pleasure, but place their greatest content in the enjoyment of friends,
telling us that true friendship is to be preferred before all other
acquirements; that it is a thing so useful and necessary, as the very
elements could not long subsist without a natural combination; so
pleasant that it affords as warm an influence as the sun itself; so
honest, (if honesty in this case deserve any consideration), that the
very philosophers have not stuck to place this as one among the rest of
their different sentiments of the chiefest good. But what if I make it
appear that I also am the main spring and original of this endearment?
Yes, I can easily demonstrate it, and that not by crabbed syllogisms,
or a crooked and unintelligible way of arguing, but can make it (as the
proverb goes) _As plain as the nose on your face_. Well then, to scratch
and curry one another, to wink at a friend's faults; nay, to cry up some
failings for virtuous and commendable, is not this the next door to
the being a fool? When one looking stedfastly in his mistress's face,
admires a mole as much as a beauty spot; when another swears his lady's
stinking breath is a most redolent perfume; and at another time the fond
parent hugs the squint-eyed child, and pretends it is rather a becoming
glance and winning aspect than any blemish of the eye-sight, what is all
this but the very height of Folly?
[Illustration: 100]
Folly (I say) that both makes friends and keeps them so. I speak of
mortal men only, among whom there are none but have some small faults;
he is most happy that has fewest. If we pass to the gods, we shall
find that they have so much of wisdom, as they have very little of
friendship; nay, nothing of that which is true and hearty. The reason
why men make a greater improvement in this virtue, is only because they
are more credulous and easy natured; for friends must be of the same
humour and inclinations too, or else the league of amity, though made
with never so many protestations, will be soon broke. Thus grave
and morose men seldom prove fast friends; they are too captious and
censorious, and will not bear with one another's infirmities; they are
as eagle sighted as may be in the espial of others' faults, while they
wink upon themselves, and never mind the beam in their own eyes. In
short, man being by nature so prone to frailties, so humoursome and
cross-grained, and guilty of so many slips and miscarriages, there could
be no firm friendship contracted, except there be such an allowance made
for each other's defaults, which the Greeks term _'Eunoeia_, and we may
construe good nature, which is but another word for Folly. And what?
Is not Cupid, that first father of all relation, is not he stark blind,
that as he cannot himself distinguish of colours, so he would make us as
mope-eyed in judging falsely of all love concerns, and wheedle us into a
thinking that we are always in the right? Thus every Jack sticks to his
own Jill; every tinker esteems his own trull; and the hob-nailed suiter
prefers Joan the milk-maid before any of my lady's daughters. These
things are true, and are ordinarily laughed at, and yet, however
ridiculous they seem, it is hence only that all societies receive their
cement and consolidation.
[Illustration: 109]
The same which has been said of friendship is much more applicable to a
state of marriage, which is but the highest advance and improvement
of friendship in the closest bond of union. Good God! What frequent
divorces, or worse mischief, would oft sadly happen, except man and
wife, were so discreet as to pass over light occasions of quarrel with
laughing, jesting, dissembling, and such like playing the fool? Nay, how
few matches would go forward, if the hasty lover did but first know
how many little tricks of lust and wantonness (and perhaps more gross
failings) his coy and seemingly bashful mistress had oft before been
guilty of? And how fewer marriages, when consummated, would continue
happy, if the husband were not either sottishly insensible of, or did
not purposely wink at and pass over the lightness and forwardness of his
good-natured wife? This peace and quietness is owing to my management,
for there would otherwise be continual jars, and broils, and mad doings,
if want of wit only did not at the same time make a contented cuckold
and a still house; if the cuckoo sing at the back door, the unthinking
cornute takes no notice of the unlucky omen of others' eggs being laid
in his own nest, but laughs it over, kisses his dear spouse, and all
is well. And indeed it is much better patiently to be such a hen-pecked
frigot, than always to be wracked and tortured with the grating surmises
of suspicion and jealousy. In fine, there is no one society, no one
relation men stand in, would be comfortable, or indeed tolerable,
without my assistance; there could be no right understanding betwixt
prince and people, lord and servant, tutor and pupil, friend and
friend, man and wife, buyer and seller, or any persons however otherwise
related, if they did not cowardly put up small abuses, sneakingly cringe
and submit, or after all fawningly scratch and flatter each other. This
you will say is much, but you shall yet hear what is more; tell me then,
can any one love another that first hates himself? Is it likely any
one should agree with a friend that is first fallen out with his own
judgment? Or is it probable he should be any way pleasing to another,
who is a perpetual plague and trouble to himself? This is such a paradox
that none can be so mad as to maintain. Well, but if I am excluded
and barred out, every man would be so far from being able to bear
with others, that he would be burthensome to himself, and consequently
incapable of any ease or satisfaction. Nature, that toward some of her
products plays the step-mother rather than the indulgent parent, has
endowed some men with that unhappy peevishness of disposition, as to
nauseate and dislike whatever is their own, and much admire what belongs
