* * *
When viewing the race of men upon the large scale, in my spleen, I have
divided them into two classes--the _deceivers_, and the _deceived_.
Indeed so rooted an opinion have I imbibed of the ductility of my
fellow-mortals, that I never seriously believed, nor vindicated, what
are so proudly styled, the honour and dignity of human nature. Read
this, ye unwary, and draw some useful mementos with me. Leave no part of
your body _undipped in Styx_, and be invulnerable.
See then that _Politician_, wrapped up in the garb of patriotism, mount
the rostrum, tickle the stupid multitude into conviction that he is the
people’s, the mechanic’s, the poor man’s friend; that he, indignant of
his country’s wrongs, alone feels them and asserts her rights. Take off
that garb, look through the window of his breast, and see collected, at
the apex of his heart, sighs and flutterings after titles, honours,
places. Next turn to the bland _Physician_, who, with nerve of steel
himself, feels along the palpitating artery of my Lady Vapour’s, counts
its throbs, prescribes a cordial, and receives a guinea for making madam
a dupe. Look after that _military_ beau that struts through the Mall.
A cockade, a sword, and _two_ epaulets, dazzle the crowd, impose on boys
and girls, men and maidens to imagine, that not danger, nor the devil
himself could appal such a hero. Carry him to the field of honour, and
find him white-liver’d as a hen.
How easily my _Lawyer_, entrenched with forms and books, gulls clients
of their cash, is too stale to repeat. For _once_ in your life, be
persuaded, that if you come within the circle of his writs, pleas, bars,
demurrers, rejoinders, &c. you will be handsomely stripped, even to your
pin-feathers.
I am all gentleness to the sex: were it not that one smile of a
_Coquette_ makes me a slave, a flirt of a well-manœuvred fan puts all my
resolution asleep, I would not tread on consecrated ground. While I am
sensible, that she is playing me on the line, till some other gudgeon
come in view, when I shall be shaken off the hook; that I should fancy
nought but love in her eyes, on her cheeks but the down of the peach,
her hair _all_ auburn and natural, her lips _two rose leafs dipped in
dew_, symmetry in her form, taste in her dress, wit in her repartees,
with sincerity in her bosom, is, strange as it is, inconsistent,
inconclusive, and unwarrantable. The theatre, is all a cheat. The kings,
queens, lords and ladies on the stage, we find, on our streets, are the
veriest pieces of mortality. After so much mockery of our senses, not
only divinity is fled; something _less_ than mortality remains.
I am the first to confess that Fancy cheats _me_ at her will; not more
at the age when I blew the washer-woman’s soap suds through a pipe into
beautiful balloons, than at the period at which I am arrived, building
palaces on earth, and castles in air. I have roamed, in Imagination’s
car, from the seat of Paradise in former, to the present degenerate
days: I have searched _all_, of all ages and countries; and, in
abundance have found, as many simple, deluded, pliable, gazing, cheated,
weak-sighted mortals, as myself. But as virtue is better than vice, so
is _delusion_, than _wretchedness_. ’Tis only in regions superior, the
soul finds rest, perfection, and happiness.