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THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D. D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
VOL III.

Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.

THE
WORKS
OF
RICHARD HURD, D. D.
LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.
IN EIGHT VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND
1811.

MORAL AND POLITICAL
DIALOGUES.
VOL. I.

MORAL AND POLITICAL
DIALOGUES,
WITH
LETTERS
ON
CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF THE LATE
RALPH ALLEN, ESQ.
OF
PRIOR-PARK.

SI NOBIS ANIMVM BONI VIRI LICERET INSPICERE, O QVAM PVLCHRAM FACIEM, QVAM SANCTAM, QVAM EX MAGNIFICO PLACIDOQVE FVLGENTEM VIDEREMVS! NEMO ILLVM AMABILEM, QVI NON SIMVL VENERABILEM, DICERET.

Seneca.

CONTENTS.

CONTENTS
OF
THE THIRD VOLUME.

PREFACE,
ON
THE MANNER
OF WRITING DIALOGUE.

PREFACE,
ON THE
MANNER OF WRITING DIALOGUE.

The former editions of these Dialogues were given without a name, and under the fictitious person of an Editor: not, the reader may be sure, for any purpose so silly as that of imposing on the Public; but for reasons of another kind, which it is not difficult to apprehend.

However, these reasons, whatever they were, subsisting no longer, the writer is now to appear in his own person; and the respect he owes to the public makes him think it fit to bespeak their acceptance of these volumes in another manner, than he supposed would be readily permitted to him, under his assumed character.

I. In an age, like this, when most men seem ambitious of turning writers, many persons may think it strange that the kind of composition, which was chiefly in use among the masters of this numerous and stirring family, hath been hitherto neglected.

When the ANCIENTS had any thing—

“But what,” it will be said, “always the Ancients? And are we never to take a pen in hand, but the first question must still be, what our masters, the ancients, have been pleased to dictate to us? One man understands, that the ancient Ode was distinguished into several parts, called by I know not what strange names; and then truly an English Ode must be tricked out in the same fantastic manner. Another has heard of a wise, yet merry, company called a Chorus, which was always singing or preaching in the Greek Tragedies; and then, besure, nothing will serve but we must be sung and preached to in ours. While a Third is smitten with a tedious long-winded thing, which was once endured under the name of Dialogue; and strait we have Dialogues of this formal cut, and are told withal, that no man may presume to write them, on any other model.”

Thus the modern critic, with much complacency and even gayety—But I resume the sentence I set out with, and observe, “When the ancients had any thing to say to the world on the subject either of morals or government, they generally chose the way of Dialogue, for the conveyance of their instructions; as supposing they might chance to gain a readier acceptance in this agreeable form, than any other.”

Hæc adeo penitus curâ videre sagaci
Otia qui studiis læti tenuere decoris,
Inque Academia umbriferâ nitidoque Lyceo
Fuderunt claras fœcundi pectoris artes.

Such was the address, or fancy at least, of the wise ANCIENTS.

The MODERNS, on the contrary, have appeared to reverence themselves, or their cause, too much, to think that either stood in need of this oblique management. No writer has the least doubt of being favourably received in all companies, let him come upon us in what shape he will: and, not to stand upon ceremony, when he brings so welcome a present, as what he calls Truth, with him, he obtrudes it upon us in the direct way of Dissertation.

Nobody, I suppose, objects to this practice, when important truths indeed are to be taught, and when the abilities of the Teacher are such as may command respect. But the case is different, when writers presume to try their hands upon us, without these advantages. Nay, and even with them, it can do no hurt, when the subject is proper for familiar discourse, to throw it into this gracious and popular form.

I have said, where the subject is proper for familiar discourse; for all subjects, I think, cannot, or should not be treated in this way.

It is true, the inquisitive genius of the Academic Philosophy gave great scope to the freedom of debate. Hence the origin of the Greek Dialogue: of which, if Plato was not the Inventor, he was, at least, the Model.

This sceptical humour was presently much increased; and every thing was now disputed, not for Plato’s reason (which was, also, his master’s) for the sake of exposing Falsehood and discovering Truth; but because it was pretended that nothing could be certainly affirmed to be either true or false.

And, when afterwards Cicero, our other great master of Dialogue, introduced this sort of writing into Rome, we know that, besides his profession of the Academic Sect, now extended and indeed outraged into absolute scepticism, the very purpose he had in philosophizing, and the rhetorical uses to which he put his Philosophy, would determine him very naturally to the same practice.

Thus all subjects, of what nature and importance soever, were equally discussed in the ancient Dialogue; till matters were at length brought to that pass, that the only end, proposed by it, was to shew the writer’s dexterity in disputing for, or against any opinion, without referring his disputation to any certain use or conclusion at all.

Such was the character of the ancient, and especially of the Ciceronian Dialogue; arising out of the genius and principles of those times.

But for us to follow our masters in this licence would be, indeed, to deserve the objected charge of servile Imitators; since the reasons, that led them into it, do not subsist in our case. They disputed every thing, because they believed nothing. We should forbear to dispute some things, because they are such as both for their sacredness, and certainty, no man in his senses affects to disbelieve. At least, the Stoic Balbus may teach us a decent reserve in one instance, Since, as he observes, it is a wicked and impious custom to dispute against the Being, Attributes, and Providence of God, whether it be under an assumed character, or in one’s own[1].

Thus much I have thought fit to say, to prevent mistakes, and to shew of what kind the subjects are which may be allowed to enter into modern Dialogue. They are only such, as are either, in the strict sense of the word, not important, and yet afford an ingenuous pleasure in the discussion of them; or not so important as to exclude the sceptical inconclusive air, which the decorum of polite dialogue necessarily demands.

And, under these restrictions, we may treat a number of curious and useful subjects, in this form. The benefit will be that which the Ancients certainly found in this practice, and which the great master of life finds in the general way of candour and politeness,

—parcentis viribus, atque
Extenuantis eas consultò—

For, though Truth be not formally delivered in Dialogue, it may be insinuated; and a capable writer will find means to do this so effectually as, in discussing both sides of a question, to engage the reader insensibly on that side, where the Truth lies.

II. But convenience is not the only consideration. The NOVELTY of the thing, itself, may well recommend it to us.

For, when every other species of composition has been tried, and men are grown so fastidious as to receive with indifference the best modern productions, on account of the too common form, into which they are cast, it may seem an attempt of some merit to revive the only one, almost, of the ancient models, which hath not yet been made cheap by vulgar imitation.

I can imagine the reader will conceive some surprise, and, if he be not a candid one, will perhaps express some disdain, at this pretence to Novelty, in cultivating the Dialogue-form. For what, he will say, has been more frequently aimed at in our own, and every modern language? Has not every art, nay, every science, been taught in this way? And, if the vulgar use of any mode of writing be enough to discredit it, can there be room even for wit and genius to retrieve the honour of this trite and hackneyed form?

This, no doubt, may be said; but by those who know little of the ancient Dialogue, or who have not attended to the true manner in which the rules of good writing require it to be composed.

We have what are called Dialogues in abundance; and the authors, for any thing I know, might please themselves with imagining, they had copied Plato or Cicero. But in our language at least (and, if I extended the observation to the other modern ones of most estimation, I should perhaps do them no wrong) I know of nothing in the way of Dialogue that deserves to be considered by us with such regard.

There are in English Three Dialogues, and but Three, that are fit to be mentioned on this occasion: all of them excellently well composed in their way, and, it must be owned, by the very best and politest of our writers. And had that way been a true one, I mean that which antiquity and good criticism recommend to us, the Public had never been troubled with this attempt from me, to introduce another.

The Dialogues I mean are, The Moralists of Lord Shaftesbury; Mr. Addison’s Treatise on Medals; and the Minute Philosopher of Bishop Berkeley: and, where is the modesty, it will be said, to attempt the Dialogue-form, if it has not succeeded in such hands?

The answer is short, and, I hope, not arrogant. These applauded persons suffered themselves to be misled by modern practice; and with every ability to excel in this nice and difficult composition, have written beneath themselves, only because they did not keep up to the ancient standard.

An essential defect runs through them all. They have taken for their speakers, not real, but fictitious characters; contrary to the practice of the old writers; and to the infinite disadvantage of this mode of writing in every respect.

The love of truth, they say, is so natural to the human mind, that we expect to find the appearance of it, even in our amusements. In some indeed, the slenderest shadow of it will suffice: in others, we require to have the substance presented to us. In all cases, the degree of probability is to be estimated from the nature of the work. Thus, for instance, when a writer undertakes to instruct or entertain us in the way of Dialogue, he obliges himself to keep up to the idea, at least, of what he professes. The conversation may not have really been such as is represented; but we expect it to have all the forms of reality. We bring with us a disposition to be deceived (for we know his purpose is not to recite historically, but to feign probably); but it looks like too great an insult on our understandings, when the writer stands upon no ceremony with us, and refuses to be at the expence of a little art or management to deceive us.

Hence the probabilities, or, what is called the decorum, of this composition. We ask, “Who the persons are, that are going to converse before us?” “where and when the conversation passed?” and “by what means the company came together?” If we are let into none of these particulars, or, rather if a way be not found to satisfy us in all of them, we take no interest in what remains; and give the speakers, who in this case are but a sort of Puppets, no more credit, than the opinion we chance to entertain of their Prompter demands from us.

On the other hand, when such persons are brought into the scene as are well known to us, and are entitled to our respect, and but so much address employed in shewing them as may give us a colourable pretence to suppose them really conversing together, the writer himself disappears, and is even among the first to fall into his own delusion. For thus Cicero himself represents the matter:

“This way of discourse,” says he, “which turns on the authority of real persons, and those the most eminent of former times, is, I know not how, more interesting than any other: in so much that in reading my own Dialogue on old age, I am sometimes ready to conclude, in good earnest, it is not I, but Cato himself, who is there speaking[2].”

So complete a deception, as this, requires the hand of a master. But such Cicero was; and had it been his design to make the highest encomium of his own Dialogues, he could not, perhaps, have done it so well by any other circumstance.

But now this advantage is wholly lost by the introduction of fictitious persons. These may do in Comedy; nay, they do the best there, where character only, or chiefly, is designed. In Dialogue, we must have real persons, and those only: for character here is but a secondary consideration; and there is no other way of giving weight and authority to the conversation of the piece.