to other persons, so as they cannot in any wise enjoy what their birth
or fortunes have bestowed upon them: for what grace is there in the
greatest beauty, if it be always clouded with frowns and sulliness? Or
what vigour in youth, if it be harassed with a pettish, dogged,
waspish, ill humour? None, sure. Nor indeed can there be any creditable
acquirement of ourselves in any one station of life, but we should sink
without rescue into misery and despair, if we were not buoyed up and
supported by self-love, which is but the elder sister (as it were) of
Folly, and her own constant friend and assistant For what is or can be
more silly than to be lovers and admirers of ourselves? And yet if it
were not so there will be no relish to any of our words or actions. Take
away this one property of a fool, and the orator shall become as dumb
and silent as the pulpit he stands in; the musician shall hang up his
untouched instruments on the wall; the completest actors shall be hissed
off the stage; the poet shall be burlesqued with his own doggrel rhymes;
the painter shall himself vanish into an imaginary landscape; and the
physician shall want food more than his patients do physic. In short,
without self-love, instead of beautiful, you shall think yourself an old
beldam of fourscore; instead of youthful, you shall seem just dropping
into the grave; instead of eloquent, a mere stammerer; and in lieu of
gende and complaisant, you shall appear like a downright country clown;
it being so necessary that every one should think well of himself before
he can expect the good opinion of others. Finally, when it is the main
and essential part of happiness to desire to be no other than what we
already are; this expedient is again wholly owing to self-love, which so
flushes men with a good conceit of their own, that no one repents of his
shape, of his wit, of his education, or of his country; so as the dirty
half-drowned Hollander would not remove into the pleasant plains of
Italy, the rude Thracian would not change his boggy soil for the best
seat in Athens, nor the brutish Scythian quit his thorny deserts to
become an inhabitant of the Fortunate Islands. And oh the incomparable
contrivance of nature, who has ordered all things in so even a method
that wherever she has been less bountiful in her gifts, there she
makes it up with a larger dose of self-love, which supplies the former
defects, and makes all even. To enlarge farther, I may well presume to
aver, that there are no considerable exploits performed, no useful arts
invented, but what I am the respective author and manager of: as first,
what is more lofty and heroical than war? and yet, what is more foolish
than for some petty, trivial affront, to take such a revenge as both
sides shall be sure to be losers, and where the quarrel must be decided
at the price of so many limbs and lives? And when they come to an
engagement, what service can be done by such pale-faced students, as
by drudging at the oars of wisdom, have spent all their strength and
activity? No, the only use is of blunt sturdy fellows that have little
of wit, and so the more of resolution: except you would make a soldier
of such another Demosthenes as threw down his arms when he came within
sight of the enemy, and lost that credit in the camp which he gained in
the pulpit.
But counsel, deliberation, and advice (say you), are very necessary
for the management of war: very true, but not such counsel as shall be
prescribed by the strict rules of wisdom and justice; for a battle shall
be more successfully fought by serving-men, porters, bailiffs, padders,
rogues, gaol-birds, and such like tag-rags of mankind, than by the
most accomplished philosophers; which last, how unhappy they are in the
management of such concerns, Socrates (by the oracle adjudged to be the
wisest of mortals) is a notable example; who when he appeared in the
attempt of some public performance before the people, he faltered in the
first onset, and could never recover himself, but was hooted and hissed
home again: yet this philosopher was the less a fool, for refusing the
appellation of wise, and not accepting the oracle's compliment; as also
for advising that no philosophers should have any hand in the government
of the commonwealth; he should have likewise at the same time, added,
that they should be banished all human society.
And what made this great man poison himself to prevent the malice of his
accusers? What made him the instrument of his own death, but only his
excessiveness of wisdom? whereby, while he was searching into the nature
of clouds, while he was plodding and contemplating upon ideas, while he
was exercising his geometry upon the measure of a flea, and diving into
the recesses of nature, for an account how little insects, when they
were so small, could make so great a buzz and hum; while he was intent
upon these fooleries he minded nothing of the world, or its ordinary
concerns.
Next to Socrates comes his scholar Plato, a famous orator indeed, that
could be so dashed out of countenance by an illiterate rabble, as to
demur, and hawk, and hesitate, before he could get to the end of one
short sentence. Theo-phrastus was such another coward, who beginning to
make an oration, was presently struck down with fear, as if he had seen
some ghost, or hobgoblin. Isocrates was so bashful and timorous, that
though he taught rhetoric, yet he could never have the confidence to
speak in public. Cicero, the master of Roman eloquence, was wont to
begin his speeches with a low, quivering voice, just like a school-boy,
afraid of not saying his lesson perfect enough to escape whipping:
and yet Fabius commends this property of Tully as an argument of a
considerate orator, sensible of the difficulty of acquitting himself
with credit: but what hereby does he do more than plainly confess that
wisdom is but a rub and impediment to the well management of any affair?
