters had incensed his father to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends in his favour, was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death­bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered around him. I leave my second son Andrew, said the expiring miser, my whole estate, and desire him to be frugal. Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, Prayed heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it himself. I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thousand pounds. Ah! father, cried Simon, (in great affliction to be sure) May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself. At last, turning to poor Dick; as for you, you have al­ways been a sad dog, you'll never come to good, you'll never be rich, I'll leave you a shilling to buy an halter. Ah! father, cries Dick, without any emotion, May heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourself. This was all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thought­less imprudent creature. However, the tender­ness [Page 56] of an uncle recompenced the neglect of a father; and Dick is now not only excessively good-humoured, but competently rich.

The world, in short, may cry out at a bank­rupt who appears at a ball; at an author who laughs at the public which pronounces him a dunce; at a general who smiles at the reproach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good hu­mour in spite of scandal; but such is the wisest behaviour they can possibly assume; it is certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution to oppose it: By the first method we forget our miseries, by the last we only conceal them from others; by struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to receive some wounds in the conflict. The only method to come off victorious, is by running away.

ON OUR THEATRES.

MAdemoiselle Clairon, a celebrated actress at Paris, seems to me the most perfect fe­male figure I have ever seen upon any stage. Not, perhaps, that nature has been more liberal of per­sonal beauty to her, than some to be seen upon our theatres at home. There are actresses here who have as much of what connoisseurs call statuary grace, by which is meant elegance un­connected with motion, as she; but they all fall infinitely short of her, when the soul comes to give expression to the limbs, and animates every feature.

Her first appearance is excessively engaging; she never comes in staring round upon the com­pany, as if she intended to count the benefits of the house, or at least to see, as well as be seen. Her eyes are always, at first, intently fixed upon the persons of the drama, and she lifts them by degrees, with enchanting diffidence, upon the spectators. Her first speech, or at least the first part of it, is delivered with scarce any motion of the arm; her hands and her tongue never set out together; but the one prepares us for the [Page 58] other. She sometimes begins with a mute, eloquent attitude; but never goes forward all at once with hands, eyes, head, and voice. This observation, though it may appear of no importance, should certainly be adverted to; nor do I see any one performer (Garrick only excepted) among us, that is not, in this particular, apt to offend. By this simple beginning she gives herself a power of rising in the passion of the scene. As she pro­ceeds, every gesture, every look acquires new violence, till at last transported, she fills the whole vehemence of the part, and all the idea of the poet.

Her hands are not alternately stretched out, and then drawn in again, as with the singing women at Sadler's-wells; they are employed with graceful variety, and every moment please with new and unexpected eloquence. Add to this, that their motion is generally from the shoulder; she never flourishes her hands while the upper part of her arm is motionless, nor has she the ri­diculous appearance, as if her elbows were pinned to her hips.

But of all the cautions to be given our rising actresses, I would particularly recommend it to them never to take notice of the audience, upon any occasion whatsoever; let the spectators ap­plaud never so loudly, their praises should pass, [Page 59] except at the end of the epilogue, with seeeming inattention. I can never pardon a lady on the stage who, when she draws the admiration of the whole audience, turns about to make them a low courtesy for their applause. Such a figure no longer continues Belvidera, but at once drops into Mrs. Cibber. Suppose a sober tradesman, who once a year takes his shilling's worth at Drury-lane, in order to be delighted with the figure of a queen, the queen of Sheba for instance, or any other queen: This honest man has no other idea of the great but from their superior pride and impertinence: Suppose such a man placed among the spectators, the first figure that presents on the stage is the queen herself, courte­fying and cringing to all the company; how can he fancy her the haughty favourite of king Solomon the wise, who appears actually more submissive than the wife of his bosom. We are all tradesmen of a nicer relish in this respect, and such a conduct must disgust every spectator who loves to have the illusion of nature strong upon him.

Yet, while I recommend to our actresses a skil­ful attention to gesture, I would not have them study it in the looking-glass. This, without some precaution, will render their action formal; by too great an intimacy with this, they become stiff and affected. People seldom improve, when they have no other model but themselves to copy after. [Page 60] I remember to have known a notable performer of the other sex, who made great use of this flatter­ing monitor, and yet was one of the stiffest figures I ever saw. I am told his apartment was hung round with looking-glass, that he might see his person twenty times reflected upon entering the room; and I will make bold to say, he saw twenty very ugly fellows whenever he did so.

On the USE of LANGUAGE.

THE manner in which most writers begin their treatises on the Use of Language, is generally thus: ‘"Language has been granted to man, in order to discover his wants and necessities, so as to have them re­lieved by society. Whatever we desire, what­ever we wish, it is but to cloath those desires or wishes in words, in order to fruition; the principal use of language, therefore, say they, is to express our wants, so as to receive a speedy redress."’

[Page 66]Such an account as this may serve to satisfy grammarians and rhetoricians well enough, but men who know the world, maintain very contrary maxims; they hold, and I think with some shew of reason, they hold, that he who best knows how to conceal his necessities and desires, is the most likely person to find redress, and that the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them.

When we reflect on the manner in which mankind generally confer their favours, we shall find that they who seem to want them least, are the very persons who most liberally share them. There is something so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the smaller; and the poor find as much pleasure in encreasing the enor­mous mass, as the miser, who owns it, sees hap­piness in its encrease. Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of true morality. Seneca himself allows, that in conferring benefits, the present should always be suited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling stations are obliged to be content with presents something less, while the beggar, who may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his warmest solicitations.

[Page 67]Every man who has seen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine, and must know that to have much, or to seem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column; the lower it sinks, the greater weight it is obliged to sustain. Thus, when a man has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him. Should he ask his friend to lend him an hundred pounds, it is possible, from the largeness of his demand, he may find credit for twenty; but should he humbly only sue for a trifle, it is two to one whether he might be trusted for two pence. A certain young fellow at George's, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he wanted two hundred, and talked so familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a new suit from his taylor, al­ways made the proposal in laced cloaths; for he found by experience, that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, Mr. Lynch had taken an oath against trusting; or what was every bit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and would not be at home these two days.

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, except to find pity, and by this means relief; but [Page 68] before a poor man opens his mind in such circum­stances, he should first consider whether he is con­tented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendship only to excite compassion. Pity and friendship are pas­sions incompatible with each other, and it is im­possible that both can reside in any breast for the smallest space, without impairing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and pleasure; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt; the mind may for some time fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both together.

Yet let it not be thought that I would exclude pity from the human mind. There is scarce any who are not in some degree possessed of this pleasing softness; but it is at best but a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress more than transitory assistance: With some it scarce lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others it may continue for twice that space, and on some of extraordinary sensi­bility, I have seen it operate for half an hour. But, however, last as it will, it generally produces but beggarly effects; and where, from this mo­tive we give an halfpenny, from others we give always pound. In great distress we sometimes, it is true, feel the influence of tenderness strongly; when the same distress solicits a second time, we then feel with diminished sensibility, but like the [Page 69] repetition of an eccho, every new impulse becomes weaker, till at last our sensations lose every mix­ture of sorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt.

Jack Spindle and I were old acquaintance; but he's gone. Jack was bred in a compting-house, and his father dying just as he was out of his time, left him an handsome fortune, and many friends to advise with. The restraint in which he had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as an habitual pru­dence, and from such considerations, he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Those who had money, were ready to offer him their assistance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. Jack, however, was in good circumstances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife, and therefore modestly declined their proposals.

Some errors in the management of his affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought Jack to a different way of thinking; and he at last thought it his best way to let his friends know that their offers were at length acceptable. His first address was therefore to a scrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been refused.

[Page 70]Jack, therefore, thought he might use his old friend without any ceremony, and as a man con­fident of not being refused, requested the use of an hundred guineas for a few days, as he just then had an occasion for money. ‘"And pray, Mr. Spindle, replied the scrivener, do you want all this money?"’ ‘"Want it, Sir, says the other, if I did not want it, I should not have asked it."’ ‘"I am sorry for that, says the friend; for those who want money when they come to borrow, will want money when they should come to pay. To say the truth, Mr. Spindle, money is money now-a-days. I believe it is all sunk in the bot­tom of the sea, for my part; and he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got."’

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our ad­venturer was resolved to apply to another, whom he knew to be the very best friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendship. ‘"Let me see, you want an hundred guineas, and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty answer."’ ‘" If you have but fifty to spare, Sir, I must be con­tented."’ ‘"Fifty to spare, I do not say that, for I believe I have but twenty about me."’ ‘" Then I must borrow the other thirty from some other friend."’ ‘"And pray, replied the friend, would [Page 71] it not be the best way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know. Lord, Mr. Spin­dle, make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I'm your friend, and when you chuse a bit of dinner or so.——You, Tom, see the the gentleman down. You wont forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble ser­vant."’

Distressed, but not discouraged at this treat­ment, he was at last resolved to find that assistance from love, which he could not have from friend­ship. Miss Jenny Dismal had a fortune in her own hands, and she had already made all the ad­vances that her sex's modesty would permit. He made his proposal therefore with confidence, but soon perceived, No bankrupt ever found the fair one kind. Miss Jenny and Master Billy Galloon were lately fallen deeply in love with each other, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would soon be a match.

Every day now began to strip Jack of his former finery; his cloaths flew piece by piece to the pawn­broker's, and he seemed at length equipped in the genuine mourning of antiquity. But still he thought himself secure from starving, the num­berless invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, were yet unanswered; he was therefore now resolved to accept of a dinner be­cause [Page 72] he wanted one; and in this manner he ac­tually lived among his friends a whole week with­out being openly affronted. The last place I saw poor Jack was at the Rev. Dr. Gosling's. He had, as he fancied, just nicked the time, for he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair without being desired, and talked for some time without being attended to. He assured the com­pany, that nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk to White Conduit-house, where he had been that morning. He looked at the table-cloth, and praised the figure of the damask; talked of a feast where he had been the day before, but that the venison was over done. All this, however, procured the poor creature no invitation, and he was not yet sufficiently hardened to stay without being asked; wherefore, finding the gentleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought proper, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite by a walk in the Park.

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace; whether in Kent-street or the Mall; whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I advise as a friend, never seem in want of the favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion but pity, for redress. You may find re­lief from vanity, from self-interest, or from ava­rice, but seldom from compassion. The very eloquence of a poor man is disgusting; and that [Page 73] mouth which is opened even for flattery, is seldom expected to close without a petition.

If then you would ward off the gripe of poverty, pretend to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you with ceremony. Hear not my ad­vice, but that of Offellus. If you be caught din­ing upon a halfpenny porrenger of pease soup and potatoes, praise the wholesomeness of your frugal repast. You may observe, that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed pease broth for the gravel, hint that you are not one of those who are always making a god of your belly. If you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of winter, be the first to remark that stuffs are very much worn at Paris. If there be found some irreparable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coaxing, or derning, say, that neither you nor Sampson Gideon were ever very fond of dress. Or if you be a phi­losopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the taylors you choose to employ; assure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering, since what now is so much the pride of some, was formerly our shame. Horace will give you a La­tin sentence fit for the occasion, ‘Toga defendere frigus quamvis crassa queat.’

[Page 74]In short, however caught, do not give up, but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstances, and appear rather to be a miser than a beggar. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain method never to rise. Pride in the great is hateful, in the wise it is ridiculous; beg­garly pride is the only sort of vanity I can excuse.

ON JUSTICE AND GENEROSITY.

LYSIPPUS is a man whose greatness of soul the whole world admires. His gene­rosity is such, that it prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the trouble and the confusion of a request. His liberality also does not oblige more by its greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to strangers, and has been known to do good offices to those who professed them­selves his enemies. All the world are unani­mous in the praise of his generosity; there is only one sort of people, who complain of his conduct. Lysippus does not pay his debts.

It is no difficult matter to account for a con­duct so seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness in being generous, and there is only simple justice in satisfying his creditors. Gene­rosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of what we admire in [Page 82] heroes, and praise with a degree of rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mere mechanic virtue, only fit for tradesmen, and what is prac­tised by every broker in Change Alley.

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world. Ge­nerosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised above duty, and from its elevation attracts the attention, and the praises of us little mortals below.

In this manner do men generally reason upon justice and generosity. The first is despised, though a virtue essential to the good of society, and the other attracts our esteem, which too frequently proceeds from an impetuosity of tem­per, rather directed by vanity than reason. Ly­sippus is told that his banker asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a distressed acquaintance peti­tions for the same sum. He gives it without hesitating to the latter; for he demands as a fa­vour what the former requires as a debt.

Mankind in general are not sufficiently ac­quainted with the import of the word Justice: It is commonly believed to consist only in a per­formance of those duties to which the laws of [Page 83] society can oblige us. This I allow is sometimes the import of the word, and in this sense justice is distinguished from equity; but there is a justice still more extensive, and which can be shewn to embrace all the virtues united.