And here, again, Cicero may instruct us; who was so scrupulous on this head that he would not put his discourse on old age into the mouth of Tithonus, although a Greek writer of name had set him the example, because, as he observes, a fabulous person would have had no great authority[3]. What then would he have said of merely fancied and ideal persons, who have not so much as that shadowy existence, which the plausibility of a current tale bestows?

When I say that character is but a secondary consideration in Dialogue, the reader sees I confine myself to that species only, which was in use among the ancients, properly so called; and of which Plato and Cicero have left us the best models.

It is true, in later times, a great wit took upon him to extend the province of Dialogue, and, like another Prometheus[4], (as, by an equivocal sort of compliment, it seems, was observed of him) created a new species; the merit of which consists in associating two things, not naturally allied together, The severity of Philosophic Dialogue, with the humour of the Comic.

But as unnatural as the alliance may seem, this sort of composition has had its admirers. In particular, Erasmus was so taken with Lucian’s Dialogue, that he has transfused its highest graces into his own; and employed those fine arms to better purpose against the Monks, than the forger of them had done, against the Philosophers.

It must further be confessed, that this innovation of the Greek writer had some countenance from the genius of the old Socratic Dialogue; such I mean as it was in the hands of Socrates himself[5]; who took his name of Ironist from the continued humour and ridicule which runs through his moral discourses. But, besides that the Athenian’s modest Irony was of another taste, and better suited to this decorum of conversation, than the Syrian’s frontless buffoonery, there was this further difference in the two cases. Socrates employed this method of ridicule, as the only one by which he could hope to discredit those mortal foes of reason, the Sophists: Lucian, in mere wantonness, to insult its best friends, the Philosophers, and even the parent of Philosophy, himself. The Sage would have dropped his Irony, in the company of the good and wise: The Rhetorician is never more pleased than in confounding both, by his intemperate Satire.

However, there was likeness enough in the features of each manner, to favour Lucian’s attempt in compounding his new Dialogue. He was not displeased, one may suppose, to turn the comic art of Socrates against himself; though he could not but know that the ablest masters of the Socratic school employed it sparingly; and that, when the illustrious Roman came to philosophize in the way of Dialogue, he disdained to make any use of it at all.

In a word, as it was taken up, to serve an occasion, so it was very properly laid aside with it. And even while the occasion lasted, this humorous manner was far enough, as I observed, from being pushed to a Scenic license; the great artists in this way knowing very well, that, when Socrates brought Philosophy from Heaven to Earth, it was not his purpose to expose her on the stage, but to introduce her into good company.

And here, to note it by the way, what has been observed of the Ironic manner of the Socratic Dialogue, is equally true of its subtle questioning dialectic genius. This, too, had its rise from the circumstances of the time, and the views of its author, who employed it with much propriety and even elegance to entrap, in their own cobweb nets, the minute, quibbling captious sophists. How it chanced that this part of its character did not, also, cease with its use, but was continued by the successors in that school, and even carried so far as to provoke the ridicule of the wits, till, at length, it brought on the just disgrace of the Socratic Dialogue itself, all this is the proper subject of another inquiry.

Our concern, at present, is with Lucian’s Dialogue; whether he were indeed the inventor of this species, or, after Socrates, only the espouser of it.

The account, given above, that it unites and incorporates the several virtues of the Comic and Philosophic manner, is in Lucian’s own words[6]. Yet his Dialogue does not, as indeed it could not, correspond exactly to this idea. Cicero thought it no easy matter to unite Philosophy with Politeness and Good-humour[7]; what then would he have said of incorporating Philosophy, with Comic Ridicule?

To do him justice, Lucian himself appears sensible enough of the difficulty. I have presumed, says he, to connect and put together two things, not very obsequious to my design, nor disposed by any natural sympathy to bear the society of each other[8]. And therefore we find him on all occasions more solicitous for the success of this hazardous enterprise, than for the credit of his invention. Every body was ready to acknowledge the novelty of the thing; but he had some reason to doubt with himself, whether it were gazed at as a monster, or admired as a just and reasonable form of composition. So that not being able to resolve this scruple to his satisfaction, he extricates himself, as usual, from the perplexity, by the force of his comic humour, and concludes at length, that he had nothing left for it but to persevere in the choice he had once made; that is, to preserve the credit of his own consistency at least, if he could not prevail to have his Dialogue accepted by the judicious reader, under the idea[9] of a consistent composition.

The ingenious writer had, surely, no better way to take, in his distress. For the two excellencies he meant to incorporate in his Dialogue cannot, in a supreme degree of each, subsist together. The one must be sacrificed to the other. Either the philosophic part must give place to the dramatic; or the dramatic must withdraw, or restrain itself at least, to give room for a just display of the philosophic.

And this, in fact, as I observed, is the case in Lucian’s own Dialogues. They are highly dramatic, in which part his force lay; while his Philosophy serves only to edge his wit, or simply to introduce it. They have, usually, for their subject, not a QUESTION DEBATED; but, a TENET RIDICULED, or a CHARACTER EXPOSED. In this view, they are doubtless inimitable: I mean when he kept himself, as too frequently he did not, to such tenets or characters, as deserve to be treated in this free manner.

But after all, the other species, the serious, philosophic Dialogue, is the noblest and the best. It is the noblest, in all views; for the dignity of its subject, the gravity of its manner, and the importance of its end. It is the best, too; I mean, it excels most in the very truth and art of composition; as it governs itself entirely by the rules of decorum, and gives a just and faithful image of what it would represent: whereas the comic Dialogue, distorting, or, at least, aggravating the features of its original, pleases at some expence of probability; and at length attains its end but in part, for want of dramatic action, the only medium through which humour can be perfectly conveyed.

Thus the serious Dialogue is absolute in itself; and fully obtains its purpose: the humorous or characteristic, but partially; and is, at best, the faint copy of a higher species, the Comic Drama.

However, the authority of Lucian is so great, and the manner itself so taking, that for these reasons, but chiefly for the sake of variety, the FIRST of the following Dialogues (and in part too, the SECOND) pretends to be of this class.

But to return to our proper subject, the serious or philosophic Dialogue.

1. I observed (and the reason now appears) that character is a subordinate consideration, in this Dialogue. The manners are to be given indeed, but sparingly, and, as it were, by accident. And this grace (which so much embellishes a well-composed work) can only be had by employing REAL, KNOWN, and RESPECTED speakers. Each of these circumstances, in the choice of a speaker, is important. The first, excites our curiosity: the second, affords an easy opportunity of painting the manners by those slight and careless strokes, which alone can be employed for this purpose, and which would not sufficiently mark the characters of unknown or fictitious persons: and the last gives weight and dignity to the whole composition.

By this means, the dialogue becomes, in a high degree, natural, and, on that account, affecting: a thousand fine and delicate allusions to the principles, sentiments, and history of the Dialogists keep their characters perpetually in view: we have a rule before us, by which to estimate the pertinence and propriety of what is said: and we are pleased to bear a part, as it were, in the conversation of such persons.

Thus the old writers of Dialogue charm us, even when their subjects are unpleasing, and could hardly merit our attention: but when the topics are of general and intimate concern to the reader, by being discussed in this form, they create in him the keenest appetite; and are, perhaps, read with a higher pleasure, than we receive from most other compositions of literary men.

2. It being now apprehended what persons are most fit to be shewn in Dialogue, the next inquiry will be, concerning their style or manner of expression. And this, in general, must be suited to the condition and qualities of the persons themselves: that is, it must be grave, polite, and something raised above the ordinary pitch or tone of conversation; for, otherwise, it would not agree to the ideas we form of the speakers, or to the regard we owe to real, known, and respected persons, seriously debating, as the philosophic dialogue imports in the very terms, on some useful or important subject.

Thus far the case is plain enough. The conclusion flows, of itself, from the very idea of a philosophic conversation between such men.

But as it appeared that the speaker’s proper manners are to be given, in this Dialogue, it may be thought (and, I suppose, commonly is thought) that the speaker’s proper style or expression should be given, too.

Here the subject begins to be a little nice; and we must distinguish between the general cast of expression, and its smaller and more peculiar features.

As to the general cast or manner of speaking, it may be well to preserve some resemblance of it; for it results so immediately from the speaker’s character, and sometimes makes so essential a part of it, that the manners themselves cannot, otherwise, be sufficiently expressed.

Accordingly Cicero tells us, that, in his Dialogues of the complete Orator, he had endeavoured to shadow out, that is, give the outline, as it were, of the kind of eloquence, by which his chief speakers, Crassus and Antonius, were severally distinguished[10]. This attention has certainly no ill effect when the manners of speaking, as here, are sufficiently distinct, and generally known. It was, besides, essentially necessary in this Dialogue, where the subject is, of eloquence itself; and where the principal persons appeared, and were accordingly to be represented, in the light and character of speakers; that is, where their different kinds or manners of speaking were, of course, to be expressed.

In Dialogues on other subjects, Cicero himself either neglects this rule, or observes it with less care[11]; and this difference of conduct is plainly justified, from the reason of the thing.

But now when the question is, of the smaller features and more peculiar qualities of style or expression, it will be found that the writer of Dialogue is under no obligation, either from the reason of the thing, or the best authorities, to affect a resemblance of that kind.

Authorities, I think, there are none, or none at least that deserve to be much regarded; though I remember what has been observed of an instance or two of this sort, in some of Plato’s Dialogues, where his purpose is, to expose a character, not to debate a philosophic question: and for the impropriety of the thing itself, it may appear from the following considerations.

In general, the reason, why character is preserved in this Dialogue, is, because such speakers, as are introduced in it, cannot be supposed to converse for any time on a subject of importance without discovering somethings of their own peculiar manners; though the occasion may not be warming enough to throw them out with that distinctness and vivacity, which we expect in the progress of a dramatic plot. But as to the language of conversation, it is so much the same between persons of education and politeness, that, whether the subject be interesting, or otherwise, all that you can expect is that the general cast of expression will be somewhat tinctured by the manners, which shine through it; but by no means that the smaller differences, the nicer peculiarities of style, will be shewn.