How would these heroes crouch, and shrink into nothing, at the sight of
drawn swords, that are thus quashed and stunned at the delivery of bare
words?
[Illustration: 113]
Now then let Plato's fine sentence be cried up, that "happy are those
commonwealths where either philosophers are elected kings, or kings turn
philosophers." Alas, this is so far from being true, that if we consult
all historians for an account of past ages, we shall find no princes
more weak, nor any people more slavish and wretched, than where the
administrations of affairs fell on the shoulders of some learned bookish
governor. Of the truth whereof, the two Catos are exemplary instances:
the first of which embroiled the city, and tired out the senate by his
tedious harangues of defending himself, and accusing others; the younger
was an unhappy occasion of the loss of the peoples' liberty, while
by improper methods he pretended to maintain it To these may be added
Brutus, Cassius, the two Gracchi, and Cicero himself, who was no less
fatal to Rome, than his parallel Demosthenes was to Athens: as likewise
Marcus Antoninus, whom we may allow to have been a good emperor, yet the
less such for his being a philosopher; and certainly he did not do half
that kindness to his empire by his own prudent management of affairs,
as he did mischief by leaving such a degenerate successor as his son
Commodus proved to be; but it is a common observation, that _A wise
father has many times a foolish son_, nature so contriving it, lest the
taint of wisdom, like hereditary distempers, should otherwise descend by
propagation. Thus Tully's son Marcus, though bred at Athens, proved but
a dull, insipid soul; and Socrates his children had (as one ingeniously
expresses it) "more of the mother than the father," a phrase for their
being fools. However, it were the more excusable, though wise men are so
awkward and unhandy in the ordering of public affairs, if they were
not so bad, or worse in the management of their ordinary and domestic
concerns; but alas, here they are much to seek: for place a formal wise
man at a feast, and he shall, either by his morose silence put the whole
table out of humour, or by his frivolous questions disoblige and tire
out all that sit near him. Call him out to dance, and he shall move no
more nimbly than a camel: invite him to any public performance, and by
his very looks he shall damp the mirth of all the spectators, and at
last be forced, like Cato, to leave the theatre, because he cannot
unstarch his gravity, nor put on a more pleasant countenance. If he
engage in any discourse, he either breaks off abruptly, or tires out the
patience of the whole company, if he goes on: if he have any contract,
sale, or purchase to make, or any other worldly business to transact, he
behaves himself more like a senseless stock than a rational man; so as
he can be of no use nor advantage to himself, to his friends, or to
his country; because he knows nothing how the world goes, and is wholly
unacquainted with the humour of the vulgar, who cannot but hate a person
so disagreeing in temper from themselves.
And indeed the whole proceedings of the world are nothing but one
continued scene of Folly, all the actors being equally fools and madmen;
and therefore if any be so pragmatically wise as to be singular, he
must even turn a second Timon, or man-hater, and by retiring into some
unfrequented desert, become a recluse from all mankind.
But to return to what I first proposed, what was it in the infancy of
the world that made men, naturally savage, unite into civil societies,
but only flattery, one of my chiefest virtues? For there is nothing else
meant by the fables of Amphion and Orpheus with their harps; the first
making the stones jump into a well-built wall, the other inducing the
trees to pull their legs out of the ground, and dance the mor-rice after
him. What was it that quieted and appeased the Roman people, when they
brake out into a riot for the redress of grievances? Was it any sinewy
starched oration? No, alas, it was only a silly, ridiculous story, told
by Menenius Agrippa, how the other members of the body quarrelled with
the belly, resolving no longer to continue her drudging caterers, till
by the penance they thought thus in revenge to impose, they soon
found their own strength so far diminished, that paying the cost of
experiencing a mistake, they willingly returned to their respective
duties. Thus when the rabble of Athens murmured at the exaction of the
magistrates, Themistocles satisfied them with such another tale of the
fox and the hedge-hog; the first whereof being stuck fast in a miry bog,
the flies came swarming about him, and almost sucked out all his blood,
the latter officiously offers his service to drive them away; no, says
the fox, if these which are almost glutted be frighted off, there will
come a new hungry set that will be ten times more greedy and devouring:
the moral of this he meant applicable to the people, who if they had
such magistrates removed as they complained of for extortion, yet their
successors would certainly be worse.