Justice may be defined, that virtue which im­pels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason pre­scribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature, virtues; and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them. Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is at best indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The ex­pences of society, of presents, of entertainments, [Page 84] and the other helps to chearfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities, but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposi­tion of our circumstances.

True generosity is a duty as indispensibly neces­sary as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule imposed upon us by reason, which should be the sovereign law of a rational being. But this generosity does not consist in obeying every im­pulse of humanity, in following blind passion for our guide, and impairing our circumstances by present benefactions, so as to render us incapable of future ones.

Misers are generally characterized as men without honour, or without humanity, who live only to accumulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. They have been described as madmen, who, in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But few, very few, cor­respond to this exaggerated picture; and, perhaps, there is not one in whom all these circumstances are found united. Instead of this, we find the sober and the industrious branded by the vain and the idle, with this odious appellation. Men who, by frugality and labour, raise themselves above [Page 85] their equals, and contribute their share of in­dustry to the common stock.

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well were it for society had we more of this cha­racter amongst us. In general, these close men are found at last the true benefactors of society. With an avaricious man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too frequently in our commerce with prodigality.

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for a long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to relieve the most apparent wretched­ness, and by a skilful management of his vine­yard, had the good fortune to acquire immense sums of money. The inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, detested him, and the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever he went, received him with contempt. He still, however, continued his former simplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. This good man had long perceived the wants of the poor in the city, particularly, in having no water but what they were obliged to buy at an advanced price; wherefore, that whole fortune, which he had been amassing, he laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor more useful and lasting service, than if he had distributed his whole in­come in charity every day at his door.

[Page 86]Among men long conversant with books, we too frequently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have been now complaining. We find the studious animated with a strong passion, for the great virtues, as they are mistakenly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally rather exhausted on these supererogatory duties, than on such as are indispensably necessary. A man, therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from study alone, generally comes into the world with an heart melting at every fictitious distress. Thus he is induced by misplaced liberality, to put himself into the indigent circumstances of the person he relieves.

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of the Ancients, to a young man, whom he saw giving away all his substance to pretended distress. ‘"It is possible, that the person you relieve, may be an honest man; and I know, that you, who relieve him, are such. You see, then, by your generosity, you only rob a man, who is certainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may possibly be a rogue. And while you are unjust in rewarding uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping yourself."’

ON WIT. By VOLTAIRE.

WIT seems to be one of those undetermined sounds to which we affix scarce any precise idea. It is something more than judgment, ge­nius, taste, talent, penetration, grace, delicacy, and yet it partakes somewhat of each. It may be properly defined ingenious reason. It is one of those general terms which always want another word to determine their signification; and when we hear such a work praised for being witty, such a man applauded for wit, it is but just to ask of what sort

Thus Corneille with sublimity, and Boileau with exactness; Fontaine with simplicity, and Bruyere by being natural, are all reckoned men of wit, yet each differs from the other; and still more from some philosophers, who may be ac­counted witty men, who join sagacity to imagina­tion.

They who despise the Genius of Aristotle (in­stead of being contented with rejecting his Physics [Page 88] only, which cannot be good, as he had but few experiments to direct them) will be much sur­prized to find in his rhetoric the manner of saying things wittily. He informs us there, that the art does not consist in simply using the proper term, which offers to the imagination nothing new. We ought, says he, rather to employ a metaphor, or a figure, the sense of which must be clear, and the expression energetic.

Of this he gives several examples, and, among others, the expression of Pericles, in talking of a battle in which the most beautiful of the youth of Athens were slain, The year has been deprived of its spring. He adds, that the thought also should have the grace of novelty. The person who first, to express how pleasures were generally attended with pain, made use of the simile of roses being gathered among thorns, had wit. But it is otherwise with those who repeat it after him.

But a metaphor is not always the wittiest man­ner of expressing a thing with spirit, a great deal consists in an unexpected turn, in leaving us to understand, without trouble, a part of the poet's meaning. This is so much the more pleasing, as it seems an indirect compliment to the reader, and shews his wit, as well as that of the Poet. Allu­sion, allegory, comparison, each furnishes an ex­tensive field of ingenuity; history, fable, and the [Page 89] effects of nature, furnish matter to a well-regulated imagination, that can never be exhausted.

Let us then consider in what Places wit should be admitted. It seems pretty manifest, that, in works of dignity, it should be used with caution, as it is only, at best, an ornament. The great art is in the proper timing this ornament. A fine thought, a just or elegant comparison, are faults, when reason only, or when passion should speak, and particularly where the subject is interesting. Using it in such circumstances as these, should not be called false wit (as Addison commonly expresses it;) but wit displaced, and every misplaced beauty is rather a defect. This is a fault in which Virgil never transgresses, and with which Tasso may be sometimes reproached, all admirable as he is at other times. This error generally arises from an author's exuberance; filled with ideas of different kinds, he is desirous of shewing himself, when he ought only to exhibit his personages. The best method of knowing the true use to be made of wit is, by reading the small number of good works, both in the learned languages, and in our own.

False wit, as I have already hinted, is very dif­ferent from displaced wit. This is not only a false thought, but it is generally far-fetched also. A man of some wit, who formerly abridged [Page 90] Homer in French verse, imagined he added beau­ties to the old simple bard, in sometimes lending him embellishments. On the reconciling Achilles with Agamemnon, he thus flourishes it:

His taming himself does by no means imply his conquering others; but this is not the absurdity alone, but in making the army, as if by in­spiration, join in a far-fetched observation. If this shocks the reader of nice discernment, how much more so must all those forced expres­sions, cold yet stiffened allusions, and bloated nothings displease, which are found in great plenty in works of otherwise real merit. How can we bear to hear a mathematician say, ‘"If Saturn should happen to be removed, the remotest of his satellites would probably take his place, since great princes always keep their successors at a distance."’ It is intolerable, when speaking of Hercules understanding physicks, to say that there was no resisting a philosopher of his force. The desire of sparkling and surprising is too fre­quently the cause of excesses of this kind.

[Page 91]This trifling vanity has also produced the play­ing upon words in every language, which is the worst sort of false wit.

False taste is very different from false wit, as the latter always proceeds from affectation, from an effort to go wrong; on the contrary, the other is an habit of going wrong without design, and fol­lowing, as if by instinct, some bad, though esta­blished model. The incoherent exuberance of an oriental imagination is a false taste, and an im­proper example to imitate: however, they more frequently transgress in this respect, rather from a poverty than a copiousness of real genius. Falling stars, splitting mountains, rivers flowing to their sources, the sun and moon dissolving, false and un­natural comparisons, and nature every where ex­aggerated, form the character of these writers; and this arises from their never, in these countries, being permitted to speak in public. True elo­quence has never been cultivated there, and it is much easier to write in a turgid strain, than with ease and delicate simplicity.

In a word, false wit is entirely the opposite of the Eastern manner; the man of false wit desires to say in riddles, what others have spoken natu­rally. He desires to unite ideas the most incom­patible, to divide those which nature has united. To catch unnatural similitudes, without discretion [Page 92] to unite pleasantry with what is serious, to mix great and little images together, and to confuse instead of satisfying the imagination.

But perspicuity is not the only part of stile in which false wit is not conspicuous, we are at the same time too fond of embellishment. In our most applauded productions there is scarce a sen­tence which is not loaded with unnecessary orna­ment, which, though it may add grace to a pe­riod, generally disunites the force of a paragraph. The attention, as in Gothic architecture is split upon a number of minute elegances, which, though each are separately pretty, diminish the force of the whole.

These are faults that seem to characterize the writings of the age; to these every author who would be admired must conform. With these faults he is sure of immediate applause, though frequently scarce allowed a reading. We have seen many a writer, of late, make his appearance with these qualifications, instead of merit; we have seen him read by a few, praised by all, and soon forgotten.

I have been often at a loss, whether to ascribe the decline of taste in a nation, to the reader or the writer. Perhaps both are in fault; the one satiated with varied instances of perfection, grows [Page 93] whimsical, desires something new, and mistakes change for improvement. The other, willing to avoid the character of an imitator, borrows peculiarities from affectation, and becomes origi­nal only in trifles. In short, it is as difficult now among such a number of candidates, to catch the attention without these oddities of stile, as to be remarkable in a crowd without some pe­culiarity in dress and behaviour.

But these are generally fleeting modes, which are introduced by the great, brought up to please for a day, soon to be displaced by others, which have the advantages of being more new to recom­mend them. The literary republic, however, will never suffer real injury from such; for what­ever pleases from its novelty alone, can never please long. Not from these, then, but from the compilers and commentators of the day, is literature to expect the mortal blow; from pe­dants, who have no claim but their industry for our applause; from laborious drones, who write through folios, but do not think through a page.

THE CHARACTERISTICS OF GREATNESS.

IN every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some cer­tain station even beyond our abilities; some ima­ginary excellence, which may amuse and serve to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others, in following an unbeaten road, though we, perhaps, may never arrive at the wish'd-for object; yet it is possible we may meet several dis­coveries by the way; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel with security, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards, which inspire the adventurer. Evenit nonnunquam, says Quintillian, ut aliquid grande inveniat qui semper quaerit quod nimium est.

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the present age; every person who should now leave received opinions, who should attempt to be more than a commen­tator [Page 120] upon philosophy, or an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical pro­jector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with re­proach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties; the difficulties hitherto undiscovered, as utterly inscrutable; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore the properest models of imitation.

One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the age, which in proportion as it enlightens the mind, encreases its timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are now content with being prudently in the right; which, though not the way to make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends may compliment him upon his sagacity, though criticism lists her feeble voice in his praise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of a writer's faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our noblest works are generally most replete with both.

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his thought into burlesque; yet I can readily [Page 121] pardon his mistaking ten times for once succeed­ing. True Genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greatest pleasure is in seeing it so often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every science has its hitherto undiscovered my­steries, after which men should travel undiscou­raged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt serves, perhaps, to facilitate its fu­ture invention. We may not find the Philoso­pher's stone, but we shall probably hit upon new inventions in pursuing it. We shall, per­haps, never be able to discover the longitude, yet, pehaps, we may arrive at new truths in the investigation.

Were any of these sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, or no period, could ever compare with us in this particular) were any of those minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another's system, bravely to shake off admiration, and undazzled with the splendour of another's reputation, to chalk out a path to fame for themselves, and boldly culti­vate untried experiment, what might not be the result of their enquiries, should the same study that has made them wise, make them en­terprizing also? What could not such qualities, united, produce? But such is not the character [Page 122] of the English, while our neighbours of the con­tinent launch out into the ocean of science, without proper stores for the voyage, we fear shipwreck in every breeze, and consume in port those powers which might probably have weather'd every storm.

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their deserts; projectors in the republic of letters, never. If wrong, every inferior dunce thinks himself entituled to laugh at their disap­pointment; if right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose, since every new discovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all, must be ventured; by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do little service. Prudence and great­ness are ever persuading us to contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be content with our sta­tion, and to find happiness in bounding every wish. The other impels us to superiority, and calls nothing happiness but rapture. The one directs to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world. The other drives us from the crowd, and exposes us as a mark to all the shafts of envy, or ignorance.

[Page 123]The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid, those attending excellence generally paid in re­version. In a word, the little mind who loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevo­lence.

Upon POLITICAL FRUGALITY.

FRUGALITY has ever been esteemed a virtue as well among Pagans as Christians: There have been even heroes who have prac­tised it. However, we must ac­knowledge, that it is too modest a virtue, or, if you will, too obscure a one to be essential to he­roism, few heroes have been able to attain to such an height. Frugality agrees much better with po­liticks; it seems to be the base, the support, and, in a word, seems to be the inseparable companion of a just administration.

[Page 130]However this be, there is not, perhaps, in the world a people less fond of this virtue than the English, and of consequence there is not a nation more restless, more exposed to the uneasinesses of life, or less capable of providing for particular happiness. We are taught to despise this virtue from our childhood, our education is improperly directed, and a man who has gone through the politest institutions, is generally the person who is least acquainted with the wholesome precepts of frugality. We every day hear the elegance of taste, the magnificence of some, and the gene­rosity of others, made the subject of our admira­tion and applause. All this we see represented not as the end and recompense of labour and de­sert, but as the actual result of genius, as the mark of a noble and exalted mind.

In the midst of these praises bestowed on luxury, for which elegance and taste are but another name, perhaps it may be thought improper to plead the cause of frugality. It may be thought low, or vainly declamatory, to exhort our youth from the follies of dress, and of every other superfluity to accustom themselves, even with mechanic mean­ness, to the simple necessaries of life. Such sort of instructions may appear antiquated; yet, how­ever, they seem the foundations of all our vir­tues, and the most efficacious method of making mankind useful members of society. Unhappily, [Page 131] however, such discourses are not fashionable among us, and the fashion seems every day growing still more obsolete, since the press, and every other method of exhortation, seems disposed to talk of the luxuries of life as harmless enjoyments. I re­member, when a boy, to have remarked, that those who in school wore the finest cloaths, were pointed at as being conceited and proud. At pre­sent, our little masters are taught to consider dress betimes, and they are regarded, even at school, with contempt, who do not appear as genteel as the rest. Education should teach us to become useful, sober, disinterested and laborious members of society; but does it not at present point out a different path! It teaches us to multiply our wants, by which means we become more eager to possess, in order to dissipate, a greater charge to ourselves, and more useless or obnoxious to society.