Or, we may take the matter thus:

The reason, why the general cast or kind of expression is different in two speakers, is, because their characters are different, too. But character has no manner of influence, in the ease and freedom of conversation, on the idiomatic differences of expression; which flow not from the manners, but from some degree of study and affectation, and only characterize their written and artificial works.

Thus, for instance, if Sallust and Cicero had come together in conversation, the former would certainly have dropped his new words and pointed sentences: and the latter his numerous oratorial periods. All that might be expected to appear, is, that Sallust’s expression would be shorter and more compact; Cicero’s more gracious and flowing, agreeably to the characters of the two men.

But there is a further reason why these characteristic peculiarities of style must not be exhibited, or must be infinitely restrained at least, in the sort of composition we are now considering. It is, that the studied imitation of such peculiarities would be what we call mimickry; and would therefore border upon ridicule, the thing of all others which the genius of this Dialogue most abhors. In Comedy itself, the most exact writers do not condescend to this minute imitation. Terence’s characters all express themselves, I think, with equal elegance: even his slaves are made to speak as good Latin, as their masters. In the serious Dialogue, then, which, from its nature, is, in a much lower degree, mimetic, that minute attention can by no means be required. It will be sufficient that the speakers express themselves in the same manner, that is, (provided the general cast of expression be suited to their respective characters) in the writer’s own.

If there be any exception from this rule, it must be, when the peculiarities of expression are so great, and so notorious, that the reader could hardly acknowledge the speaker in any other dress, than that of his own style. Hence it is possible, though Cicero has left us no example of this sort, that if, in the next age, any one had thought fit to introduce Mæcenas into Dialogue, he might perhaps have been allowed to colour his language with some of those spruce turns and negligent affectations, by which, as a writer, he was so well known. It is, at least, on this principle that the Author of the following Dialogues must rest his apology for having taken such liberty, in one or two instances, only: in which, however, he has confined his imitation to the single purpose of exhibiting some degree of likeness to their acknowledged manner of expression, without attempting to expose it in any strong or invidious light. And, after all, if even this liberty, so cautiously taken, be thought too much, he will not complain of his critics; since the fault, if it be one, was committed rather in compliance with what he supposed might be the public judgment, than with his own.

The reader has now before him a sketch of what I conceive to be the character of the ancient philosophic Dialogue; which, in one word, may be said to be, “An imitated, and mannered conversation between certain real, known, and respected persons, on some useful or serious subject, in an elegant, and suitably adorned, but not characteristic style.”

At least, I express, as I can, my notion of Cicero’s Dialogue, which unites these several characters; and, by such union, has effected, as it seems to me, all that the nature of this composition requires or admits.

This, I am sensible, is saying but little, on the subject. But I pretend not to do justice to Cicero’s Dialogues; which are occasionally set off by that lively, yet chaste colouring of the manners, and are, besides, all over sprinkled with that exquisite grace of, what the Latin writers call, urbanity, (by which, they meant as well what was most polite in the air of conversation, as in the language of it) that there is nothing equal to them, in Antiquity itself: and I have sometimes fancied, that even Livy’s Dialogues[12], if they had come down to us, would perhaps have lost something, on a comparison with these master-pieces of Cicero’s pen.

3. But to this apology for the ancient Dialogue, I suspect it will be replied, “That though, in the hands of the Greek and Latin writers, it might, heretofore, have all this grace and merit, yet who shall pretend to revive it in our days? or, how shall we enter into the spirit of this composition, for which there is no encouragement, nor so much as the countenance of example in real life? No man writes well, but from his own experience and observation: and by whom is the way of dialogue now practised? or, where do we find such precedents of grave and continued conversation in modern times?”

A very competent judge, and one too, who was himself, as I have observed, an adventurer in this class of composition, puts the objection home in the following words:

“The truth is,” says he, “it would be an abominable falsehood, and belying of the age, to put so much good sense together in any one conversation, as might make it hold out steadily, and with plain coherence, for an hour’s time, till any one subject had been rationally examined[13].”

Nor is this the only difficulty. Another occurs, from the prevailing manners of modern times, which are over-run with respect, compliment, and ceremony. “Now put compliments,” says the same writer, “put ceremony into a Dialogue, and see what will be the effect! This is the plain dilemma against that ancient manner of writing—if we avoid ceremony, we are unnatural: if we use it, and appear as we naturally are, as we salute, and meet, and treat one another, we hate the sight[14].”

These considerations are to the purpose; and shew perhaps in a mortifying manner, that the modern writers of Dialogue, the very best of them, cannot aspire to the unrivalled elegance of the ancient; as being wholly unfurnished of many advantages, to this end, which they enjoyed. But still the form of writing itself is neither impracticable, nor unnatural: and there are certain means, by which the disadvantages, complained of, may be lessened at least, if not entirely removed.

To begin with the LAST. It is very true, that the constraint of a formal and studied civility is foreign to the genius of this sort of composition; and it is, also, as true, that somewhat of this constrained civility is scarce separable from a just copy and faithful picture of conversation in our days. The reason of which is to be gathered from the nature of our policies and governments. For conversation, I mean the serious and manly sort, as well as eloquence, is most cultivated and thrives best amidst the quality of conditions in republican and popular states.

And, though this inconvenience be less perceived by us of this free country than by most others, yet something of it will remain wherever monarchy, with its consequent train of subordinate and dependent ranks of men, subsists.

Now the proper remedy in the case is, to bring such men only together in Dialogue as are of the same rank; or at least to class our speakers with such care as that any great inequality in that respect may be compensated by some other; such as the superiority of age, wisdom, talents, or the like. A Chancellor of England and a Country Justice, or even a Lord and his Chaplain, could hardly be shewn in Dialogue, without incurring some ridicule. But a Judge and a Bishop, one would hope, might be safely brought together; and if a great Philosopher should enter into debate with a lettered Man of Quality, the indecorum would not be so violent as to be much resented.

But the influence of modern manners reaches even to names and the ordinary forms of address. In the Greek and Roman Dialogues, it was permitted to accost the greatest persons by their obvious and familiar appellations. Alcibiades had no more addition, than Socrates: and Brutus and Cæsar lost nothing of their dignity from being applied to in those direct terms. The moderns, on the contrary, have their guards and fences about them; and we hold it an incivility to approach them without some decent periphrasis, or ceremonial title—

——gaudent prænomine molles
Auriculæ.

It was principally, I believe, for this reason, that modern writers of Dialogue have had recourse to fictitious names and characters, rather than venture on the use of real ones: the former absolving them from this cumbersome ceremony, which, in the case of the latter, could not so properly be laid aside. Palæmon and Philander, for instance, are not only well-sounding words; but slide as easily into a sentence, and as gracefully too, as Cicero and Atticus: while the Mr’s and the Sirs, nay his Grace, his Excellency, or his Honour[15], of modern Dialogue, have not only a formality that hurts the ease of conversation, but a harshness too, which is somewhat offensive to a well-tuned Attic or Roman ear.

All this will be allowed; and yet, to speak plainly and with that freedom which ancient manners indulge, the barbarity of these forms is not worse than the pedantry of taking such disgust at them. And there are ways, too, by which the most offensive circumstances in this account may be so far qualified as to be almost overlooked, or at least endured. What these are, the capable and intelligent reader or writer is not to be told; and none but such would easily apprehend.

To come then to the OTHER objection of Lord Shaftesbury, which is more considerable.

It would be a manifest falsehood, he thinks, and directly against the truth both of art and nature, to engage the moderns in a grave discourse of any length. And it is true, the great men of our time do not, like the Senators of ancient Rome, spend whole days in learned debate and formal disputation: yet their meetings, especially in private parties, with their friends, are not so wholly frivolous, but that they sometimes discourse seriously, and even pursue a subject of learning or business, not with coherence only, but with some care. And will not this be ground enough for a capable writer to go upon, in reviving the way of Dialogue between such men?

But, to give the most probable air to his fiction, he may find it necessary to recede from the strict imitation of his originals, in one instance.

It may be advisable not to take for his speakers, living persons; I mean, persons, however respectable, of his own age. We may fancy of the dead, what we cannot so readily believe of the living. And thus, by endeavouring a little to deceive ourselves, we may come to think that natural, which is not wholly incredible; and may admit the writer’s invention for a picture, though a studied and flattering one, it may be, of real life.

In short, it may be a good rule in modern Dialogue, as it was in ancient Tragedy, to take our subjects, and choose our persons, out of former times. And, under the prejudice of that opinion which is readily entertained of such subjects and characters, an artist may contrive to pass that upon us for Fact, which was only ingenious Fiction; and so wind up his piece to the perfection of ancient Dialogue, without departing too widely from the decorum and truth of conversation in modern life.

Such at least is the Idea, which the Author of these Dialogues has formed to himself of the manner in which this exquisite sort of composition may be attempted by more successful writers. For to conceive an excellence, and to copy it, he understands and laments, are very different things.

Thurcaston.
MDCCLXIV.

MORAL AND POLITICAL
DIALOGUES.

DIALOGUE I.
ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE
OF THE WORLD.
BETWEEN
DR. HENRY MORE,
AND
EDMUND WALLER, ESQ.

DIALOGUE I.
ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE OF THE WORLD.
Dr. HENRY MORE, EDMUND WALLER, Esq.

MR. WALLER.

Enough, enough, my friend, on the good old chapter of Sincerity and Honour. Your rhetoric, and not your reasoning, is too much for me. Believe it, your fine stoical lessons must all give way to a little common sense, I mean, to a prudent accommodation of ourselves to times and circumstances; which, whether you will dignify it with the name of philosophy, or no, is the only method of living with credit in the world, and even with safety.

DR. MORE.

Accommodation is, no doubt, a good word to stand in the place of insincerity. But, pray, in which of the great moral masters have you picked up this term, and, much more, the virtuous practice, it so well expresses?

MR. WALLER.

I learnt it from the great master of life, EXPERIENCE: A doctor, little heard of in the schools, but of more authority with men of sense, than all the solemn talkers of the porch, or cloister, put together.

DR. MORE.

After much reserve, I confess, you begin to express yourself very clearly. But, good Sir, not to take up your conclusion too hastily, have the patience to hear—

MR. WALLER.