With what highest advances of policy could Sertorius have kept the
Barbarians so well in awe, as by a white hart, which he pretended was
presented to him by Diana, and brought him intelligence of all his
enemies' designs? What was Lycurgus his grand argument for demonstrating
the force of education, but only the bringing out two whelps of the same
bitch, differently brought up, and placing before them a dish, and a
live hare; the one, that had been bred to hunting, ran after the game;
while the other, whose kennel had been a kitchen, presently fell a
licking the platter. Thus the before-mentioned Sertorius made his
soldiers sensible that wit and contrivance would do more than bare
strength, by setting a couple of men to the plucking off two horses'
tails; the first pulling at all in one handful, tugged in vain; while
the other, though much the weaker, snatching off one by one, soon
performed his appointed task.
Instances of like nature are Minos and king Numa, both which fooled
the people into obedience by a mere cheat and juggle; the first by
pretending he was advised by Jupiter, the latter by making the vulgar
believe he had the goddess _AEgeria_ assistant to him in all debates and
transactions. And indeed it is by such wheedles that the common people
are best gulled, and imposed upon.
For farther, what city would ever submit to the rigorous laws of Plato,
to the severe injunctions of Aristotle? or the more unpracticable tenets
of Socrates? No, these would have been too straight and galling, there
not being allowance enough made for the infirmities of the people.
To pass to another head, what was it made the Decii so forward to offer
themselves up as a sacrifice for an atonement to the angry gods, to
rescue and stipulate for their indebted country? What made Curtius, on
a like occasion, so desperately to throw away his life, but only
vainglory, that is condemned, and unanimously voted for a main branch of
Folly by all wise men? What is more unreasonable and foppish (say they)
than for any man, out of ambition to some office, to bow, to scrape
and cringe to the gaping rabble, to purchase their favour by bribes and
donatives, to have their names cried up in the streets, to be carried
about as it were for a fine sight upon the shoulders of the crowd, to
have their effigies carved in brass, and put up in the market place
for a monument of their popularity? Add to this, the affectation of new
titles and distinctive badges of honour; nay, the very deifying of such
as were the most bloody tyrants. These are so extremely ridiculous,
that there is need of more than one Democritus to laugh at them. And yet
hence only have been occasioned those memorable achievements of heroes,
that have so much employed the pens of many laborious writers.
It is Folly--that, in a several dress, governs cities, appoints
magistrates, and supports judicatures; and, in short, makes the whole
course of man's life a mere children's play, and worse than push-pin
diversion. The invention of all arts and sciences are likewise owing to
the same cause: for what sedentary, thoughtful men would have beat their
brains in the search of new and unheard-of-mysteries, if not egged on
by the bubbling hopes of credit and reputation? They think a little
glittering flash of vain-glory is a sufficient reward for all their
sweat, and toil, and tedious drudgery, while they that are supposedly
more foolish, reap advantage of the others' labours.
And now since I have made good my title to valour and industry, what if
I challenge an equal share of wisdom? How! this (you will say) is absurd
and contradictory; the east and west may as soon shake hands as Folly
and Wisdom be reconciled. Well, but have a little patience and I will
warrant you I will make out my claim. First then, if wisdom (as must be
confessed) is no more than a readiness of doing good, and an expedite
method of becoming serviceable to the world, to whom does this virtue
more properly belong? To the wise man, who partly out of modesty, partly
out of cowardice, can proceed resolutely in no attempt; or to the fool,
that goes hand over head, leaps before he looks, and so ventures through
the most hazardous undertaking without any sense or prospect of danger?
In the undertaking any enterprize the wise man shall run to consult with
his books, and daze himself with poring upon musty authors, while the
dispatchful fool shall rush blundy on, and have done the business, while
the other is thinking of it. For the two greatest lets and impediments
to the issue of any performance are modesty, which casts a mist before
men's eyes; and fear, which makes them shrink back, and recede from any
proposal: both these are banished and cashiered by Folly, and in their
stead such a habit of fool-hardiness introduced, as mightily contributes
to the success of all enterprizes. Farther, if you will have wisdom
taken in the other sense, of being a right judgment of things, you shall
see how short wise men fall of it in this acceptation.
First, then, it is certain that all things, like so many Janus's, carry
a double face, or rather bear a false aspect, most things being really
in themselves far different from what they are in appearance to others:
so as that which at first blush proves alive, is in truth dead; and
that again which appears as dead, at a nearer view proves to be alive:
beautiful seems ugly, wealthy poor, scandalous is thought creditable,
prosperous passes for unlucky, friendly for what is most opposite, and
innocent for what is hurtful and pernicious. In short, if we change the
tables, all things are found placed in a quite different posture from
what just before they appeared to stand in.
If this seem too darkly and unintelligibly expressed, I will explain it
by the familiar instance of some great king or prince, whom every one
shall suppose to swim in a luxury of wealth, and to be a powerful lord
and master; when, alas, on the one hand he has poverty of spirit enough
to make him a mere beggar, and on the other side he is worse than a
galley-slave to his own lusts and passions.
If I had a mind farther to expatiate, I could enlarge upon several
instances of like nature, but this one may at present suffice.