If a youth happens to be possessed of more genius than fortune, he is early informed that he ought to think of his advancement in the world; that he should labour to make himself pleasing to his superiors; that he should shun low company; (by which is meant the company of his equals) that he should rather live a little above than below his fortune; that he should think of becoming great; but he finds none to admonish him to be­come frugal, to persevere in one single design, to [Page 132] avoid every pleasure and all flattery, which, how­ever, seeming to conciliate the favour of his su­periors, never conciliate their esteem. There are none to teach him that the best way of be­coming happy in himself, and useful to others, is to continue in the state which fortune at first placed him, without making too hasty strides to advancement; that greatness may be attained, but should not be expected; and that they who most impatiently expect advancement, are seldom possessed of their wishes. He has few, I say, to teach him this lesson, or to moderate his youthful passions, yet, this experience may say, that a young man, who but for six years of the early part of his life, could seem divested of all his passions, would certainly make, or considerably increase his fortune, and might indulge several of his favourite inclinations in manhood with the utmost security.

The efficaciousness of these means are suffi­ciently known and acknowledged; but as we are apt to connect a low idea with all our notions of frugality, the person who would persuade us to it, might be accused of preaching up avarice.

Of all vices, however, against which morality dissuades, there is not one more undetermined than this of avarice. Misers are described by some, as men divested of honour, sentiment or huma­nity; [Page 133] but this is only an ideal picture, or the resemblance at least is found but in a few. In truth, they who are generally called misers, are some of the very best members of society. The sober, the laborious, the attentive, the frugal, are thus stiled by the gay, giddy, thoughtless and extravagant. The first set of men do society all the good, and the latter all the evil that is felt. Even the excesses of the first no way injure the commonwealth; those of the latter are the most injurious that can be conceived.

The ancient Romans, more rational than we in this particular, were very far from thus mis­placing their admiration or praise; instead of re­garding the practice of parsimony as low or vi­cious, they made it synonimous even with pro­bity. They esteemed those virtues so inseparable, that the known expression of Vir Frugi signified, at one and the same time, a sober and managing man, an honest man, and a man of substance.

The scriptures, in a thousand places, praise oeco­nomy; and it is every where distinguished from avarice. But in spite of all its sacred dictates, a taste for vain pleasures and foolish expence is the ruling passion of the present times. Passion did I call it, rather the madness which at once pos­sesses the great and the little, the rich and the poor; even some are so intent upon acquiring the [Page 134] superfluities of life, that they sacrifice its necessaries in this foolish pursuit.

To attempt the entire abolition of luxury, as it would be impossible, so it is not my intent. The generality of mankind are too weak, too much slaves, to custom and opinion, to resist the torrent of bad example. But if it be impossible to convert the multitude; those who have received a more extended education, who are enlightened and judicious, may find some hints on this subject useful. They may see some abuses, the suppres­sion of which would by no means endanger public liberty; they may be directed to the abolition of some unnecessary expences, which have no ten­dency to promote happiness or virtue, and which might be directed to better purposes. Our fire­works, our public feasts and entertainments, our entries of ambassadors, &c. what mummery all this; what childish pageants, what millions are sacrificed in paying tribute to custom, what an un­necessary charge at times when we are pressed with real want, which cannot be satisfied without burthening the poor?

Were such suppressed entirely, not a single crea­ture in the state would have the least cause to mourn their suppression, and many might be eased of a load they now feel lying heavily upon them. If this were put in practice, it would agree with the [Page 135] advice of a sensible writer of Sweden, who, in the Gazette de France, 1753, thus expressed himself on that subject. ‘"It were sincerely to be wished, says he, that the custom were established amongst us, that in all events which cause a publick joy, we made our exultations conspicuous only by acts useful to society. We should then quickly see many useful monuments of our reason, which would much better perpetuate the me­mory of things worthy of being transmitted to posterity, and would be much more glorious to humanity than all these tumultuous prepara­tions of feasts, entertainments, and other re­joicings used upon such occasions."’

The same proposal was long before confirmed by a Chinese emperor, who lived in the last cen­tury, who, upon an occasion of extraordinary joy, forbad his subjects to make the usual illluminations, either with a design of sparing their substance, or of turning them to some more durable indication of joy, more glorious for him, and more ad­vantageous to his people.

After such instances of political frugality, can we then continue to blame the Dutch ambassador at a certain court, who receiving, at his depar­ture, the portrait of the king, enriched with diamonds, asked what this fine thing might be worth? Being told that it might amount to about [Page 136] two thousand pounds. ‘"And why, cries he, can­not his majesty keep the picture, and give me the money?"’ This simplicity may be ridiculed at first; but, when we come to examine it more closely, men of sense will at once confess that he had reason in what he said, and that a purse of two thousand guineas is much more serviceable than a picture.

Should we follow the same method of state fru­gality in other respects, what numberless savings might not be the result! How many possibilities of saving in the administration of justice, which now burdens the subject, and enriches some mem­bers of society, who are useful only from its cor­ruption!

It were to be wished, that they who govern kingdoms, would imitate artizans. When at London a new stuff has been invented, it is im­mediately counterfeited in France. How happy were it for society, if a first minister would be equally solicitous to transplant the useful laws of other countries into his own. We are arrived at a perfect imitation of Porcelaine; let us endeavour to imitate the good to society that our neighbours are found to practise, and let our neighbours also imitate those parts of duty in which we excel.

There are some men, who, in their garden, attempt to raise those fruits which nature has [Page 137] adapted only to the sultry climates beneath the line. We have at our very doors a thousand laws and customs infinitely useful; these are the fruits we should endeavour to transplant; these the exotics that would speedily become naturalized to the soil. They might grow in every climate, and benefit every possessor.

The best and the most useful laws I have ever seen, are generally practised in Holland. When two men are determined to go to law with each other, they are first obliged to go before the re­conciling judges, called the peace makers. If the parties come attended with an advocate or a soli­citor, they are obliged to retire, as we take fuel from the fire we are desirous of extinguishing.

The peace makers then begin advising the parties, by assuring them, that it is the height of folly to waste their substance, and make them­selves mutually miserable, by having recourse to the tribunals of justice: Follow but our direction, and we will accommodate matters without any expence to either. If the rage of debate is too strong upon either party, they are remitted back for another day, in order that time may soften their tempers, and produce a reconciliation. They are thus sent for twice or thrice; if their folly happens to be incurable, they are permitted to go to law, and as we give up to amputation, such [Page 138] members as cannot be cured by art, justice is permitted to take its course.

It is unnecessary to make here long declama­tions, or calculate what society would save, were this law adopted. I am sensible, that the man who advises any reformation, only serves to make himself ridiculous. What! mankind will be apt to say, adopt the customs of countries that have not so much real liberty as our own, our present customs what are they to any man; we are very happy under them! This must be a very pleasant fellow, who attempts to make us happier than we already are! Does he not know that abuses are the patrimony of a great part of the nation. Why deprive us of a malady by which such numbers find their account. This I must own is an argu­ment to which I have nothing to reply.

What numberless savings might there not be made in both arts and commerce, particularly in the liberty of exercising trade, without the neces­sary prerequisites of freedom! Such useless obstruc­tions have crept into every state, from a spirit of monopoly, a narrow selfish spirit of gain, with­out the least attention to general society. Such a clog upon industry frequently drives the poor from labour, and reduces them, by degrees, to a state of hopeless indigence. We have already a more than sufficient repugnance to labour; we should [Page 139] by no means encrease the obstacles, or make ex­cuses in a state for idleness. Such faults have ever crept into a state, under wrong or needy ad­ministrations.

Exclusive of the masters, there are numberless faulty expences among the workmen; clubs, gar­nishes, freedoms, and such like impositions, which are not too minute even for law to take notice of, and which should be abolished without mercy, since they are ever the inlets to excess and idle­ness, and are the parent of all those outrages which naturally fall upon the more useful part of society. In the towns and countries I have seen, I never saw a city or a village yet, whose miseries were not in proportion to the number of its pub­lic houses. In Rotterdam, you may go through eight or ten streets without finding a public house. In Antwerp, almost every second house seems an alehouse. In the one city, all wears the appear­ance of happiness and warm affluence; in the other, the young fellows walk about the streets in shabby finery, their fathers sit at the door derning or knitting stockings, while their ports are filled with dunghills.

Alehouses are ever an occasion of debauchery and excess, and either in a religious or political light, it would be our highest interest to have the greatest part of them suppressed. They should be put un­der [Page 140] laws of not continuing open beyond a certain hour, and harbouring only proper persons. These rules, it may be said, will diminish the necessary taxes; but this is false reasoning, since what was consumed in debauchery abroad, would, if such a regulation took place, be more justly, and per­haps, more equitably for the workman's family, spent at home; and this cheaper to them, and without loss of time. On the other hand, our alehouses being ever open, interrupt business; the workman is rever certain who frequents them, nor can the master be sure of having what was begun, finished at the convenient time.

An habit of frugality among the lower orders of mankind is much more beneficial to society than the unreflecting might imagine. The pawn­broker, the attorney, and other pests of society, might, by proper management, be turned into serviceable members; and, were their trades abolished, it is possible the same avarice that con­ducts the one, or the same chicanery that charac­terizes the other, might, by proper regulations, be converted into frugality, and commendable prudence.

But some have made the eulogium of luxury, have represented it as the natural consequence of every country that is become rich. Did we not employ our extraordinary wealth in superfluities, [Page 141] say they, what other means would there be to em­ploy it in? To which it may be answered, If frugality were established in the state, if our expences were laid out rather in the necessaries than the superfluities of life, there might be fewer wants, and even fewer pleasures, but infinitely more happiness. The rich and the great would be better able to satisfy their creditors; they would be better able to marry their children, and, in­stead of one marriage at present, there might be two, if such regulations took place.

The imaginary calls of vanity, which in reality contribute nothing to our real felicity, would not then be attended to, while the real calls of na­ture might he always and universally supplied. The difference of employment in the subject is what, in reality, produces the good of society. If the subject be engaged in providing only the luxuries, the necessaries must be deficient in pro­portion. If neglecting the produce of our own country, our minds are set upon the productions of another, we encrease our wants, but not our means; and every new imported delicacy for our tables, or ornament in our equipage, is a tax upon the poor.

The true interest of every government is to cultivate the necessaries, by which is always meant every happiness our own country can produce; and suppress all the luxuries, by which is meant, [Page 142] on the other hand, every happiness imported from abroad. Commerce has therefore its bounds; and every new import, instead of encouragement, should be first examined whether it be conducive to the interest of society.

Among the many publications with which the press is every day burthened, I have often won­dered why we never had, as in other countries, an Oeconomical Journal, which might at once direct to all the useful discoveries in other coun­tries, and spread those of our own. As other journals serve to amuse the learned, or what is more often the case, to make them quarrel, while they only serve to give us the history of the mischievous world, for so I call our warriors; or the idle world, for so may the learned be called; they never trouble their heads about the most use­ful part of mankind, our peasants and our arti­zans; were such a work carried into execution with proper management and just direction, it might serve as a repository for every useful improve­ment, and increase that knowledge which learning often serves to confound.

Sweden seems the only country where the sci­ence of oeconomy seems to have fixed its empire. In other countries, it is cultivated only by a few admirers, or by societies which have not received [Page 143] sufficient sanction to become compleatly useful; but here there is founded a royal academy, destined to this purpose only, composed of the most learned and powerful members of the state; an academy which declines every thing which only terminates in amusement, erudition or curiosity, and admits only of observations tending to illustrate husbandry, agriculture, and every real physical improvement. In this country nothing is left to private rapacity, but every improvement is immediately diffused, and its inventor immediately recompensed by the state. Happy were it so in other countries; by this means every impostor would be prevented from ruining or deceiving the publick with pre­tended discoveries or nostrums, and every real in­ventor would not, by this means, suffer the in­conveniences of suspicion.

In short, true oeconomy, equally unknown to the prodigal and avaricious, seems to be a just mean between both extremes; and to a transgression of this, at present decried virtue, it is that we are to at­tribute a great part of the evils which infest society. A taste for superfluity, amusement, and pleasure bring effeminacy, idleness, and expence in their train. But a thirst of riches is always proportioned to our debauchery, and the greatest prodigal is too frequently found to be the greatest miser; so that the vices which seem the most opposite, are fre­quently [Page 144] found to produce each other; and, to avoid both, it is only necessary to be frugal.

UPON UNFORTUNATE MERIT.