Have I not, then, heard, and sure with patience enough, your studied harangues on this subject? You have discoursed it, I must own, very plausibly. But the impression, which fine words make, is one thing, and the conviction of reason, another. And, not to waste more time in fruitless altercation, let ME, if you please, read you a lecture of morals: not out of ancient books, or the visions of an unpractised philosophy, but from the schools of business and real life. Such a view of things will discredit these high nations, and may serve, for the future, to amend and rectify all your systems.

DR. MORE.

Commend me to a man of the world, for a rectifier of moral systems!—Yet, if it were only for the pleasure of being let into the secrets of this new doctrine of Accommodation, I am content to become a patient hearer, in my turn; and the rather, as the day, which you see, wears apace, will hardly give leave for interruption, or indeed afford you time enough for the full display of your wit on this extraordinary subject.

MR. WALLER.

We have day enough before us, for the business in hand. ’Tis true, this wood-land walk has not the charms, which you lately bestowed on a certain philosophical garden[16]. But the heavens are as clear, and the air, that blows upon us, as fresh, as in that fine evening which drew your friends abroad, and engaged them in a longer debate, than that with which I am now likely to detain you. For, indeed, I have only to lay before you the result of my own experience and observation. All my arguments are plain facts, which are soon told, and about which there can be no dispute. You shall judge for yourself, how far they will authorize the conclusion I mean to draw from them.

The point, I am bold enough to maintain against you philosophers, is, briefly, this; “That sincerity, or a scrupulous regard to truth in all our conversation and behaviour, how specious soever it may be in theory, is a thing impossible in practice; that there is no living in the world on these terms; and that a man of business must either quit the scene, or learn to temper the strictness of your discipline with some reasonable accommodations. It is exactly the dilemma of the poet,

Vivere si recte nescis, discede peritis;

of all which I presume, as I said, to offer my own experience, as the shortest and most convincing demonstration.”

DR. MORE.

The subject, I confess, is fairly delivered, and nothing can be juster than this appeal to experience, provided you do not attempt to delude yourself or me by throwing false colours upon it.

MR. WALLER.

It will be your business to remonstrate against these arts, if you discover any such. My intention is to proceed in the way of a direct and simple recital.

“I was born, as you know, of a good family, and to the inheritance of this paternal seat[17], with the easy fortune that belongs to it. To this, I succeeded but too soon by the untimely loss of an excellent father. His death, however, did not deprive me of those advantages which are thought to arise from a strict and virtuous education. This care devolved on my mother, a woman of great prudence, who provided for my instruction in letters and every other accomplishment. I was, of myself, enough inclined to books, and was supposed to have some parts which deserved cultivation. I was accordingly trained in the study of those writings, which are the admiration of men of elegant minds and refined morals. I was a tolerable master of the languages, in which they are composed; and, I may venture to say, was at least imbued with their notions and principles, if I was not able at that time to catch the spirit of their composition: all which was confirmed in me, by the constant attendance and admonitions of the best tutors, and the strict discipline of your colleges. I mention these things to shew you, that I was not turned loose into the world, as your complaint of men of business generally is, unprincipled and uninstructed; and that what austere men might afterwards take for some degree of libertinism in my conduct, is not to be charged on the want of a sober or even learned education.”

DR. MORE.

I understand you mean to take no advantage of that plea, if what follows be not answerable to so high expectations.

MR. WALLER.

The season was now come, when my rank and fortune, together with the solicitations of my friends, drew me forth, though reluctantly, from the college into the world. I was then, indeed, under twenty; but so practised in the best things, and so enamoured of the moral lessons which had been taught me, that I carried with me into the last parliament of king James, not the showy accomplishments of learning only, but the high enthusiasm of a warm and active virtue. Yet the vanity, it may be, of a young man, distinguished by some advantages, and conscious enough of them, was, for a time, the leading principle with me. In this disposition, it may be supposed, I could not be long without desiring an introduction to the court. It was not a school of that virtue I had been used to, yet had some persons in it of eminent worth and honour. A vein of poetry, which seemed to flow naturally from me, was that by which I seemed most ambitious to recommend myself[18]. And occasions quickly offered for that purpose. But this was a play of ingenuity in which the heart had no share. I made complimentary verses on the great lords and ladies of the court, with as much simplicity and as little meaning as my bows in the drawing room, and thought it a fine thing to be taken notice of, as a wit, in the fashionable circles. In the mean time, the corruptions of a loose disorderly court gave me great scandal. And the abject flatteries, I observed in some of the highest stations and gravest characters, filled me with indignation. As an instance of this, I can never forget the resentment, that fired my young breast at the conversation you have often heard me say I was present at, betwixt the old king, and two of his court prelates[19]. And if the prudent and witty turn, the venerable bishop of Winchester gave to the discourse, had not atoned, in some measure, for the rank offensive servility of the other, it had been enough to determine me, forthwith, to an implacable hatred of kings and courts for ever.

DR. MORE.

It must be owned the provocation was very gross, and the offence taken at it no more than a symptom of a generous and manly virtue.

MR. WALLER.

It left a deep impression on my mind; yet it did not hinder me from appearing at court in the first years of the following reign, when the vanity of a thoughtless muse, rather than any relaxation of my ancient manners, drew from me, again, some occasional panegyrics on greatness; which being presented in verse, I thought would hardly be suspected of flattery.

DR. MORE.

This indulgence of a thoughtless muse (as you call it) was not without its danger. I am afraid this must pass for the first instance of your sacrificing to Insincerity.

MR. WALLER.

Your fears are too hasty. This was still a trial of my wit: and after a few wanton circles, as it were to breathe and exercise my muse, I drew her in from these amusements to a stricter manage and more severe discipline. The long interval of parliaments now followed; and in this suspension of business I applied myself to every virtuous pursuit that could be likely to improve my mind, or purify my morals. Believe me, I cannot to this day, without pleasure, reflect on the golden hours, I passed in the society of such accomplished men as Falkland, Hyde, and Chillingworth. And, for my more retired amusements at this place, you will judge of the good account I might render of these, when I add, they were constantly shared with that great prelate, who now, with so much dignity, fills the throne of Winchester[20].

DR. MORE.

This enthusiasm of your’s is catching, and raises in me an incredible impatience to come at the triumphs of a virtue, trained and perfected in her best school, the conversations of heroes and sages.

MR. WALLER.

You shall hear. The jealousies, that had alarmed the nation for twelve years, were now to have a vent given them, by the call of the parliament in April 1640. As the occasion, on which it met, was in the highest degree interesting, the assembly itself was the most august, that perhaps had ever deliberated on public councils. There was a glow of honour, of liberty, and of virtue in all hearts, in all faces: and yet this fire was tempered with so composed a wisdom, and so sedate a courage, that it seemed a synod of heroes; and, as some would then say of us, could only be matched by a senate of old Rome in its age of highest glory. To this parliament I had the honour to be deputed, whither I went with high-erected thoughts, and a heart panting for glory and the true service of my country. The dissolution, which so unhappily followed, served only to increase this ardour. So that, on our next meeting in November, I went freely and warmly into the measures of those, who were supposed to mean the best. I voted, I spoke, I impeached[21]. In a word, I gave a free scope to those generous thoughts and purposes which had been collecting in me for so many years, and was in the foremost rank of those, whose pulse beat highest for liberty, and who were most active for the interest of the public.

DR. MORE.

This was indeed a triumph, the very memory of which warms you to this moment. So bright a flame was not easily extinguished.

MR. WALLER.

It continued for some time in all its vigour. High as my notions were of public liberty, they did not transport me, with that zeal which prevailed on so many others, to act against the just prerogative of the crown, and the ancient constitution. I owe it to the conversation and influence of the excellent society, before-mentioned, that neither the spirit, the sense, nor, what is more, the relationship and intimate acquaintance of Mr. Hampden[22], could ever bias me to his deeper designs, or any irreverence to the unhappy king’s person. Many things concurred to preserve me in this due mean. The violent tendencies of many councils on the parliament’s side; many gracious and important compliances on the king’s; the great examples of some who had most authority with good men; and, lastly, my own temper, which, in its highest fervours, always inclined to moderation; these and other circumstances kept me from the excesses, on either hand, which so few were able to avoid in that scene of public confusion.

DR. MORE.

This moderation carries with it all the marks of a real and confirmed virtue.

MR. WALLER.

I rather expected you would have considered it as another sacrifice to Insincerity. Such, I remember, was the language of many at that time. The enthusiasts on both sides agreed to stigmatize this temper with the name of Neutrality. Yet this treatment did not prevent me, when the war broke out, from taking a course, which I easily foresaw, would tend to increase such suspicions; for now, to open a fresh scene to you, I had assumed, if not new principles, yet new notions of the manner in which good policy required me to exert my old ones. The general virtue, or what had the appearance of it at least, had hitherto made plain-dealing an easy and convenient conduct. But things were now changed. The minds of all men were on fire: deep designs were laid, and no practice stuck at that might be proper to advance the execution of them. In this situation of affairs, what could simple honesty do, but defeat the purpose and endanger the safety of its master? I now, first, began to reflect that this was a virtue for other times: at least, that not to qualify it, in some sort, was, at such a juncture, not honesty, but imprudence: and when I had once fallen into this train of thinking, it is wonderful how many things occurred to me to justify and recommend it. The humour of acting always on one principle was, I said to myself, like that of sailing with one wind: whereas the expert mariner wins his way by plying in all directions, as occasions serve, and making the best of all weathers. Then I considered with myself the bad policy, in such a conjuncture, of Cato and Brutus, and easily approved in my own mind the more pliant and conciliating method of Cicero. Those stoics, thought I, ruined themselves and their cause by a too obstinate adherence to their system. The liberal and more enlarged conduct of the academic, who took advantage of all winds that blew in that time of civil dissension, had a chance at least for doing his country better service. Observation, as well as books, furnish me with these reflections. I perceived with what difficulty the Lord Falkland’s rigid principles had suffered him to accept an office of the greatest consequence to the public safety[23]: and I understood to what an extreme his scruples had carried him in the discharge of it[24]. This, concluded I, can never be the office of virtue in such a world, and in such a period. And then that of the poet, so skilled in the knowledge of life, occurred to me,

—aut virtus nomen inane est,
Aut decus et pretium recte petit EXPERIENS vir;

that is, as I explained it, “The man of a ready and dexterous turn in affairs; one who knows how to take advantage of all circumstances, and is not restrained, by his bigotry, from varying his conduct, as occasions serve, and making, as it were, experiments in business.”