EVERY age seems to have its favourite pur­suits, which serve to amuse the idle, and re­lieve the attention of the industrious. Happy the man who is born excellent in the pursuit in vogue, and whose genius seems adapted to the times he lives in. How many do we see, who might have excelled in arts or sciences, and who seem fur­nished with talents equal to the greatest discoveries, had the road not been already beaten by their predecessors, and nothing left for them, except trifles to discover, while others, of very moderate abilities, become famous, because happening to be first in the reigning pursuit.

Thus, at the renewal of letters in Europe, the taste was not to compose new books, but to com­ment on the old ones. It was not to be expected that new books should be written, when there were so many of the Ancients, either not known, or not understood. It was not reasonable to at­tempt new conquests, while they had such an extensive region lying waste for want of cultiva­tion. At that period, criticism and erudition were the reigning studies of the times; and he, who had only an inventive genius, might have [Page 158] languished in hopeless obscurity. When the writers of antiquity were sufficiently explained and known, the learned set about imitating them: From hence proceeded the number of latin ora­tors, poets and historians, in the reigns of Clement the seventh, and Alexander the sixth. This pas­sion for antiquity lasted for many years, to the utter exclusion of every other pursuit, till some began to find, that those works which were imi­tated from nature, were more like the writings of antiquity, than even those written in express imi­tation. It was then modern language began to be cultivated with assiduity, and our poets and orators poured forth their wonders upon the world.

As writers become more numerous, it is natural for readers to become more indolent; from whence must necessarily arise a desire of attaining know­ledge with the greatest possible ease. No science or art offers its instruction and amusement in so ob­vious a manner as statuary and painting. From hence we see, that a desire of cultivating those arts generally attends the decline of science. Thus the finest statues, and the most beautiful paintings of antiquity preceded but a little the absolute decay of every other science. The statues of Antoninus, Comodus, and their cotemporaries, are the finest productions of the chissel, and appeared but just before learning was destroyed by comment, criti­cism, and barbarous invasions.

What happened in Rome may probably be the case with us at home. Our nobility are now more [Page 159] solicitous in patronizing painters and sculptors than those of any other polite profession; and from the lord, who has his gallery, down to the 'prentice, who has his twopenny copper-plate, all are admirers of this art. The great, by their caresses, seem in­sensible to all other merit but that of the pencil; and the vulgar buy every book rather from the ex­cellence of the sculptor than the writer.

How happy were it now, if men of real excel­lence in that profession were to arise! Were the painters of Italy now to appear, who once wan­dered like beggars from one city to another, and produce their almost breathing figures, what re­wards might they not expect! But many of them lived without rewards, and therefore rewards alone will never produce their equals. We have often found the great exert themselves not only without promotion, but in spite of opposition. We have found them flourishing, like medicinal plants, in a region of savageness and barbarity, their excellence unknown, and their virtues unheeded.

They who have seen the paintings of Cara­vagio are sensible of the surprising impression they make; bold, swelling, terrible to the last degree; all seem animated, and speaks him among the foremost of his profession; yet this man's fortune and his fame seemed ever in opposition to each other.

Unknowing how to flatter the great, he was driven from city to city in the utmost indigence, and might truly be said to paint for his bread.

[Page 160]Having one day insulted a person of distinction, who refused to pay him all the respect which he thought his due, he was obliged to leave Rome, and travel on foot, his usual method of going his journeys down into the country, without either money or friends to subsist him.

After he had travelled in this manner as long as his strength would permit, faint with famine and fatigue, he at last called at an obscure inn by the way side. The host knew, by the appearance of his guest, his indifferent circumstances, and re­fused to furnish him a dinner without previous payment.

As Caravagio was entirely destitute of money, he took down the inkeeper's sign, and painted it anew for his dinner.

Thus refreshed, he proceeded on his journey, and left the innkeeper not quite satisfied with this method of payment. Some company of distinction, however, coming soon after, and struck with the beauty of the new sign, bought it at an ad­vanced price, and astonished the innkeeper with their generosity; he was resolved, therefore, to get as many signs as possible drawn by the same artist, as he found he could sell them to good ad­vantage; and accordingly set out after Caravadgio, in order to bring him back. It was night-fall be­fore he came up to the place, where the unfortu­nate Caravagio lay dead by the road side, over­come by fatigue, resentment and despair.

On EDUCATION. To the AUTHOR of the BEE.

AS few subjects are more interesting to society, so few have been more frequently written upon, than the education of youth. Yet is it not a little surprizing, that it should have been treated almost by all in a declamatory manner? They have insisted largely on the ad­vantages that result from it, both to the in­dividual and to society, and have expatiated in [Page 162] the praise of what none have ever been so hardy as to call in question.

Instead of giving us fine, but empty harangues, upon this subject, instead of indulging each his particular and whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers on this subject had treated it in a more scientific manner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given us the result of their observations with didactic simplicity. Upon this subject, the smallest errors are of the most dangerous consequence; and the author should venture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where his slightest deviations may tend to injure the rising generation.

I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon this subject, which have not been attended to by others, and shall dismiss all attempts to please, while I study only instruction.

The manner in which our youth of London are at present educated is, some in free schools in the city, but the far greater number in boarding schools about town. The parent justly consults the health of his child, and finds an education in the country tends to promote this, much more than a continuance in town. Thus far they are right; if there were a possibility of having even our free schools kept a little out of town, it [Page 163] would certainly conduce to the health and vigour of, perhaps, the mind, as well as the body. It may be thought whimsical, but it is truth; I have found by experience, that they, who have spent all their lives in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but even of thinking.

But when I have said, that the boarding schools are preferable to free schools, as being in the country, this is certainly the only advantage I can allow them, otherwise it is impossible to con­ceive the ignorance of those who take upon them the important trust of education. Is any man unfit for any of the professions; he finds his last resource in setting up school. Do any become bankrupts in trade. They still set up a boarding school, and drive a trade this way, when all others fail: Nay, I have been told of butchers and barbers, who have turned schoolmasters; and more surprising still, made fortunes in their new profession.

Could we think ourselves in a country of civi­lized people; could it be conceived that we have any regard for posterity, when such are permitted to take the charge of the morals, genius and health of those dear little pledges, who may one day be the guardians of the liberties of Europe, and who may serve as the honour and bulwark of their aged parents? The care of our children, is it [Page 164] below the state? is it fit to indulge the caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of their children in this particular? For the state to take the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might at present be inconvenient; but surely, with great ease, it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all members of society, I do not know a more useful, or a more honourable one, than a school-master; at the same time that I do not see any more generally despised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded.

Were the salaries of school masters to be aug­mented from a diminution of useless sine cures, how might it turn to the advantage of this people; a people whom, without flattery, I may, in other respects, term the wisest and greatest upon earth. But while I would reward the de­serving, I would dismiss those utterly unqualified for their employment: In short, I would make the business of a school master every way more respectable, by encreasing their salaries, and ad­mitting only men of proper abilities.

There are already school masters appointed, and they have some small salaries; but where at present there is but one school master appointed, there should at least be two; and wherever the salary is at present twenty pounds, it should be an hundred. Do we give immoderate benefices [Page 165] to those who instruct ourselves, and shall we deny even subsistence to those who instruct our children. Every member of society should be paid in propor­tion as he is necessary; and I will be bold enough to say, that school masters in a state, are more necessary than clergymen, as children stand in more need of instruction than their parents.

But instead of this, as I have already observed, we send them to board in the country to the most ignorant set of men that can be imagined. But least the ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is generally consigned to the usher. This is generally some poor needy animal, little supe­rior to a footman either in learning or spirit, in­vited to his place by an advertisement, and kept there merely from his being of a complying dispo­sition, and making the children fond of him. You give your child to be educated to a slave, says a philosopher to a rich man; Instead of one slave, you will then have two.

It were well, however, if parents, upon fixing their children in one of these houses, would exa­mine the abilities of the usher as well as the master; for, whatever they are told to the con­trary, the usher is generally the person most em­ployed in their education. If then, a gentleman, upon putting out his son to one of these houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master, he may [Page 166] depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded by the boys; the truth is, in spite of all their en­deavours to please, they are generally the laughing stock of the school. Every trick is played upon the usher; the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his language, are a fund of eternal ridicule; the master himself now and then cannot avoid joining in the laugh, and the poor wretch, eter­nally resenting this ill usage, seems to live in a state of war with all the family. This is a very proper person, is it not, to give children a relish for learning? They must esteem learning very much, when they see its professors used with such ceremony. If the usher be despised, the father may be assured his child will never be properly instructed.

But let me suppose, that there are some schools without these inconveniencies, where the master and ushers are men of learning, reputation and assiduity. If there are to be found such, they cannot be prized in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true wisdom in a public school in a year, than by a private education in five. It is not from masters, but from their equals, youth learn a knowledge of the world; the little tricks they play each other, the punishment that fre­quently attends the commission, is a just picture of the great world, and all the ways of men are practised in a public school in miniature. It is [Page 167] true, a child is early made acquainted with some vices in a school, but it is better to know these when a boy, than be first taught them when a man, for their novelty then may have irresistible charms.

In a public education, boys early learn tem­perance; and if the parents and friends would give them less money upon their usual visits, it would be much to their advantage, since it may justly be said, that a great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, Plus occidit gula quam gladius. And now I am come to the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe▪ that Mr. Locke, and some others, have advised that children should be inured to cold, to fatigue, and hardship, from their youth; but Mr. Locke was but an indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has great influence over our constitutions, but we have not precise ideas upon this subject.

We know, that among savages, and even among our peasants, there are found children born with such constitutions, that they cross ri­vers by swimming, endure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a surprizing degree; that when they happen to fall sick, they are cured without the help of medicine, by nature alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to imi­tate their manner of education, and accustom [Page 168] ourselves betimes to support the same fatigues. But had these gentlemen considered first, that those savages and peasants are generally not so long lived as they who have led a more indolent life: Secondly, that the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the country. Had they considered, that what physicians call the stamina vitae, by fatigue and labour, become rigid, and thus anticipate old age. That the number who survive those rude trials, bears no proportion to those who die in the experiment. Had these things been properly considered, they would not have thus extolled an education begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the Great, willing to enure the children of his seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that they should only drink sea water, but they unfortunately all died under the ex­periment.

But while I would exclude all unnecessary la­bours, yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest degree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, nothing given children to force an appetite, as little sugared or salted provisions as possible, though never so pleasing; but milk, morning and night, should be their constant food. This diet would make them more healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked by the mistress of a boarding school; besides, it corrects [Page 169] any consumptive habits, not unfrequently found amongst the children of city parents.

As boys should be educated with temperance, so the first greatest lesson that should be taught them is, to admire frugality. It is by the exer­cise of this virtue alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of society. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon this subject, may make some boys when they grow up, run into an ex­treme, and become misers; but it were well, had we more misers than we have among us. I know few characters more useful in society, for a man's having a larger or smaller share of money lying useless by him, no way injures the common­wealth; since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would not encrease the commodities or pleasures of life; they would still remain as they are at present; it matters not, therefore, whether men are misers or not, if they be only frugal, labo­rious, and fill the station they have chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, so­ciety is no way injured by their folly.

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, and at last conclude a life of dissipa­tion, folly, and extravagance in riches and matri­mony, there should be some men of wit employed [Page 170] to compose books that might equally interest the passions of our youth, where such an one might be praised for having resisted allurements when young, and how he at last became lord mayor; how he was married to a lady of great sense, for­tune, and beauty; to be as explicit as possible, the old story of Whittington, were his cat left out, might be more serviceable to the tender mind, than either Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or an hundred others, where frugality is the only good quality the hero is not possessed of. Were our school-masters, if any of them have sense enough to daw up such a work, thus employed it would be much more serviceable to their pupils than all the grammars and dictionaries they may publish these ten years.

Children should early be instructed in the arts from which they would afterwards draw the greatest advantages. When the wonders of na­ture are never exposed to our view, we have no great desire to become acquainted with those parts of learning which pretend to account for the phae­nomena. One of the ancients complains, that as soon as young men have left school, and are obliged to converse in the world, they fancy themselves transported into a new region. Ut cum in forum venerarint existiment se in alium ter­rum orbem delatos. We should early, therefore, instruct them in the experiments, if I may so ex­press [Page 171] it, of knowledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting for the causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin natural philosophy in col­leges, they have not the least curiosity for those parts of the science which are proposed for their instruction; they have never before seen the phae­nomena, and consequently have no curiosity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this means it would in college become their amuse­ment.

In several of the machines now in use, there would be ample field both for instruction and amusement; the different sorts of the phospho­rus, the artificial pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours, and none should be called from play to see such experiments but such as thought proper. At first then it would be suffi­cient if the instruments, and the effects of their combination, were only shewn; the causes should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a spectator; when he is tired with wondering at all the novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire to be made acquainted with the causes that create those wonders.