DR. MORE.

You poets, I suppose, have an exclusive right to explain one another; or these words might seem to bear a more natural interpretation.

MR. WALLER.

You will understand from this account, which I have opened so particularly to you, on what reasons I was induced to alter my plan, or rather to pursue it with those arts of prudence and address, which the turn of the times had now rendered necessary. The conclusion was, I resolved to pursue steadily the king’s, which at the same time was manifestly the nation’s interest, and yet to keep fair with the parliament, and the managers on that side; for this appeared the likeliest way of doing him real service. And yet some officious scruples, which forced themselves upon me at first, had like to have fixed me in other measures. In the stream of those who chose to desert the houses rather than share in the violent counsels that prevailed in them, the general disgust had also carried me to withdraw myself. But this start of zeal was soon over. I presently saw, and found means to satisfy the king, that it would be more for his service that I should return to the parliament. I therefore resumed my seat, and took leave (to say the truth, it was not denied me by the house, who had their own ends to serve by this indulgence[25]) to reason and debate in all points with great freedom. At the same time my affections to the common interest were not suspected; for, having no connexion with the court, nobody thought of charging me with private views; and not forgetting, besides, to cultivate a good understanding with the persons of chief credit in the house, the plainness I used could only be taken for what it was, an honest and parliamentary liberty. This situation was, for a time, very favourable to me: for the king’s friends regarded me as the champion of their cause; whilst the prudence of my carriage towards the leading members secured me, in a good degree, from their jealousy.

DR. MORE.

Your policy, I observe, had now taken a more refined turn. The juncture of affairs might possibly justify this address: but the ground you stood upon was slippery; and I own myself alarmed at what may be the consequence of this solicitous pursuit of popularity.

MR. WALLER.

No exception, I think, can be fairly taken at the methods by which I pursued it. However, this popularity it was, as you rightly divine, which drew upon me all the mischiefs that followed. For the application of all men, disposed to the king’s service, was now made to me. I had an opportunity, by this means, of knowing the characters and views of particular persons, and of getting an insight into the true state of the king’s affairs. And these advantages, in the end, drove me on the project, which, on the discovery, came to be called my Plot: an event, which, with all its particulars, you understand too well to need any information from me about it.

DR. MORE.

The story, as it was noised abroad, I am no stranger to: but this being one of those occasions, as they say, in which both your policy and virtue were put to the sharpest trial, it would be much to the purpose you have in view by this recital, to favour me with your own account of it.

MR. WALLER.

To lead you through all particulars, would not suit with the brevity you require of me. But something I will say to obviate the misconceptions you may possibly have entertained of this business[26]. For the plot itself, the utmost of my design was only to form such a combination among the honest and well-affected of all sorts, as might have weight enough to incline the houses to a peace, and prevent the miseries that were too certainly to be apprehended from a civil war. It was never in my thoughts to surprize the parliament or city by force, or engage the army in the support and execution of my purpose. But my design in this affair, though the fury of my enemies, and the fatal jealousy of the time, would not suffer it to be rightly understood, is not that which my friends resented, and which most men were disposed to blame in me. It was my behaviour afterwards, and the obliquity of some means which I found expedient to my own safety, that exposed me to so rude a storm of censure. It continues, I know, to beat upon me even at this distance. But the injustice hath arisen from the force of vulgar prejudices, and from the want of entering into those enlarged principles, on which it was necessary for me to proceed in that juncture.

DR. MORE.

Yet the ill success of this plot itself might have shewn you, what the design of acting on these enlarged principles was likely to come to. It was an unlucky experiment, this, you had made in the new arts of living; and should have been a warning to you, not to proceed in a path which, at the very entrance of it, had involved you in such difficulties.

MR. WALLER.

No, it was not the new path, you object to me, but the good old road of Sincerity, which misled me into those brambles. I, in the simplicity of my heart, thought it my duty to adhere to the injured king’s cause, and believed my continuance in parliament the fairest, as well as the likeliest method, that could be taken to support it. Had I temporized so far as either to desert my prince, and strike in with the parliament, or, on the other hand, had left the house and gone with the seceders to Oxford, either way I had been secure. But resolving, as I did, to hold my principles, and follow my judgment, I fell into those unhappy circumstances, from which all the dexterity I afterwards assumed was little enough to deliver me.

DR. MORE.

But if your intentions were so pure, and the methods, by which you resolved to prosecute them, so blameless, how happened it that any plot could be worked up of so much danger to your life and person?

MR. WALLER.

This was the very thing I was going to explain to you. My intentions towards the parliament were fair and honourable: as I retained my seat there, I could not allow myself in the use of any but parliamentary methods to promote the cause I had undertaken. And this, as I said, was the whole purpose of the combination, which was made the pretence to ruin me: for my unhappy project of a reconciliation was so inextricably confounded with another of more dangerous tendency, the commission of array, sent at that time from Oxford, that nothing, I presently saw, could possibly disentangle so perplexed a business, or defeat the malice of my enemies, if I attempted, in the more direct way, to stand on my defence. Presumptions, if not proofs, they had in abundance: the consternation of all men was great; their rage, unrelenting; and the general enthusiasm of the time, outrageous. Consider all this, and see what chance there was for escaping their injustice, if I had restrained myself to the sole use of those means, which you men of the cloister magnify so much, under I know not what names of Sincerity and Honour. And, indeed, this late experience, of what was to be expected from the way of plain dealing, had determined me, henceforth, to take a different route; and, since I had drawn these mischiefs on myself by Sincerity, to try what a little management could do towards bringing me out of them.

DR. MORE.

It was not, I perceive, without cause, that the subtlety you had begun to have recourse to, filled me with apprehensions. Sincerity and Honour, Mr. Waller, are plain things, and hold no acquaintance with this ingenious casuistry.

MR. WALLER.

What, not in such a situation? It should seem then, as if you moralists conceived a man owed nothing to himself: that self-preservation was not what God and Nature have made it, the first and most binding of all laws: that a man’s family, not to say his country, have no interest in the life of an innocent and deserving citizen; and, in one word, that prudence is but an empty name, though you give it a place among your cardinal virtues. All this must be concluded before you reject, as unlawful, the means I was forced upon, at this season, for my defence: means, I presume to say, so sagely contrived, and, as my very enemies will own, executed so happily, that I cannot to this day reflect on my conduct in that affair without satisfaction.

DR. MORE.

Yet it had some consequences which a man of your generosity would a little startle at.—

MR. WALLER.

I understand you: my friends—But I shall answer that objection in its place.

Let me at present go on with the particulars of my defence. The occasion, as you see, was distressful to the last degree. To deny or defend myself from the charge was a thing impossible. What remained then but to confess it, and in so frank and ample a manner, as might bespeak the pity or engage the protection of my accusers? I resolved to say nothing but the truth; and, if ever the whole truth may be spoken, it is when so alarming an occasion calls for it. Besides, what had others, who might be affected by the discovery, to complain of? I disclaimed no part of the guilt myself: nor could any confession be made, that did not first and chiefly affect me. And if I, who was principal in the contrivance, had the best chance for escaping by such confession, what had they, who were only accomplices, to apprehend from it? Add to this, that the number and credit of the persons, who were charged with having a share in the design, were, of all others, the likeliest considerations to prevail with the houses to drop the further prosecution of it.

Well, the discovery had great effects. But there was no stopping here. Penitence, as well as confession, is expected from a sinner. I had to do with hypocrites of the worst sort. What fairer weapons, then, than hypocrisy and dissimulation? I counterfeited the strongest remorse, and with a life and spirit that disposed all men to believe, and most to pity me. My trial was put off in very compassion to my disorder; which, in appearance, was so great, that some suspected my understanding had been affected by it. In this contrivance I had two views; to gain time for my defence, and to keep it off till the fury of my prosecutors was abated. In this interval, indeed, some of my accomplices suffered. But how was it possible for me to apprehend that, when, if any, I myself might expect to have fallen the first victim of their resentment?

DR. MORE.

If this apology satisfy yourself, I need not interrupt your story with any exceptions.

MR. WALLER.

It was, in truth, the only thing which afflicted me in the course of this whole business. But time and reflection have reconciled me to what was, in some sense, occasioned, but certainly not intended, by me. And it would be a strange morality that should charge a man with the undesigned consequences of his own actions.

DR. MORE.

And were all the symptoms of a disturbed mind, you made a shew of, then entirely counterfeit?

MR. WALLER.

As certainly as those of the Roman Brutus, who, to tell you the truth, was my example on that occasion. It was the business of both of us to elude the malice of our enemies, and reserve ourselves for the future service of our respective countries.

But all I have told you was only a prelude to a further, and still more necessary, act of dissimulation. Had the house been left to itself, it might possibly have absolved me, on the merits of so large a confession, and so lively a repentance. But I had to do with another class of men, with holy inquisitors of sordid minds, and sour spirits; priestly reformers, whose sense was noise, and religion fanaticism, and that too fermented with the leven of earthly avarice and ambition. These had great influence both within doors and without, and would regard what had hitherto passed as nothing, if I went not much further. To these, having begun in so good a train, I was now to address myself. I had studied their humours, and understood to a tittle the arts that were most proper to gain them.

The first step to the countenance and good liking of these restorers of primitive parity was, I well knew, the most implicit subjection both of will and understanding. I magnified their gifts, I revered their sanctity. I debased myself with all imaginable humility: I extolled them with the grossest flattery.

Having thus succeeded to my wish in drawing the principal of these saints around me, I advanced further: I sought their instruction, solicited their advice, and importuned their ghostly consolation. This brought me into high favour; they regarded me as one, who wished and deserved to be enlightened: they strove which should impart most of their lights and revelations to me. I besought them to expound, and pray, and preach before me: nay, I even preached, and prayed, and expounded before them. I out-canted the best-gifted of them; and out-railed the bitterest of all their decriers of an anti-christian prelacy. In short, it would have moved your laughter or your indignation to observe, how submissively I demeaned myself to these spiritual fathers; how I hung on their words, echoed their coarse sayings, and mimicked their beggarly tones and grimaces.