[Page 172]What I have observed with regard to natural philosophy, I would extend to every other science whatsoever. We should teach them as many of the facts as were possible, and defer the causes until they seemed of themselves desirous of know­ing them. A mind thus leaving school, stored with all the simple experiences of science, would be the fittest in the world for the college course; and though such a youth might not appear so bright, or so talkative, as those who had learned the real principles and causes of some of the sciences, yet he would make a wiser man, and would re­tain a more lasting passion for letters than he who was early burdened with the disagreeable institu­tion of effect and cause.

In history, such stories alone should be laid be­fore them as might catch the imagination; instead of this, they are too frequently obliged to toil through the four empires, as they are called, where their memories are burdened by a number of disgusting names, that destroy all their future relish for our best historians, who may be termed the truest teachers of wisdom.

Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided; a boy who happens to say a sprightly thing is generally applauded so much, that he happens to continue a coxcomb sometimes all his life after. He is reputed a wit at fourteen, and [Page 173] becomes a blockhead at twenty. Nurses, footmen, and such, should therefore be driven away as much as possible. I was even going to add, that the mother herself should stifle her pleasure, or her vanity, when little master happens to say a good or a smart thing. Those modest lubberly boys, who seem to want spirit, generally go through their business with more ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to their instructors.

There has of late a gentleman appeared, who thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a per­fect education. That bold male eloquence, which often, without pleasing, convinces, is generally destroyed by such institutions. Convincing elo­quence, however, is infinitely more serviceable to its possessor than the most florid harangue or the most pathetic tones that can be imagined; and the man who is thoroughly convinced himself who understands his subject, and the language he speaks in, will be more apt to silence opposition, than he who studies the force of his periods, and fills our ears with sounds, while our minds are destitute of conviction.

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the decline of the Roman empire, when they had been long instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods were so harmonious, as that they could be sung as well as spoken. What a ridiculous figure [Page 174] must one of these gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables, and weighing words, when he should plead the cause of his client! Two architects were once candidates for the building a certain temple at Athens; the first harangued the crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of archi­tecture, and shewed them in what manner the temple should be built; the other, who got up to speak after him, only observed, that what his brother had spoken he could do; and thus he at once gained his cause.

To teach men to be orators, is little less than to teach them to be poets; and for my part, I should have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a manor only in a bookseller's shop.

Another passion which the present age is apt to run into, is to make children learn all things; the languages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and painting. Thus the child soon becomes a talker in all, but a master in none. He thus ac­quires a superficial fondness for every thing, and only shews his ignorance when he attempts to ex­hibit his skill.

As I deliver my thoughts without method or con­nection, so the reader must not be surprized to find me once more addressing schoolmasters on the present [Page 175] method of teaching the learned languages, which is commonly by literal translations. I would ask such, if they were to travel a journey, whether those parts of the road in which they found the greatest difficulties would no be most strongly re­membered? Boys, who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the assistance of a translation, can have but a very slight acquaintance either with the author or his language. It is by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is learned; but a literal translation, on the opposite page, leaves no exer­cise for the memory at all. The boy will not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at once satisfied by a glance of the eye; where­as were every word to be sought from a dictionary, the learner would attempt to remember them, to save him the trouble of looking out for it for the future.

To continue in the same pedantic strain, tho' no schoolmaster, of all the various grammars now taught in the schools about town, I would recommend only the old common one; I have for­got whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others may be improvements; but such im­provements seem, to me, only mere grammatical niceties, no way influencing the learner, but per­haps loading him with trifling subtilties, which, [Page 176] at a proper age, he must be at some pains to forget.

Whatever pains a master may take to make the learning of the langages agreeable to his pupil, he may depend upon it, it will be at first extreamly unpleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, must be given as a task, not as an amusement. Attempting to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is only deceiving our­selves; and I know no passion capable of conquer­ing a child's natural laziness but fear. Solomon has said it before me; nor is there any more cer­tain, tho' perhaps more disagreeable truth, than the proverb in verse, too well known to repeat on the present occasion. It is very probable that parents are told of some masters who never use the rod, and consequeetly are thought the pro­perest instructors for their children; but though tenderness is a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the truest tenderness in well-timed correction.

Some have justly observed, that all passion should be banished on this terrible occasion; but I know not, there is a frailty attending human na­ture, that few masters are able to keep their temper whilst they correct. I knew a good-natured man, who was sensible of his own weak­ness in this respect, and consequently had recourse [Page 177] to the following expedient to prevent his passions from being engaged, yet at the same time administer justice with impartiality. When ever any of his pupils committed a fault, he summoned a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next classes to him; his accusers stood forth; he had a liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more had a liberty of pleading against him: when found guilty by the pannel, he was consigned to the footman, who attended in the house, who had previous orders to use his punishment with lenity. By this means the ma­ster took off the odium of punishment from him­self; and the footman, between whom and the boys there could not be even the slightest inti­macy, was placed in such a light as to be shunned by every boy in school.

And now I have gone thus far, perhaps you will think me some pedagogue, willing, by a well-timed puff, to encrease the reputation of his own school; but such is not the case. The re­gard I have for society, for those tender minds who are the objects of the present essay, such are the only motives I have for offering those thoughts, calculated not to surprize by their novelty, or the elegance of composition, but merely to remedy some defects which have crept into the present system of school education. If this letter should be inserted, perhaps I may trouble you, in my next, with some thoughts upon an university edu­cation, not with an intent to exhaust the subject, but to amend some few abuses. I am, &c.

ON THE CONTRADICTIONS OF THE WORLD. FROM VOLTAIRE.

THE more we know of the world, the more we see of its absurdities and contradictions. To begin with the grand seignior; he generally cuts off every head that displeases him, and can seldom preserve his own.

If from the turk we make a natural transition to the pope, he confirms the election of emperors, he has even kings for vassals, yet is not so power­ful as any one of their ministers. He issues out or­ders for America and Africa; yet is not able to deprive even the little republic of Lucca of its pri­vileges. The emperor is sometimes king of the Romans; but his only privileges consist in holding the pope's stirrup, and presenting him with the bason while he washes.

[Page 179]The English serve their kings upon the knee; but they are often found to depose them, to im­prison them, and bring some of them to the scaf­fold.

Bishops and monks, who make vows of pover­ty, in consequence of such vows receive immo­derate incomes; and, by virtue of their pro­fessed humility, become despotic princes.

Men who are convicted of not conforming to the religion of their country, are burned in the market place; while the second eclogue of Virgil, which contains the most shocking obscenities, is gravely commented upon and taught by those very strenuous asserters of the divinity.

If a poor philosopher, who imagines no mis­chief, should teach that the earth takes an annual revolution, or that all light proceeds from the sun, should he assert that matter may have several pro­perties, which we are entirely unacquainted with, he is at once branded with impiety, and as a dis­turber of public tranquility; our modern philoso­phers are discouraged from delivering their senti­ments, while the Tusculan questions of Cicero, and the works of Lucretius, which contain a compleat course of irreligion, are put into the hands of our youth, and cried up as models for imitation.

[Page 180]Bayle, the sceptic philosopher, was persecuted even in Holland. Le Vayer, a greater sceptic, and a much inferior philosopher, was constituted the king's preceptor. Nay, France has seen her ambassadors burnt in effigy in the streets of Paris, and the very next day honoured with the royal in­structions.

The famous atheist Spinosa lived and died in peace. Vanini, who wrote only against Aristotle, was burnt as an atheist. With this appellation he is branded in all the histories of the works of the learned, and biographical dictionaries. those immense archives of folly and falshood. Consult any of these, and you will find that Va­nini not only publickly taught atheism by his writ­ings, but also that twelve of his disciples left Naples with him, in order to assist in making proselytes. After consulting those anecdotes, next consult his own works, and you will be sur­prised to find them replete with proofs of the existence of a God. He thus speaks in his Amphi­theatrum, a work equally condemned and un­known.

‘"God is the beginning and end, and the pa­rent of all that was or will be; he always exists, but not in time. To him the past has not fled, and the future will not arrive. He reigns every­where, without being in any place; motion­less, [Page 181] without being fixed; rapid, without pas­sing. He is all, and above all; he is in all, but without being confined; without all, but not excluded. Good, but without quality; great, but without quantity; entire, without parts; unchangeable, yet diversified in every part of the universe. His will is his power, simple; there is no possibility with him, but all really is. In a word, being all, he is above all beings, being actually present, and existing in all."’

After such a confession of faith, could we think it, Vanini was declared an atheist! What were the motives to condemn him? Nothing more than the bare deposition of one Francon. In vain did his books bear witness to the falshood of the deposer; one single enemy has cost him his life, and tarnished his character through all Europe.

Should I continue to examine the contradictions which are to be found in the republic of letters, I might, perhaps, be obliged to write the history of all the scholars and the wits of the age. Should I extend my survey to society, I might be obliged to write the history of Europe. Should an Asiatic come among us, what judgment could he form of our religion! Or would he not think that of Paganism still continued! The days of the week still retain the names of heathen deities, our [Page 182] churches are filled with the statues of the gods of the ancients; and should he sometimes be a spec­tator at our theatres, he might mistake the scene for a temple to their honour, and our assiduity for devotion.

In Spain, our Asiatic would be surprised to find severe laws, which forbid strangers carrying on any commerce to America; and yet he might see stran­gers alone in possession of that prohibited trade; and the Spaniards, in effect, no more than factors to others, whom they enrich, while they continue in poverty. How would he be surprised to find our actors stiled vagabonds by law, yet encouraged by the great, and kept company with as equals! He would find the press loaded with works which every one condemns, and yet all are eager to pur­chase. He would every where find our customs in opposition to our statutes. He might probably laugh at our absurdities; yet, should we take a voy­age into Asia, we might see the same absurdities practised with very little variation.

Men are every where equally fools; they have made laws in the same manner that breaches are repaired in the walls of a city. In one country, the elder sons have all the fortune from the rest; in another, the fortune is equally divided amongst them all. At one time, the church commands duelling; at another, it excommunicates all who [Page 183] venture in single combat. They have, at times, excommunicated the partizans and the opposers of Aristotle; those who wore long hair, and those who wore short.

We have, in this world, but one inviolable body of law, which is never infringed; I mean the laws of gaming. These never admit of excep­tion, change, or subordination. If a man who was once a footman plays with a king, he is im­mediately paid, when he wins, without hesita­tion. Such is always the rule in this; in all other affairs, the sword is the only law, where the strong cut the weak into a thousand pieces.

Notwithstanding this, the world subsists as if all things were well ordered, and irregularity seems suited to our natures. Our political world re­sembles our globe, a great regular irregularity. It would be folly to expect to see our mountains, seas, and rivers assume beautiful mathematical figures; it would still be a greater folly to expect perfect wisdom in society.

ON THE INSTABILITY OF WORLDLY GRANDEUR.

AN alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long lived at the sign of the French king, upon the commencement of the last war with France, pulled down his old sign, and put up the queen of Hungary. Under the influence of her red face and golden sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the favourite of his customers; he changed her, therefore, some time ago, for the king of Prussia, who may probably be changed in turn for the next great man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration.

Our publican, in this, imitates the great ex­actly, who deal out their figures one after the other, to the gazing crowd beneath them. When we have sufficiently wondered at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its room, which sel­dom holds its station long; for the mob are ever pleased with variety.

I must own I have such an indifferent opinion of the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that [Page 185] merit which raises their shout; at least I am cer­tain to find those great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction in such acclamations, made worse by it; and history has too frequently taught me, that the head which has grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole.

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated by the enemy, he perceived the towns­men busy in the market-place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure which had been designed to represent himself. There were also some knock­ing down a neighbouring statue of one of the Orsini family, with whom he was at war, in or­der to put Alexander's effigy, when taken down, in its place. It is possible a man who knew less of the world would have condemned the adulation of those barefaced flatterers; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile, Vides mi fili quam leve dis­crimen palibulum inter et statuum. ‘"You see, my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a statue."’ If the great could be taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation their glory stands, which is built upon popular applause; for as such praise what seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has only the appearance of guilt.

[Page 186]Popular glory is a perfect coquet; her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and, perhaps, at last, be jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, re­sembles a woman of sense; her admirers must play no tricks; they feel no great anxiety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swift used to appear in public, he generally had the mob shout­ing in his train. Pox take these fools (he would say) how much joy might all this bawling give my Lord Mayor.

We have seen those virtues which have, while living, retired from the public eye, generally transmitted to posterity, as the truest objects of admiration and praise. Perhaps, the character of the late Duke of Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that of his more talked-of predecessor; since an assemblage of all the mild and amiable virtues, are far superior to those vul­garly called the great ones. I must be pardoned for this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, while living, would as much detest to re­ceive any thing that wore the appearance of flat­tery, as I should to offer it.

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the beaten road of common place, except by illustrating it, rather by the assistance of my me­mory than my judgment, and instead of making reflections by telling a story.

[Page 187]A Chinese, who had long studied the works of Confucius; who knew the characters of fourteen thousand words, and could read a great part of every book that came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into Europe, and observe the customs of a people whom he thought not very much inferior, even to his own countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters naturally led him to a bookseller's shop; and, as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the bookseller for the works of the immortal Ilixofou. The bookseller assured him, he had never heard the book mentioned before. ‘"What, have you never heard of that immortal poet, (returned the other, much surprized) that light of the eyes, that favourite of kings, that rose of perfection. I suppose you know nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the moon?"’ ‘"Nothing at all, indeed, Sir, (returned the other.)"’ ‘"Alas, (cries our traveller) to what purpose, then, has one of these fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartarean enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled beyond the precincts of China. "’

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one university, that is not thus furnished with its little great men. The head of a petty corporation, [Page 188] who opposes the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically force his subjects to save their best cloaths for Sundays; the puny pedant, who finds one undiscovered property in the polype, describes an unheeded process in the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like his microscope, perceives na­ture only in detail; the rhymer, who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagination when he should only speak to our hearts, all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immortality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo­sopher and poet, are shouted in their train. Where was there ever so much merit seen; no times so important as our own; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder and applause! To such music, the important pigmy moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly compared to a puddle in a storm.

I have lived to see generals who once had crowds halloing after them wherever they went, who were be praised by news papers and magazines, those echoes of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring fishery employed all Grub-street; it was the topic in every coffee-house, and the burthen of every ballad. We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we [Page 189] were to supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. At present, we hear no more of all this. We have fished up very little gold that I can learn; nor do we furnish the world with her­rings, as was expected. Let us wait but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expectations an herring fishery.

Of ELOQUENCE.

OF all kinds of success, that of an orator is the most pleasing. Upon other occasions, the applause we deserve is conferred in our absence, and we are insensible of the plea­sure we have given; but in eloquence, the vic­tory and the triumph are inseparable. We read our own glory in the face of every spectator, the audience is moved, the antagonist is defeated, and the whole circle bursts into unsolicited applause.

[Page 194]The rewards which attend excellence in this way are so pleasing, that numbers have written professed treatises to teach us the art; schools have been established with no other intent; rhe­toric has taken place among the institutions, and pedants have ranged under proper heads, and distinguished with long learned names, some of the strokes of nature, or of passion, which ora­tors have used. I say only some for a folio volume could not contain all the figures which have been used by the truly eloquent, and scarce a good speaker or writer, but makes use of some that are peculiar or new.

Eloquence has preceded the rules of rhetoric, as languages have been formed before grammar. Nature renders men eloquent in great interests, or great passions. He that is sensibly touched, sees things with a very different eye from the rest of mankind. All nature to him becomes an object of comparison and metaphor, without attending to it; he throws life into all, and inspires his audience with a part of his own enthusiasm.

It has been remarked, that the lower parts of mankind generally express themselves most figura­tively, and that tropes are found in the most ordinary forms of conversation. Thus, in every language, the heart burns; the courage is rouzed; [Page 195] the eyes sparkle; the spirits are cast down; pas­sion enflames; pride swells, and pity sinks the soul. Nature, every where, speaks in those strong images, which, from their frequency, pass unnoticed.

Nature it is which inspires those rapturous en­thusiasms, those irresistible turns; a strong pas­sion, a pressing danger, calls up all the imagina­tion, and gives the orator irresistible force. Thus, a captain of the first caliphs, seeing his soldiers fly, cried out, ‘"Whither do you run? the enemy are not there! You have been told that the caliph is dead; but God is still living. He regards the brave, and will reward the coura­geous. Advance!"’

A man, therefore, may be called eloquent, who transfers the passion or sentiment with which he is moved himself, into the breast of another; and this definition appears the more just, as it compre­hends the graces of silence, and of action. An intimate persuasion of the truth to be proved, is the sentiment and passion to be transferred; and he who effects this, is truly possessed of the talent of eloquence.

I have called eloquence a talent, and not an art, as so many rhetoricians have done, as art is acquired by exercise and study, and eloquence is [Page 196] the gift of nature. Rutes will never make either a work or a discourse eloquent; they only serve to prevent faults, but not to introduce beauties; to prevent those passages which are truly eloquent, and dictated by nature from being blended with others, which might disgust, or, at least, abate our passion.

What we clearly conceive, (says Boileau) we can clearly express. I may add, that what is felt with emotion, is expressed also with the same movements; the words arise as readily to paint our emotions, as to express our thoughts with perspicuity. The cool care an orator takes to express passions which he does not feel, only prevents his rising into that passion he would seem to feel. In a word, to feel your subject tho­roughly, and to speak without fear, are the only rules of eloquence, properly so called, which I can offer. Examine a writer of genius on the most beautiful parts of his work, and he will al­ways assure you that such passages are generally those which have given him the least trouble, for they came as if by inspiration. To pretend that cold and didactic precepts will make a man elo­quent, is only to prove that he is incapable of eloquence.

But, as in being perspicuous, it is necessary to have a full idea of the subject, so in being elo­quent, [Page 197] it is not sufficient, if I may so express it, to feel by halves. The orator should be strongly impressed, which is generally the effects of a fine and exquisite sensibility, and not that transient and superficial emotion, which he ex­cites in the greatest part of his audience. It is even impossible to affect the hearers in any great degree, without being affected ourselves. In vain it will be objected, that many writers have had the art to inspire their readers with a passion for virtue, without being virtuous themselves; since it may be answered, that sentiments of virtue filled their minds at the time they were writing. They felt the inspiration strongly, while they praised justice, generosity, or good nature; but, unhappily for them, these passions might have been discontinued, when they laid down the pen. In vain will it be objected again, that we can move without being moved, as we can convince, without being convinced. It is much easier to deceive our reason than ourselves; a trifling defect in reasoning, may be overseen, and lead a man astray; for it requires reason and time to detect the falshood, but our passions are not so easily imposed upon, our eyes, our ears, and every sense, is watchful to detect the imposture.

No discourse can be eloquent, that does not elevate the mind. Pathetic eloquence, it is true, has for its only object to affect; but I appeal to [Page 198] men of sensibility, whether their pathetic feelings are not accompanied with some degree of eleva­tion. We may then call eloquence and sublimity the same thing, since it is impossible to be one, without feeling the other. From hence it follows, that we may be eloquent in any language, since no language refuses to paint those sentiments with which we are thoroughly impressed. What is usually called sublimity of stile, seems to be only an error. Eloquence is not in the words, but in the subject, and in great concerns, the more simply any thing is expressed, it is generally the more sublime. True eloquence does not consist, as the rhetoricians assure us, in saying great things in a sublime style, but in a simple style; for there is, properly speaking, no such thing as a sublime style, the sublimity lies only in the things; and when they are not so, the language may be turgid, affected, metaphorical, but not affecting.

What can be more simply expressed, than the following extract from a celebrated preacher, and yet what was ever more sublime? Speaking of the small number of the elect, he breaks out thus among his audience: ‘"Let me suppose that this was the last hour of us all; that the heavens were opening over our heads; that time was passed, and eternity begun; that Jesus Christ in all his glory, that man of sorrows in all his glory, appeared on the tribunal, and that we [Page 199] were assembled here to receive our final decree of life or death eternal! Let me ask, im­pressed with terror like you, and not separating my lot from yours, but putting myself in the same situation in which we must all one day appear before God, our judge. Let me ask, if Jesus Christ should now appear to make the terrible separation of the just from the unjust, do you think the greatest number would be saved? Do you think the number of the elect would even be equal to that of the sinners? Do you think, if all our works were examined with justice, would he find ten just persons in this great assembly? Monsters of ingratitude would he find one?"’ Such passages as these, are sublime in every language. The expression may be less striking, or more indistinct, but the greatness of the idea still remains. In a word, we may be eloquent in every language and in every style, since elocution is only an assistant, but not a constitutor of eloquence.

Of what use, then, will it be said, are all the precepts given us upon this head, both by the antients and moderns? I answer, that they cannot make us eloquent, but they will certainly prevent us from becoming ridiculous. They can seldom procure a single beauty, but they may banish a thousand faults. The true method of an orator, is not to attempt always to move, always to affect, [Page 200] to be continually sublime, but at proper intervals to give rest both to his own and the passions of his audience. In these periods of relaxation, or of preparation rather, rules may teach him to avoid any thing low, trivial, or disgusting. Thus criticism, properly speaking, is intended not to assist those parts which are sublime, but those which are naturally mean and humble, which are composed with coolness and caution, and where the orator rather endeavours not to offend, than attempts to please.

I have hitherto insisted more strenuously on that eloquence which speaks to the passions, as it is a species of oratory almost unknown in England. At the bar it is quite discontinued, and I think with justice. In the senate, it is used but sparingly, as the orator speaks to enlightened judges. But in the pulpit, in which the orator should chiefly address the vulgar, it seems strange, that it should be entirely laid aside.

The vulgar of England are without exception, the most barbarous and the most unknowing of any in Europe. A great part of their ignorance may be chiefly ascribed to their teachers, who, with the most pretty gentleman-like serenity, deliver their cool discourses, and address the reason of men, who have never reasoned in all their lives. They are told of cause and effect, of beings self [Page 201] existent, and the universal scale of beings. They are informed of the excellence of the Bangorian controversy, and the absurdity of an intermediate state. The spruce preacher reads his lucubration without lifting his nose from the text, and never ventures to earn the shame of an enthusiast.

By this means, though his audience feel not one word of all he says, he earns, however, among his acquaintance, the character of a man of sense; among his acquaintance only did I say, nay, even with his bishop.

The polite of every country have several mo­tives to induce them to a rectitude of action; the love of virtue for its own sake, the shame of of­fending, and the desire of pleasing. The vulgar have but one, the enforcements of religion; and yet those who should push this motive home to their hearts, are basely found to desert their post. They speak to the squire, the philosopher, and the pedant; but the poor, those who really want instruction, are left uninstructed.

I have attended most of our pulpit orators, who, it must be owned, write extremely well upon the text they assume. To give them their due also, they read their sermons with elegance and propriety, but this goes but a very short way in true eloquence. The speaker must be moved. [Page 202] In this, in this alone, our English divines are defi­cient. Were they to speak to a few calm dispas­sionate hearers, they certainly use the properest methods of address; but their audience is chiefly composed of the poor, who must be influenced by motives of reward and punishment, and whose only virtues lie in self-interest or fear.

How then are such to be addressed; not by stu­died periods, or cold disquisitions; not by the labours of the head, but the honest spontaneous dictates of the heart. Neither writing a sermon with regular periods and all the harmony of ele­gant expression; neither reading it with emphasis, propriety, and deliberation; neither pleasing with metaphor, simile, or rhetorical fustian; neither arguing coolly, and untying consequences united in a priori, nor bundling up inductions a posteriori; neither pedantic jargon, nor academical trifling, can persuade the poor; writing a discourse coolly in the closet, then getting it by memory, and delivering it on Sundays, even that will not do. What then is to be done? I know of no expe­dient to speak; to speak at once intelligibly, and feelingly, except to understand the language. To be convinced of the truth of the object; to be perfectly acquainted with the subject in view, to prepossess yourself with a low opinion of your audience, and to do the rest extempore. By this means strong expressions, new thoughts, rising [Page 203] passions, and the true declamatory style, will naturally ensue.

Fine declamation does not consist in flowery periods, delicate allusions, or musical cadences; but in a plain, open, loose stile, where the pe­riods are long and obvious; where the same thought is often exhibited in several points of view; all this, strong sense, a good memory, and a small share of experience, will furnish to every orator; and without these a clergyman may be called a fine preacher, a judicious preacher, and a man of sound sense; he may make his hearers ad­mire his understanding, but will seldom enlighten theirs.

When I think of the Methodist preachers among us, how seldom they are endued with common sense, and yet how often and how justly they af­fect their hearers, I cannot avoid saying within myself, had these been bred gentlemen, and been endued with even the meanest share of understand­ing, what might they not effect! Did our bishops, who can add dignity to their expostulations, testify the same fervour, and entreat their hearers, as well as argue, what might not be the consequence! The vulgar, by which I mean the bulk of man­kind, would then have a double motive to love religion, first from seeing its professors honoured here, and next from the consequences here­after. [Page 204] At present, the enthusiasms of the poor are opposed to law; did law conspire with their en­thusiasms, we should not only be the happiest na­tion upon earth, but the wisest also.

Enthusiasm in religion, which prevails only among the vulgar, should be the chief object of politics. A society of enthusiasts, governed by rea­son among the great, is the most indissoluble, the most virtuous, and the most efficient of its own decrees that can be imagined. Every country that has any degree of strength, have had their enthusiasms, which ever serve as laws among the people. The Greeks had their Kalokagathia, the Romans their Amor Patriae, and we the truer and firmer bond of the Protestant religion. The principle is the same in all; how much then is it the duty of those whom the law has appointed teachers of this religion to enforce its obligations, and to raise those enthusiasms among people, by which alone political society can subsist.