To complete the farce, I intreated their acceptance of such returns for their godly instructions, as fortune had enabled me to make them. I prevailed with them to give leave that so unworthy a person might be the instrument of conveying earthly accommodations to these dispensers of heavenly treasures; and it surpasses all belief, with what an avidity they devoured them! It is true, this last was a serious consideration: in all other respects, the whole was a perfect comedy; and of so ridiculous a cast, that, though my situation gave me power of face to carry it off gravely then, I have never reflected on it since without laughter.

DR. MORE.

Truly, as you describe it, it was no serious scene. But what I admire most, is the dexterity of your genius, and the prodigious progress you had now made in your favourite arts of accommodation.

MR. WALLER.

Necessity is the best master. Besides, can you blame me for taking more than common pains to outdo these miscreants in their own way; I might say, to excel in an art which surpasses, or at least comprises in it the essence of all true wisdom? The precept of your admired Antoninus, as you reminded me to-day, is SIMPLIFY YOURSELF[27]. That, I think, was the quaint expression. It had shewn his reach and mastery in the trade he professed, much more, if instead of it, he had preached up, ACCOMMODATE YOURSELF; the grand secret, as long experience has taught me, bene beateque vivendi.

All matters thus prepared, there was now no hazard in playing my last game. I requested and obtained leave to make my defence before the parliament. I had acquired a knack in speaking; and had drawn on myself more credit, than fine words deserve, by a scenical and specious eloquence. If ever I acquitted myself to my wish, it was on this occasion. I soothed, I flattered, I alarmed: every topic of art which my youth had learned, every subject of address which experience had suggested, every trick and artifice of popular adulation, was exhausted. All men were prepared by the practices of my saintly emissaries to hear me with favour; and, which is the first and last advantage of a speaker, to believe me seriously and conscientiously affected.

In the end I triumphed; and for a moderate fine obtained leave to shelter myself from the following storm, which almost desolated this unhappy country, by retiring into an exile, at that time more desirable than any employment of those I left behind me.

DR. MORE.

You retired, I think, to France, whither, no doubt, you carried with you all those generous thoughts and consolatory reflexions, which refresh the spirit of a good man under a consciousness of suffering virtue.

MR. WALLER.

Why not, if prudence be a virtue? for what, but certain prudential regards (which in common language and common sense are quite another thing from vicious compliances) have hitherto, as you have seen, appeared in my conduct? But be they what they will, they had a very natural effect, and one which will always attend on so reasonable a way of proceeding. For, since you press me so much, I shall take leave to suggest an observation to you, more obvious as well as more candid than any you seem inclined to make on the circumstances of this long relation. It is, “that the pretended penitence for my past life, and the readiness I shewed to acquiesce in the false accounts which the parliament gave of my plot, saved my life, and procured my liberty; whilst the real and true discoveries I made to gain credit to both, hurt my reputation.” But such a reflexion might have shocked your system too much. For it shews that all the benefit, I drew to myself in this affair, arose from those prudential maxims you condemn; and that all the injury, I suffered, was owing to the sincerity I still mixed with them.

DR. MORE.

Seriously, Sir——

MR. WALLER.

I can guess what you would say: but you promised to hear me out, without interruption.

What remains I shall dispatch in few words, having so fully vindicated the most obnoxious part of my life, and opened the general principles, I acted upon, so clearly.

I went, as you said, to France; where, instead of the churlish humour of a malcontent, or the unmanly dejection of a disgraced exile, I appeared with an ease and gaiety of mind, which made me welcome to the greatest men of that country. The ruling principle of my philosophy was, to make the best of every situation. And, as my fortune enabled me to do it, I lived with hospitality, and even splendour; and indulged myself in all the delights of an enlarged and elegant conversation.

Such were my amusements for some years; during which time, however, I preserved the notions of loyalty, which had occasioned my disgrace, and waited some happier turn of affairs, that might restore me with honour to my country. But when all hopes of this sort were at an end, and the government, after the various revolutions which are well known, seemed fixed and established in the person of one man, it was not allegiance, but obstinacy, to hold out any longer. I easily succeeded in my application to be recalled, and was even admitted to a share in the confidence of the Protector. This great man was not without a sensibility of true glory; and, for that reason, was even ambitious of the honour, which wit and genius are ever ready to confer on illustrious greatness. Every muse of that time distinguished, and was distinguished by, him. Mine had improved her voice and accent in a foreign country: and what nobler occasion to try her happiest strain than this, of immortalizing a Hero?

“Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And ev’ry conqueror creates a muse;”

as I then said in a panegyric, which my gratitude prompted me to present to him[28].

DR. MORE.

This panegyric, presented in verse, could hardly, I suppose, be suspected of flattery!

MR. WALLER.

I expected this; but the occasion, as I said, might have suggested a fairer interpretation. And why impute as a fault to me, what the reverend Sprat, as well as Dryden, did not disdain to countenance by their examples? Besides, as an argument of the unsullied purity of intention, you might remember, methinks, that I asked no recompence, and accepted none, for the willing honours my muse paid him.

DR. MORE.

It must be a sordid muse indeed, that submits to a venal prostitution. And, to do your profession justice, it is not so much avarice, or even ambition, as a certain gentler passion, the vanity, shall I call it? of being well with the great, that is fatal to you poets.

MR. WALLER.

I can allow for the satire of this reproof, in a man of ancient and bookish manners. But, to shew my disinterestedness still more, you may recollect, if you please, that I embalmed his memory, when neither his favour nor his smile were to be apprehended.

DR. MORE.

In the short reign of his son.—But what then? you made amends for all, by the congratulation on the happy return of his present majesty. You know who it was that somebody complimented in these lines:

“He best can turn, enforce and soften things,
To praise great conquerors, and flatter kings.”

MR. WALLER.

Was it for me to stem the torrent of a nation’s joys by a froward and unseasonable silence? Did not Horace, who fought at Philippi, do as much for Augustus? And should I, who had suffered for his cause, not embrace the goodness, and salute the returning fortunes, of so gracious, so accomplished a master? His majesty himself, as I truly say of him, in the poem you object to me,

“with wisdom fraught,
Not such as books, but such as practice, taught,”

did me the justice to understand my address after another manner. He, who had so often been forced by the necessities of his affairs to make compliances with the time, never resented it from me, a private man and a poet, that I had made some sacrifices of a like nature. All this might convince you of the great truth I meant to inculcate by this long recital, that not a sullen and inflexible Sincerity, but a fair and seasonable accommodation of one’s self, to the various exigencies of the times, is the golden virtue that ought to predominate in a man of life and business. All the rest, believe me, is the very cant of philosophy and unexperienced wisdom.

DR. MORE.

Wisdom—and must the sanctity of that name—

MR. WALLER.

Hear me, Sir—no exclamations against the evidence of plain fact. I have a right to expect another conduct from him, who is grown grey in the studies of moral science.

DR. MORE.

You learned another lesson in the school of Falkland, Hyde, and Chillingworth.

MR. WALLER.

Yes, one I was obliged to unlearn. But, since you remind me of that school, what was the effect of adhering pertinaciously to its false maxims? To what purpose were the lives of two of them prodigally thrown away; and the honour, the wisdom, the talents of the other, still left to languish in banishment[29] and obscurity?

DR. MORE.

O! prophane not the glories of immortal, though successless virtue, with such reproaches.—Those adored names shall preach honour to future ages, and enthrone the majesty of virtue in the hearts of men, when wit and parts, and eloquence and poetry, have not a leaf of all their withered bays to recommend them.

MR. WALLER.

Raptures and chimeras!——Rather judge of the sentiments of future ages, from the present. Where is the man, (I speak it without boasting,) that enjoys a fairer fame; who is better received in all places; who is more listened to in all companies; who reaps the fruits of a reasonable and practicable virtue in every return of honour, more unquestionably, than he whose life and principles your outrageous virtue leads you to undervalue so unworthily? And take it from me as an oracle, which long age and experience enable me to deliver with all assurance, “Whoever, in succeeding times, shall form himself on the plan here given shall meet with the safety, credit, applause, and, if he chuses, honour and fortune in the world, which may be promised indeed, but never will be obtained, by any other method.”

DR. MORE.

You have spoken. But hear me now, I conjure you, whilst a poor despised philosopher—

MR. WALLER.

O! I have marked the emotion this discourse of mine hath awakened in you. I have seen your impatience: I have watched your eyes when they sparkled defiance and contradiction to my argument. But your warmth makes you forget yourself. I gave a patient hearing to all your eloquence could suggest in this cause. I even favoured your zeal, and helped to blow up your enthusiasm. The rest fell to my turn; and besides, the evening, as you see, shuts in upon us. Let us escape, at least, from its dews, which, in this decline of the year, they say, are not the most wholesome, into a warm apartment within doors; and then I shall not be averse, especially when you have taken a few minutes to recollect yourself, to debate with you what further remains upon this argument[30].

DIALOGUE II.
ON RETIREMENT.
BETWEEN
MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY,
AND
THE REV. MR. THOMAS SPRAT.

DIALOGUE II.
ON RETIREMENT.

MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY—THE REV. MR. SPRAT.

TO THE EARL OF ST. ALBANS[31].

MY LORD,

The duty I owe your Lordship, as well as my friendship for Mr. Cowley, determined me to lose no time in executing the commission you was pleased to charge me with by Mr. D***. I went early the next morning to Barn Elms[32]; intending to pass the whole day with him, and to try if what I might be able to suggest on the occasion, together with the weight of your lordship’s advice, could not divert him from his strange project of Retirement. Your lordship, no doubt, as all his other friends, had observed his bias that way to be very strong; but who, that knew his great sense, could have thought of it its carrying him to so extravagant a resolution? For my own part, I suspected it so little, that, though he would often talk of retiring, and especially since your lordship’s favour to him[33], I considered it only as the usual language of poets, which they take up one after another, and love to indulge in, as what they suppose becomes their family and profession. It could never come into my thoughts, that one, who knew the world so well as Mr. Cowley, and had lived so long in it, who had so fair hopes and so noble a patron, could seriously think of quitting the scene at his years, and all for so fantastic a purpose as that of growing old in the corner of a country village.