From eloquence, therefore, the morals of our people are to expect emendation; but how little can they be improved, by men who get into the pulpit rather to shew their parts, than convince us of the truth of what they deliver, who are pain­fully correct in their stile, musical in their tones, where every sentiment, every expression, seems the result of meditation and deep study.

[Page 205]Tillotson has been commended as the model of pulpit eloquence; thus far he should be imitated, where he generally strives to convince, rather than to please: but to adopt his long, dry, and some­times tedious discussions, which serve to amuse only divines, and are utterly neglected by the generality of mankind, to praise the intricacy of his periods, which are too long to be spo­ken, to continue his cool phlegmatic manner of enforcing every truth, is certainly erroneous. As I said before, the good preacher should adopt no model, write no sermons, study no periods; let him but understand his subject, the language he speaks, and be convinced of the truths he de­livers. It is amazing to what heights eloquence of this kind may reach! This is that eloquence the ancients represented as lightning, bearing down every opposer; this the power which has turned whole assemblies into astonishment, ad­miration, and awe, that is described by the tor­rent, the flame, and every other instance of irre­sistible impetuosity.

But to attempt such noble heights, belongs only to the truly great, or the truly good. To discard the lazy manner of reading sermons, or speaking sermons by rote; to set up singly against the opposition of men who are attached to their own errors, and to endeavour to be great, in­stead of being prudent, are qualities we seldom [Page 204] [...] [Page 205] [...] [Page 206] see united. A minister of the church of England, who may be possessed of good sense, and some hopes of preferment, will seldom give up such sub­stantial advantages for the empty pleasure of im­proving society. By his present method he is liked by his friends, admired by his dependants, not displeasing to his bishop; he lives as well, eats and sleeps as well, as if a real orator, and an eager asserter of his mission; he will hardly, therefore, venture all this to be called, perhaps, an enthusiast; nor will he depart from customs established by the brotherhood, when, by such a conduct, he only singles himself out for their contempt.

CUSTOM and LAWS compared.

WHAT, say some, can give us a more con­temptible idea of a large state than to find it mostly governed by custom; to have few writ­ten laws, and no boundaries to mark the juris­diction between the senate and people? Among the number who speak in this manner is the great Montesquieu, who asserts that every nation is free in proportion to the number of its written laws, and seems to hint at a despotic and arbitrary con­duct in the present king of Prussia, who has abridged the laws of his country into a very short compass.

As Tacitus and Montesquieu happen to differ in sentiment upon a subject of so much importance (for the Roman expresly asserts, that the state is generally vicious in proportion to the number of its laws) it will not be amiss to examine it a little more minutely, and see whether a state, which, like England, is burdened with a multiplicity of written laws, or which, like Switzerland, Ge­neva, and some other republics, is governed by custom, and the determination of the judge is best.

And to prove the superiority of custom to written law, we shall at least find history con­spiring. [Page 208] Custom, or the traditional observance of the practice of their forefathers, was what di­rected the Romans, as well in their public as private determinations. Custom was appealed to in pronouncing sentence against a criminal, where part of the formulary was more majorum. So Salust, speaking of the expulsion of Tarquin, says, mutato more, and not lege mutata; and Vir­gil, pacisque imponere morem. So that, in those times of the empire in which the people retained their liberty, they were governed by custom; when they sunk under oppression and tyranny, they were restrained by new laws, and the laws of tradition abolished.

As getting the ancients on our side is half a victory, it will not be amiss to fortify the argu­ment with an observation of Chrysostom's: That the enslaved are the fittest to be governed by laws, and free men by custom. Custom partakes of the nature of parental injunction; it is kept by the people themselves, and observed with a willing obedience. The observance of it must, there­fore, be a mark of freedom, and coming origi­nally to a state from the reverenced founders of its liberty, will be an encouragement and assistance to it in the defence of that blessing; but a con­quered people, a nation of slaves, must pretend to none of this freedom, or these happy distinc­tions, having, by degeneracy, lost all right to [Page 209] their brave forefathers free institutions, their masters will in policy take the forfeiture; and the fixing a conquest must be done by giving laws which may every moment serve to remind the people enslaved of their conquerors, nothing be­ing more dangerous than to trust a late-subdued people with old customs, that presently upbraid their degeneracy, and provoke them to revolt.

The wisdom of the Roman republic, in their veneration for custom, and backwardness to in­troduce a new law, was perhaps the cause of their long continuance, and of the virtues of which they have set the world so many ex­amples. But to shew in what that wisdom con­sists, it may be proper to observe, that the bene­fit of new written laws are merely confined to the consequences of their observance; but customary laws, keeping up a veneration for the founders, engage men in the imitation of their virtues, as well as policy. To this may be ascribed the re­ligious regard the Romans paid to their forefathers memory, and their adhering for so many ages to the practice of the same virtues, which no­thing contributed more to efface than the intro­duction of a voluminous body of new laws over the neck of venerable custom.

The simplicity, conciseness, and antiquity of custom gives an air of majesty and immutability [Page 210] that inspires awe and veneration; but new laws are too apt to be voluminous, perplexed, and in­determinate; from whence must necessarily arise neglect, contempt, and ignorance.

As every human institution is subject to gross imperfections, so laws must necessarily be liable to the same inconveniences, and their defects soon discovered. Thus, through the weakness of one part, all the rest are liable to be brought into con­tempt. But such weaknesses in a custom, for very obvious reasons, evade an examination; be­sides, a friendly prejudice always stands up in their favour.

But let us suppose a new law to be perfectly equitable and necessary; yet, if the procurers of it have betrayed a conduct that confesses bye-ends and private motives, the disgust to the circum­stances disposes us, unreasonably indeed, to an irreverence of the law itself; but we are indul­gently blind to the most visible imperfections of an old custom. Though we perceive the defects ourselves, yet we remain persuaded that our wise forefathers had good reasons for what they did; and though such motives no longer continue, the benefit will still go along with the observance, though we don't know how. It is thus the Ro­man lawyers speak, Non omnium quae a majoribus constituta sunt ratio reddi potest, et ideo rationes [Page 211] eorum quae constituuntur inquiri non oportet, alia quin multa ex his quae certa sunt subvertuntur.

Those laws which preserve to themselves the greatest love and observance, must needs be best; but custom, as it executes itself, must be neces­sarily superior to written laws in this respect, which are to be executed by another. Thus no­thing can be more certain than that numerous written laws are a sign of a degenerate commu­nity, and are frequently not the consequence of vicious morals in a state, but the causes.

From hence we see how much greater benefit it would be to the state rather to abridge than en­crease its laws. We every day find them en­creasing; acts and reports, which may be termed the acts of judges, are every day becoming more voluminous, and loading the subject with new penalties.

Laws ever encrease in number and severity, until they at length are strained so tight as to break themselves. Such was the case of the latter em­pire, whose laws were at length become so strict, that the barbarous invaders did not bring servi­tude but liberty.

OF THE PRIDE and LUXURY OF THE Middling CLASS of PEOPLE.

OF all the follies and absurdities which this great metropolis labours under, there is not one, I believe, at present, appears in a more glaring and ridiculous light than the pride and luxury of the middling class of people; their eager desire of being seen in a sphere far above their capacities and circumstances, is daily, nay hourly instanced by the prodigious numbers of me­chanics, who flock to the races, and gaming-tables, brothels, and all public diversions this fashionable town affords.

You shall see a grocer, or a tallow-chandler sneak from behind the compter, clap on a laced coat and a bag, fly to the E. O. table, throw away fifty pieces with some sharping man of qua­lity, while his industrious wife is selling a penny­worth of sugar, or a pound of candles, to sup­port her fashionable spouse in his extravagances.

I was led into this reflection by an odd adven­ture, which happened to me the other day at Ep­som [Page 213] races, where I went, not through any de­sire, I do assure you, of laying betts, or winning thousands; but at the earnest request of a friend who had long indulged the curiosity of seeing the sport, very natural for an Englishman. When we had arrived at the course, and had taken several turns to observe the different objects that made up this whimsical groupe, a figure suddenly darted by us, mounted and dressed in all the elegance of those polite gentry who come to shew you they have a little money, and rather than pay their just debts at home, generously come abroad to bestow it on gamblers and pickpockets. As I had not an opportunity of viewing his face till his return, I gently walked after him, and met him as he came back, when, to my no small surprise, I beheld, in this gay Narcissus, the vi­sage of Jack Varnish, an humble vender of prints. Disgusted at the sight, I pulled my friend by the sleeve, pressed him to return home, telling him all the way, that I was so enraged at the fellow's impudence, I was resolved never to lay out an­other penny with him.

And now, pray sir, let me beg of you to give this a place in your paper, that Mr. Varnish may understand he mistakes the thing quite, if he imagines horse-racing commendable in a trades­man; and that he who is revelling every night in the arms of a common strumpet (though [Page 214] blessed with an indulgent wife) when he ought to be minding his business, will never thrive in this world. He will find himself soon mistaken, his finances decrease, his friends shun him, customers fall off, and himself thrown into a Gaol. I would earnestly recommend this adage to every mechanic in London, ‘"Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you."’ A strict observance of these words will, I am sure, in time, gain them estates. Industry is the road to wealth, and honesty to hap­piness; and he who strenuously endeavours to pur­sue them both, may never fear the critic's lash, or the sharp cries of penury and want.

THE SENTIMENTS OF A FRENCHMAN ON THE TEMPER of the ENGLISH.

NOTHING is so uncommon among the English, as that easy affability, that instant method of acquaintance, or that chearfulness of disposition, which make in France the charm of every society. Yet, in this gloomy reserve, they seem to pride themselves, and think them­selves less happy, if obliged to be more social. One may assert, without wronging them, that they do not study the method of going through life with pleasure and tranquility, like the French. Might not this be a proof that they are not so much philosophers as they imagine? Philosophy is no more than the art of making ourselves happy; that is, of seeking pleasure in regularity, and reconciling what we owe to society with what is due to ourselves.

[Page 221]This chearfulness, which is the characteristic of our nation in the eye of an Englishman, passes almost for folly. But is their gloominess a greater mark of their wisdom? and folly against folly is not the most chearful sort the best. If our gaiety makes them sad, they ought not to find it strange, if their seriousness makes us laugh.

As this disposition to levity is not familiar to them, and as they look on every thing as a fault which they do not find at home, the English, who live among us, are hurt by it. Several of their authors reproach us with it as a vice, or at least as a ridicule.

Mr. Addison stiles us a comic nation. In my opinion it is not acting the philosopher on this point, to regard as a fault, that quality which contributes most to the pleasure of society and happiness of life. Plato, convinced that what­ever makes men happier, makes them better, advises to neglect nothing that may excite and convert to an early habit, this sense of joy in children. Seneca places it in the first rank of good things. Certain it is, at least, that gaiety may be a concomitant of all sorts of virtue, but that there are some vices with which it is in­compatible.

[Page 222]As to him who laughs at every things, and him who laughs at nothing, neither of them has sound judgment. All the difference I find between them is, that the last is constantly the most un­happy. Those who speak against chearfulness, prove nothing else, but that they were born me­lancholic, and that in their hearts they rather envy than condemn that levity they affect to despise.

The Spectator, whose constant object was the good of mankind in general, and of his own nation in particular, should, according to his own principles, place chearfulness among the most desirable qualities; and, probably, whenever he contradicts himself in this particular, it is only to conform to the tempers of the people whom he addresses. He asserts, that gaiety is one great obstacle to the prudent conduct of women. But are those of a melancholic temper, as the English women generally are, less subject to the foibles of love? I am acquainted with some doctors in this science, to whose judgment I would more willingly refer, than to his. And, perhaps, in reality, persons naturally of a gay temper, are too easily taken off by different objects, to give themselves up to all the excesses of this passion.

[Page 223]Mr. Hobbes, a celebrated philosopher of his nation, maintains, that laughing proceeds from our pride alone. This is only a paradox if as­serted of laughing in general, and only argues that misanthropical disposition for which he was remarkable.

To bring the causes he assigns, for laughing, under suspicion, it is sufficient to remark, that proud people are commonly those who laugh least. Gravity is the inseparable companion of pride. To say that a man is vain, because the hu­mour of a writer, or the buffooneries of an har­lequin, excite his laughter, would be advancing a great absurdity. We should distinguish between laughter, inspired by joy, and that which arises from mockery. The malicious sneer is improperly called laughter. It must be owned, that pride is the parent of such laughter as this; but this is in itself vicious; whereas, the other sort has nothing in its principles or effects that deserves condemnation. We find this amiable in others, and is it unhappiness to feel a disposition towards it in ourselves?

When I see an Englishman laugh, I fancy I rather see him hunting after joy, than having caught it; and this is more particularly remark­able in their women, whose tempers are inclined to melancholy. A laugh leaves no more traces [Page 224] on their countenance than a flash of lightning on the face of the heavens. The most laughing air is instantly succeeded by the most gloomy. One would be apt to think that their souls open with difficulty to joy, or at least that joy is not pleased with its habitation there.