These, my lord, were my sentiments, when your friendly message alarmed me with the apprehension of there being more in the matter than I had suspected. Yet still I considered it only as a hasty thought, which a fit of the spleen, or of the muse it may be, had raised; and which the free remonstrance of a friend would easily disperse, or prevent at least from coming to any fixed and settled resolution. But how shall I express to your lordship the surprise I was in, to find that this resolution was not only taken, but rooted so deeply in him, that no arguments, nor even your lordship’s authority, could shake it? I have ever admired Mr. Cowley, as a man of the happiest temper and truest judgment; but, to say the least, there was something so particular, I had almost said perverse, in what he had to allege for himself on this occasion, that I cannot think I acquit myself to your lordship, without laying before you the whole of this extraordinary conversation; and, as far as my recollection will serve, in the very words in which it passed betwixt us.

I went, as I told your lordship, pretty early to Barn Elms; but my friend had gotten the start of me by some hours. He was busying himself with some improvements of his garden, and the fields that lie about his house. The whole circuit of his domain was not so large, but that I presently came up with him. “My dear friend,” said he, embracing me, but with a look of some reserve and disgust, “and is it you then I have the happiness to see, at length, in my new settlement? Though I fled hither from the rest of the world, I had no design to get out of the reach of my friends. And, to be plain with you, I took it a little amiss from one whose entire affection I had reckoned upon, that he should leave me to myself for these two whole months, without discovering an inclination, either from friendship or curiosity, to know how this retirement agreed with me. What could induce my best friend to use me so unkindly?”

Surely, said I, you forget the suddenness of your flight, and the secresy with which the resolution was taken. We supposed you gone only for a few days, to see to the management of your affairs; and could not dream of your rusticating thus long, at a time when the town and court are so busy; when the occasions of your friends and your own interests seemed to require your speedy return to us. However, continued I, it doth not displease me to find you so dissatisfied with this solitude. It looks as if the short experience, you have had of this recluse life, did not recommend it to you in the manner you expected. Retirement is a fine thing in imagination, and is apt to possess you poets with strange visions. But the charm is rarely lasting; and a short trial, I find, hath served to correct these fancies. You feel yourself born for society and the world, and, by your kind complaints of your friend, confess how unnatural it is to deny yourself the proper delights of a man, the delights of conversation.

Not so fast, interrupted he, if you please, in your conclusions about the nature of retirement. I never meant to give up my right in the affections of those few I call my friends. But what has this to do with the general purpose of retreating from the anxieties of business, the intrigues of policy, or the impertinencies of conversation? I have lived but too long in a ceaseless round of these follies. The best part of my time hath been spent sub dio. I have served in all weathers, and in all climates, but chiefly in the torrid zone of politics, where the passions of all men are on fire, and where such as have lived the longest, and are thought the happiest, are scarcely able to reconcile themselves to the sultry air of the place. But this warfare is now happily at an end. I have languished these many years for the shade. Thanks to my Lord St. Albans, and another noble lord you know of, I have now gained it. And it is not a small matter, I assure you, shall force me out of this shelter.

Nothing is easier, said I, than for you men of wit to throw a ridicule upon any thing. It is but applying a quaint figure, or a well-turned sentence, and the business is done. But indeed, my best friend, it gives me pain to find you not so much diverting as deceiving yourself with this unseasonable ingenuity. So long as these sallies of fancy were employed only to enliven conversation, or furnish matter for an ode or an epigram, all was very well. But now that you seem disposed to act upon them, you must excuse me if I take the matter a little more seriously. To deal plainly with you, I come to tell you my whole mind on this subject: and, to give what I have to say the greater consequence with you, I must not conceal from you, that I come commissioned by the excellent lord you honour so much, and have just now mentioned, to expostulate in the freest manner with you upon it.

We had continued walking all this time, and were now ascending a sort of natural terras. It led to a small thicket, in the entrance of which was a seat that commanded a pleasant view of the country and the river. Taking me up to it, “Well,” said he, “my good friend, since your purpose in coming hither is so kind, and my Lord St. Albans himself doth me the honour to think my private concerns deserving his particular notice, it becomes me to receive your message with respect, and to debate the matter, since you press it so home upon me, with all possible calmness. But let us, if you please, sit down here. You will find it the most agreeable spot I have to treat you with; and the shade we have about us will not, I suppose, at this hour, be unwelcome.”

And now, turning himself to me, “Let me hear from you, what there is in my retreat to this place, which a wise man can have reason to censure, or which may deserve the disallowance of a friend. I know you come prepared with every argument which men of the world have at any time employed against retirement; and I know your ability to give to each its full force. But look upon this scene before you, and tell me what inducements I can possibly have to quit it for any thing you can promise me in exchange? Is there in that vast labyrinth, you call the world, where so many thousands lose themselves in endless wanderings and perplexities, any corner where the mind can recollect itself so perfectly, where it can attend to its own business, and pursue its proper interests so conveniently, as in this quiet and sequestered spot? Here the passions subside; or, if they continue to agitate, do not however transport the mind with those feverish and vexatious fervours, which distract us in public life. This is the seat of virtue and of reason; here I can fashion my life by the precepts of duty and conscience; and here I have leisure to make acquaintance, that acquaintance which elsewhere is so rarely made, with the ways and works of God.

Think again, my friend. Doth not the genius of the place seize you? Do you not perceive a certain serenity steal in upon you? Doth not the aspect of things around you, the very stillness of this retreat, infuse a content and satisfaction which the world knows nothing of? Tell me, in a word, is there not something like enchantment about us? Do you not find your desires more composed, your purposes more pure, your thoughts more elevated, and more active, since your entrance into this scene?”

He was proceeding in this strain, with an air of perfect enthusiasm, when I broke in upon him with asking, “Whether this was what he called debating the matter calmly with me. Surely,” said I, “this is poetry, or something still more extravagant. You cannot think I come prepared to encounter you in this way. I own myself no match for you at these weapons: which indeed are too fine for my handling, and very unsuitable to my purpose if they were not. The point is not which of us can say the handsomest things, but the truest, on either side of the question. It is, as you said, plain argument, and not rhetorical flourishes, much less poetical raptures, that must decide the matter in debate. Not but a great deal might be said on my side, and, it may be, with more colour of truth, had I the command of an eloquence proper to set it off.

I might ask, in my turn, “Where is mighty charm that draws you to this inglorious solitude, from the duties of business and conversation, from the proper end and employment of man? How comes it to pass, that this stillness of a country landscape, this uninstructing, though agreeable enough, scene of fields and waters, should have greater beauty in your eye, than flourishing peopled towns, the scenes of industry and art, of public wealth and happiness? Is not the sublime countenance of man, so one of your acquaintance terms it, a more delightful object than any of these humble beauties that lie before us? And are not the human virtues, with all their train of lovely and beneficial effects in society, better worth contemplating, than the products of inanimate nature in the field or wood? Where should we seek for Reason, but in the minds of men tried and polished in the school of civil conversation? And where hath Virtue so much as a being out of the offices of social life? Look well into yourself, I might say: hath not indeed the proper genius of solitude affected you! Doth not I know not what of chagrin and discontent hang about you? Is there not a gloom upon your mind, which darkens your views of human nature, and damps those chearful thoughts and sprightly purposes, which friendship and society inspire?”

You see, Sir, were I but disposed, and as able as you are, to pursue this way of fancy and declamation, I might conjure up as many frightful forms in these retired walks, as you have delightful ones. And the enchantment in good hands would, I am persuaded, have more the appearance of reality. But this is not the way in which I take upon myself to contend with you. I would hear, if you please, what reasons, that deserve to be so called, could determine you to so strange, and, forgive me if at present I am forced to think it, so unreasonable a project, as that of devoting your health and years to this monastic retirement. I would lay before you the arguments, which, I presume, should move you to quit a hasty, perhaps an unweighted, resolution: so improper in itself, so alarming to all your friends, so injurious to your own interest, and, permit me to say, to the public. I would enforce all this with the mild persuasions of a friend; and with the wisdom, the authority of a great person, to whose opinion you owe a deference, and who deserves it too from the entire love and affection he bears you.”

My dearest friend, replied he, with an earnestness that awed, and a goodness that melted me, I am not to learn the affection which either you or my noble friend bear me. I have had too many proofs of it from both, to suffer me to doubt it. But why will you not allow me to judge of what is proper to constitute my own happiness? And why must I be denied the privilege of choosing for myself, in a matter where the different taste or humour of others makes them so unfit to prescribe to me? Yet I submit to these unequal terms; and if I cannot justify the choice I have made, even in the way of serious reason and argument, I promise to yield myself to your advice and authority. You have taken me perhaps a little unprepared and unfurnished for this conflict. I have not marshalled my forces in form, as you seem to have done; and it may be difficult, on the sudden, to methodize my thoughts in the manner you may possibly expect from me. But come, said he, I will do my best in this emergency. You will excuse the rapture which hurried me at setting out, beyond the bounds which your severer temper requires. The subject always fires me; and I find it difficult, in entering on this argument, to restrain those triumphant sallies, which had better have been reserved for the close of it.

Here he paused a little; and recollecting himself, “But first,” resumed he, “you will take notice, that I am not at all concerned in the general question, so much, and, I think, so vainly agitated, ”whether a life of retirement be preferable to one of action?” I am not, I assure you, for unpeopling our cities, and sending their industrious and useful inhabitants into woods and cloisters. I acknowledge and admire the improvements of arts, the conveniencies of society, the policies of government[34]. I have no thought so mad or so silly, as that of wishing to see the tribes of mankind disbanded, their interests and connexions dissolved, and themselves turned loose into a single and solitary existence. I would not even wish to see our courts deserted of their homagers, though I cannot but be of opinion, that an airing now and then at their country houses, and that not with the view of diverting, but recollecting themselves, would prove as useful to their sense and virtue, as to their estates. But all this, as I said, is so far from coming into the scheme of my serious wishes, that it does not so much as enter into my thoughts. Let wealth, and power, and pleasure, be as eagerly sought after, as they ever will be: let thousands or millions assemble in vast towns, for the sake of pursuing their several ends, as it may chance, of profit, vanity, or amusement: All this is nothing to me, who pretend not to determine for other men, but to vindicate my own choice of this retirement.

As much as I have been involved in the engagements of business, I have not lived thus long without looking frequently, and sometimes attentively into myself. I maintain, then, that to a person so moulded as I am; of the temper and turn of mind, which Nature hath given me; of the sort of talents, with which education or genius hath furnished me; and, lastly, of the circumstances, in which fortune hath placed me; I say, to a person so charactered and so situated, RETIREMENT is not only his choice, but his duty; is not only what his inclination leads him to, but his judgement. And upon these grounds, if you will, I venture to undertake my own apology to you.”

Your proposal, said I, is fair, and I can have no objection to close with you upon these terms; only you must take care, my friend, that you do not mistake or misrepresent your own talents or character; a miscarriage, which, allow me to say, is not very rare from the partialities which an indulged humour, too easily taken for nature, is apt to create in us.

Or what, replied he, if this humour, as you call it, be so rooted as to become a second nature? Can it, in the instance before us, be worth the pains of correcting?

I should think so, returned I, in your case. But let me first hear the judgement you form of yourself, before I trouble you with that which I and your other friends make of you.

I cannot but think, resumed he, that my situation at present must appear very ridiculous. I am forced into an apology for my own conduct, in a very nice affair, which it might become another, rather than myself, to make for me. In order to this, I am constrained to reveal to you the very secrets, that is, the foibles and weaknesses, of my own heart. I am to lay myself open and naked before you. This would be an unwelcome task to most men. But your friendship, and the confidence I have in your affection, prevail over all scruples. Hitherto your friend hath used the common privilege of wearing a disguise, of masking himself, as the poet makes his hero, in a cloud, which is of use to keep off the too near and curious inspection both of friends and enemies. But, at your bidding, it falls off, and you are now to see him in his just proportion and true features.

My best friend, proceeded he with an air of earnestness and recollection, it is now above forty years that I have lived in this world: and in all the rational part of that time there hath not, I believe, a single day passed without an ardent longing for such a retreat from it, as you see me at length blessed with. You have heard me repeat some verses, which were made by me so early as the age of thirteen, and in which that inclination is expressed as strongly, as in any thing I have ever said or written on that subject[35]. Hence you may guess the proper turn and bias of my nature; which began so soon, and hath continued thus long, to shew itself in the constant workings of that passion.

Even in my earliest years at school, you will hardly imagine how uneasy constraint of every kind was to me, and with what delight I broke away from the customary sports and pastimes of that age, to saunter the time away by myself, or with a companion, if I could meet with any such, of my own humour. The same inclination pursued me to college; where a private walk, with a book or friend, was beyond any amusement, which, in that sprightly season of life, I had any acquaintance with. It is with a fond indulgence my memory even now returns to these past pleasures. It was in those retired ramblings that a thousand charming perceptions and bright ideas would stream in upon me. The Muse was kindest in those hours: and, I know not how, Philosophy herself would oftner meet me amidst the willows of the Cam, than in the formal schools of science, within the walls of my college, or in my tutor’s chamber.

I understand, said I, the true secret of that matter. You had now contracted an intimacy with the poets, and others of the fanciful tribe. You was even admitted of their company; and it was but fit you should adopt their sentiments, and speak their language. Hence those day-dreams of shade and silence, and I know not what visions, which transport the minds of young men, on their entrance into these regions of Parnassus.

It should seem then, returned he, by your way of expressing it, as if you thought this passion for shade and silence was only pretended to on a principle of fashion; or, at most, was catched by the lovers of poetry from each other, in the way of sympathy, without nature’s having any hand at all in the production of it.

Something like that, I told him, was my real sentiment: and that these agreeable reveries of the old poets had done much hurt by being taken too seriously. Were Horace and Virgil, think you, as much in earnest as you appear to be, when they were crying out perpetually on their favourite theme of otium and secessus, “they, who lived and died in a court?”

I believe, said he, they were, and that the short accounts we have of their lives shew it, though a perfect dismission from the court was what they could not obtain, or had not the resolution to insist upon. But pray, upon your principles, that all this is but the enchantment of example or fashion, how came it to pass, that the first seducers of the family, the old poets themselves, had fallen into these notions? They were surely no pretenders. They could only write from the heart. And methinks it were more candid, as well as more reasonable, to account for this passion, which hath so constantly shewn itself in their successors, from the same reason. It is likely indeed, and so much I can readily allow, that the early reading of the poets might contribute something to confirm and strengthen my natural bias[36].

But let the matter rest for the present. I would now go on with the detail of my own life and experience, so proper, as I think, to convince you that what I am pleading for is the result of nature.

I was saying how agreeably my youth passed in these reveries, if you will have it so, and especially inter sylvas academi:

Dura sed emovere loco me tempora grato,
Civilisque rudem belli tulit æstus in arma.

You know the consequence. This civil turmoil drove me from the shelter of retirement into the heat and bustle of life; from those studies which, as you say, had enchanted my youth, into business and action of all sorts. I lived in the world: I conversed familiarly with the great. A change like this, one would suppose, were enough to undo the prejudices of education. But the very reverse happened. The further I engaged, and the longer I continued in this scene, the greater my impatience was of retiring from it.

But you will say, my old vice was nourished in me by living in the neighbourhood of books and letters[37]. I was yet in the fairy land of the Muses; and, under these circumstances, it was no wonder that neither arms nor business, nor a court, could prevent the mind from returning to its old bias. All this may be true. And yet, I think, if that court had contained many such persons as some I knew in it, neither the distractions of business on the one hand, nor the blandishments of the Muse on the other, could have disposed me to leave it. But there were few Lord Falklands—and unhappily my admiration of that nobleman’s worth and honour[38] created an invincible aversion to the rest, who had little resemblance of his virtues.

I would not be thought, said I, to detract from so accomplished a character as that of the Lord Falkland; but surely there was something in his notions of honour—

Not a word, interrupted he eagerly, that may but seem to throw a shade on a virtue the brightest and purest that hath done honour to these later ages.—But I turn from a subject that interests me too much, and would lead me too far. Whatever attractions there might be in such a place, and in such friendships, the iniquity of the times soon forced me from them. Yet I had the less reason to complain, as my next removal was into the family of so beneficent a patron as the Lord Jermyn, and into the court of so accomplished a princess as the Queen Mother.

My residence, you know, was now for many years in France; a country, which piques itself on all the refinements of civility. Here the world was to appear to me in its fairest form, and, it was not doubted, would put on all its charms to wean me from the love of a studious retired life. I will not say I was disappointed in this expectation. All that the elegance of polished manners could contribute to make society attractive, was to be found in this new scene. My situation, besides, was such, that I came to have a sort of familiarity with greatness. Yet shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this splendid life to you? I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The outside indeed was fair. But to me, who had an opportunity of looking it through, nothing could be more deformed and hateful. All was ambition, intrigue, and falsehood. Every one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked, always base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship, and of duty; but all ending in low views and sordid practices. No truth, no sincerity: without which, conversation is but words; and the polish of manners, the idlest foppery.

Surely, interposed I, this picture must be overcharged. Frailties and imperfections, no doubt, there will be in all societies of men, especially where there is room for competition in their pursuits of honour and interest. But your idea of a court is that of a den of thieves, only better dressed, and more civilized.

That however, said he, is the idea under which truth obliges me to represent it. Believe me, I have been long enough acquainted with that country, to give you a pretty exact account of its inhabitants. Their sole business is to follow the humour of the prince, or of his favourite, to speak the current language, to serve the present turn, and to cozen one another. In short, their virtue is, civility; and their sense, cunning. You will guess now, continued he, how uneasy I must be in such company; I, who cannot lie, though it were to make a friend, or ruin an enemy; who have been taught to bear no respect to any but true wisdom; and, whether it be nature or education, could never endure (pardon the foolish boast) that hypocrisy should usurp the honours, and triumph in the spoils of virtue.

Nay further, my good friend, (for I must tell you all I know of myself, though it expose me ever so much to the charge of folly or even vanity) I was not born for courts and general conversation. Besides the unconquerable aversion I have to knaves and fools (though these last, but that they are commonly knaves too, I could bring myself to tolerate); besides this uncourtly humour, I have another of so odd a kind, that I almost want words to express myself intelligibly to you. It is a sort of capricious delicacy, which occasions a wide difference in my estimation of those characters, in which the world makes no distinction. It is not enough to make me converse with ease and pleasure with a man, that I see no notorious vices, or even observe some considerable virtues in him. His good qualities must have a certain grace, and even his sense must be of a certain turn, to give me a relish of his conversation.

I see you smile at this talk, and am aware how fantastic this squeamishness must appear to you. But it is with men and manners, as with the forms and aspects of natural things. A thousand objects recal ideas, and excite sensations in my mind, which seem to be not perceived, or not heeded, by other men. The look of a country, the very shading of a landskip, shall have a sensible effect on me, which they, who have as good eyes, appear to make no account of. It is just the same with the characters of men. I conceive a disgust at some, and a secret regard for others, whom many, I believe, would estimate just alike. And what is worse, a long and general conversation hath not been able to cure me of this foible. I question, said he, turning himself to me, but, if I was called upon to assign the reasons of that entire affection, which knits me to my best friend, they would be resolved at last into a something, which they, who love him perhaps as well, would have no idea of.

He said this in a way that disarmed me, or I had it in my mind to have rallied him on his doctrine of occult qualities and unintelligible forms. I therefore contented myself with saying, that I must not hear him go on at this strange rate; and asked him if it was possible he could suffer himself to be biassed, in an affair of this moment, by such whimsies?

Those whimsies, resumed he, had a real effect. But consider further, the endless impertinencies of conversation; the dissipation, and loss of time; the diversion of the mind from all that is truly useful or instructive, from what a reasonable man would or should delight in: add to these, the vexations of business; the slavery of dependence, the discourtesies of some, the grosser injuries of others; the danger, or the scorn, to which virtue is continually subject; in short, the knavery, or folly, or malevolence, of all around you; and tell me, if any thing but the unhappy times, and a sense of duty, could have detained a man of my temper and principles so long in a station of life so very uneasy and disgusting to me.

Nothing is easier, said I, than to exaggerate the inconveniencies of any situation. The world and the court have doubtless theirs. But you seem to forget one particular; that the unhappy times you speak of, and the state of the court, were an excuse for part of the disagreeable circumstances you have mentioned. The face of things is now altered. The storm is over. A calm has succeeded. And why should not you take the benefit of these halcyon days, in which so many others have found their ease, and even enjoyment?