In regard to fine raillery, it must be allowed, that it is not natural to the English, and therefore those who endeavour at it make but an ill figure. Some of their authors have candidly confessed, that pleasantry is quite foreign to their character; but, according to the reason they give, they lose no­thing by this confession. Bishop Sprat gives the following one: ‘"The English (says he) have too much bravery to submit to be derided, and too much virtue and honour to mock others’

On DECEIT and FALSHOOD.
To the AUTHOR, &c.

DECEIT and falshood have ever been an over-match for truth, and followed and admired by the majority of mankind. If we enquire after the reason of this, we shall find it [Page 226] in our own imaginations, which are amused and entertained with the perpetual novelty and va­riety that fiction affords, but find no manner of delight in the uniform simplicity of homely truth, which still sues them under the same appearance.

He, therefore, that would gain our hearts, must make his court to our fancy, which being sovereign comptroller of the passions, lets them loose, and enflames them more or less, in pro­portion to the force and efficacy of the first cause, which is ever the more powerful the more new it is. Thus, in mathematical demonstrations them­selves, though they seem to aim at pure truth and instruction, and to be addressed to our reason alone, yet I think it is pretty plain, that our understanding is only made a drudge to gratify our invention and curiosity, and we are pleased not so much because our discoveries are certain, as because they are new.

I do not deny but the world is still pleased with things that pleased it many ages ago, but it should at the same time be considered, that man is naturally so much of a logician, as to distin­guish between matters that are plain and easy, and others that are hard and inconceivable. What we understand, we overlook and despise, and what we know nothing of, we hug and delight in? Thus there are such things as perpetual no­velties; [Page 227] for we are pleased no longer than we are amazed, and nothing so much contents us as that which confounds us.

This weakness in human nature, gave occasion to a party of men to make such gainful markets as they have done of our credulity. All objects and facts whatever, now ceased to be what they had been for ever before, and received what make and meaning it was found convenient to put upon them: What people eat, and drank, and saw, was not what they eat, and drank, and saw, but something farther, which they were fond of, be­cause they were ignorant of it. In short, nothing was itself, but something beyond itself; and by these artifices and amusements, the heads of the world were so turned and intoxicated, that, at last, there was scarce a sound set of brains left in it.

In this state of giddiness and infatuation it was no very hard task to persuade the already deluded, that there was an actual society and communion between human creatures and spiritual daemons. And when they had thus put people into the power and clutches of the devil, none but they alone could have either skill or strength to bring the prisoners back again.

[Page 228]But so far did they carry this dreadful drollery, and so fond were they of it, that to maintain it and themselves in profitable repute, they literally sacrificed for it, and made impious victims of numberless old women, and other miserable per­sons, who either through ignorance could not say what they were bid to say, or, through madness, said what they should not have said. Fear and stupidity made them incapable of defending them­selves, and frenzy and infatuation made them confess guilty impossibilities, which produced cruel sentences, and then inhuman executions.

Some of these wretched mortals finding them­selves either hateful or terrible to all, and be­friended by none, and, perhaps, wanting the common necessaries of life, came at last, to ab­hor themselves as much as they were abhorred by others, and grew willing to be burnt or hanged out of a world, which was no other to them than a scene of persecution and anguish.

Others, of strong imaginations and little un­derstandings, were by positive and repeated charges against them, of committing mischievous and supernatural facts and villainies, deluded to judge of themselves by the judgment of their enemies, whose weakness or malice prompted them to be accusers. And many have been condemned as witches and dealers with the devil, for no other [Page 229] reason but their knowing more than those who accused, tried, and passed sentence upon them.

In these cases, credulity is a much greater error than infidelity, and it is safer to believe nothing than too much. A man that believes little or nothing of witchcraft, will destroy nobody for being under the imputation of it; and so far he certainly acts with humanity to others, and safety to himself: But he that credits all, or too much, upon that article, is obliged, if he acts consistently with his persuasion, to kill all those whom he takes to be the killers of mankind; and such are witches. It would be a jest and a contradiction to say, that he is for sparing them who are harmless of that tribe, since the received notion of their supposed contract with the devil, implies that they are engaged by covenant and inclination to do all the mischief they possibly can.

I have heard many stories of witches, and read many accusations against them, but I do not re­member any that would have induced me to have consigned over to the halter or the flame, any of those deplorable wretches, who, as they share our likeness and nature, ought to share our compas­sion, as persons cruelly accused of impossibilities.

But we love to delude ourselves, and often fancy or forge an effect, and then set ourselves as [Page 230] gravely, as ridiculously, to find out the cause. Thus, for example, when a dream or the hyp has given us false terrors, or imaginary pains, we immediately conclude, that the infernal tyrant owes us a spite, and inflicts his wrath and stripes upon us, by the hands of some of his sworn servants amongst us. For this end an old woman is promoted to a seat in Satan's privy council, and appointed his executioner in chief, within her district. So ready and civil are we to allow the devil the dominion over us, and even to provide him with butchers and hangmen of our own make and nature.

I have often wondered why we did not, in chusing our proper officers for Belzebub, lay the lot rather upon men than women, the former being more bold and robust, and more equal to that bloody service; but, upon enquiry, I find it has been so ordered for two reasons; first, the men having the whole direction of this affair, are wise enough to slip their own necks out of the collar; and, secondly, an old woman is grown by custom the most avoided and most unpitied creature under the sun, the very name carrying contempt and satire in it. And so far, indeed, we pay but an uncourtly sort of respect to Satan in sacrificing to him nothing but the dry sticks of human nature.

[Page 231]We have a wondering quality within us, which finds huge gratification when we see strange seats done, and cannot at the same time see the doer, or the cause. Such actions are sure to be attribu­ted to some witch or daemon; for if we come to find they are slily performed by artists of our own species, and by causes purely natural, our delight dies with our amazement.

It is therefore one of the most unthankful of­fices in the world, to go about to expose the mi­staken notions of witchcraft and spirits; it is robbing mankind of a valuable imagination, and of the privilege of being deceived. Those who at any time undertook the task, have always met with rough treatment and ill language for their pains, and seldom escaped the imputation of athe­ism, because they would not allow the devil to be too powerful for the Almighty. For my part, I am so much a heretick as to believe, that God Almighty, and not the devil, governs the world.

If we enquire what are the common marks and symptoms by which witches are discovered to be such, we shall see how reasonably and mercifully those poor creatures were burnt and hanged, who unhappily fell under that name.

[Page 232]In the first place, the old woman must be pro­digious ugly; her eyes hollow and red, her face shrivelled; she goes double, and her voice trem­bles. It frequently happens, that this rueful figure frightens a child into the palpitation of the heart: Home he runs, and tells his in mamma, that goody such a one looked at him, and he is very ill. The good woman cries out, her dear baby is bewitched, and sends for the parson and the constable.

It is moreover necessary, that she be very poor. It is true, her master Satan has mines and hidden treasures in his gift; but no matter, she is for all that very poor, and lives on alms. She goes to Sisly the cook maid for a dish of broth, or the heel of a loaf, and Sisly denies them to her. The old woman goes away muttering, and, perhaps, in less than a month's time Sisly hears the voice of a cat, and strains her ancles, which are certain signs that she is bewitched.

A farmer sees his cattle die of the murrain, and the sheep of the rot, and poor goody is forced to be the cause of their death, because she was seen talking to herself the evening before such an ewe departed, and had been gathering sticks at the side of the wood where such a cow run mad.

[Page 233]The old woman has always for her companion an old grey cat, which is a disguised devil too, and confederate with goody in works of darkness. They frequently go journies into Egypt upon a broom-staff, in half an hour's time, and now and then goody and her cat change shapes. The neighbours often over-hear them in deep and so­lemn discourse together, plotting some dreadful mischief, you may be sure.

There is a famous way of trying witches, re­commended by king James I. The old woman is tied hand and foot, and thrown into the river, and if she swims she is guilty, and taken out and burnt; but if she is innocent, she sinks, and is only drowned.

The witches are said to meet their master fre­quently in churches and church-yards. I wonder at the boldness of Satan and his congregation, in revelling and playing mountebank farces on con­secrated ground; and I have as often wondered at the oversight and ill policy of some people in al­lowing it possible.

It would have been both dangerous and impious to have treated this subject at one certain time in this ludicrous manner. It used to be managed with all possible gravity, and even terror; and, indeed, it was made a tragedy in all its parts, [Page 234] and thousands were sacrificed, or rather mur­dered, by such evidence and colours, as, God be thanked, we are at this day ashamed of. An old woman may be miserable now, and not be hanged for it.

OF THE OPERA in ENGLAND.

THE rise and fall of our amusements pretty much resembles that of empire. They this day flourish without any visible cause for such vi­gour; the next they decay away, without any reason that can be assigned for their downfall. Some years ago the Italian opera was the only fa­shionable amusement among our nobility. The managers of the playhouses dreaded it as a mortal enemy, and our very poets listed themselves in the opposition; at present, the house seems deserted, the castratising to empty benches, even Prince Vologese himself, a youth of great expectations, sings himself out of breath, and rattles his chain to no purpose.

To say the truth, the opera, as it is conducted among us, is but a very humdrum amusement; in other countries, the decorations are entirely mag­nificent, the singers all excellent, and the burlettas or interludes, quite entertaining; the best poets compose the words, and the best masters the music, but with us it is otherwise; the decorations are but trifling, and cheap; the singers, Matei only excepted, but indifferent. Instead of interlude, we have those sorts of skipping dances, which are cal­culated for the galleries of the theatre. Every per­former [Page 249] sings his favourite song, and the music is only a medly of old Italian airs, or some meagre modern Capricio.

When such is the case, it is not much to be wondered, if the opera is pretty much neglected; the lower orders of people have neither taste nor fortune to relish such an entertainment; they would find more satisfaction in the Roast Beef of Old England, than in the finest closes of an eunuch, they sleep amidst all the agony of recitative: On the other hand, people of fortune or taste, can hardly be pleased where there is a visible poverty in the decorations, and an entire want of taste in the composition.

Would it not surprize one, that when Metastasio is so well known in England, and so universally ad­mired, the manager or the composer should have recourse to any other operas than those written by him. I might venture to say, that written by Metastasio, put up in the bills of the day, would alone be sufficient to fill an house, since thus, the admirers of sense as well as sound, might find en­tertainment.

The performers also should be entreated to sing only their parts, without clapping in any of their own favourite airs. I must own, that such songs are generally to me the most disagreeable in the [Page 250] world. Every singer generally chuses a favourite air, not from the excellency of the music, but from the difficulty; such songs are generally chosen as surprize rather than please, where the performer may shew his compass, his breath, and his volu­bility.

From hence proceed those unnatural startings, those unmusical closings, and shakes lengthened out to a painful continuance; such, indeed, may shew a voice, but it must give a truly delicate ear the utmost uneasiness. Such tricks are not music; neither Corelli nor Pergolesi ever permitted them, and they begin even to be discontinued in Italy, where they first had their rise.

And now I am upon the subject: Our compo­sers also should affect greater simplicity, let their base cliff have all the variety they can give it; let the body of the music (if I may so express it) be as various as they please, but let them avoid orna­menting a barren ground work; let them not at­tempt, by flourishing, to cheat us of solid harmony.

The works of Mr. Rameau are never heard without a surprizing effect. I can attribute it only to this simplicity he every where observes, inso­much, that some of his finest harmonies are often only octave and unison. This simple manner has greater powers than is generally imagined; and [Page 251] were not such a demonstration misplaced, I think, from the principles of music, it might be proved to be most agreeable.

But to leave general reflection. With the pre­sent set of performers, the operas, if the con­ductor thinks proper, may be carried on with some success, since they have all some merit; if not as actors, at least as singers. Signora Matei is at once both a perfect actress and a very fine singer. She is possessed of a fine sensibility in her manner, and seldom indulges those extravagant and un­musical flights of voice complained of before. Cornacini, on the other hand, is a very indifferent actor; has a most unmeaning face; seems not to feel his part; is infected with a passion of shewing his compass; but to recompence all these defects, his voice is melodious; he has vast compass and great volubility; his swell and shake are perfectly fine, unless that he continues the l [...]tter too long. In short, whatever the defects of his action may be, they are amply recompenced by his excellency as a singer; nor can I avoid fancying that he might make a much greater figure in an oratorio, than upon the stage.

However, upon the whole, I know not whether ever operas can be kept up in England; they seem to be entirely exotic, and require the nicest ma­nagement and care. Instead of this, the care of [Page 252] them is assigned to men unacquainted with the genius and disposition of the people they would amuse, and whose only motives are immediate gain. Whether a discontinuance of such entertain­ments would be more to the loss or the advantage of the nation, I will not take upon me to deter­mine, since it is as much our interest to induce foreigners of taste among us on the one hand, as it is to discourage those trifling members of society, who generally compose the operatical dramatis personae on the other.