Whoever would civilize men, and establish them into a body politic,

must be thoroughly acquainted with all the passions and appetites,

strength and weaknesses of their frame, and understand how to turn

their greatest frailties to the advantage of the public. In the

Inquiry into the Origin of Moral Virtue, I have shown how easily men

were induced to believe any thing that is said in their praise. If,

therefore, a lawgiver or politician, whom they have a great veneration

for, should tell them, that the generality of men had within them a

principle of valour distinct from anger, or any other passion, that

made them to despise danger, and face death itself with intrepidity,

and that they who had the most of it were the most valuable of their

kind, it is very likely, considering what has been said, that most

of them, though they felt nothing of this principle, would swallow

it for truth, and that the proudest, feeling themselves moved at

this piece of flattery, and not well versed in distinguishing the

passions, might imagine that they felt it heaving in their breasts,

by mistaking pride for courage. If but one in ten can be persuaded

openly to declare, that he is possessed of this principle, and

maintain it against all gainsayers, there will soon be half a dozen

that shall assert the same. Whoever has once owned it is engaged,

the politician has nothing to do but to take all imaginable care to

flatter the pride of those that brag of, and are willing to stand by

it a thousand different ways: The same pride that drew him in first

will ever after oblige him to defend the assertion, till at last the

fear of discovering the reality of his heart, comes to be so great,

that it outdoes the fear of death itself. Do but increase man's pride,

and his fear of shame will ever be proportioned to it: for the greater

value a man sets upon himself, the more pains he will take, and the

greater hardships he will undergo, to avoid shame.

The great art to make man courageous, is first to make him own this

principle of valour within, and afterwards to inspire him with as much

horror against shame, as nature has given him against death; and that

there are things to which man has, or may have, a stronger aversion

than he has to death, is evident from suicide. He that makes death his

choice, must look upon it as less terrible than what he shuns by it;

for whether the evil dreaded be present or to come, real or imaginary,

nobody would kill himself wilfully but to avoid something. Lucretia

held out bravely against all the attacks of the ravisher, even when he

threatened her life; which shows that she valued her virtue beyond it:

but when he threatened her reputation with eternal infamy, she fairly

surrendered, and then slew herself; a certain sign that she valued

her virtue less than her glory, and her life less than either. The

fear of death did not make her yield, for she resolved to die before

she did it, and her compliance must only be considered as a bribe, to

make Tarquin forbear sullying her reputation; so that life had neither

the first nor second place in the esteem of Lucretia. The courage,

then, which is only useful to the body politic, and what is generally

called true valour, is artificial, and consists in a superlative

horror against shame, by flattery infused into men of exalted pride.

As soon as the notions of honour and shame are received among a

society, it is not difficult to make men fight. First, take care they

are persuaded of the justice of their cause; for no man fights heartily

that thinks himself in the wrong; then show them that their altars,

their possessions, wives, children, and every thing that is near and

dear to them, is concerned in the present quarrel, or at least may

be influenced by it hereafter; then put feathers in their caps, and

distinguish them from others, talk of public-spiritedness, the love of

their country, facing an enemy with intrepidity, despising death the

bed of honour, and such like high-sounding words, and every proud man

will take up arms and fight himself to death before we will turn tail,

if it be by daylight. One man in an army is a check upon another, and a

hundred of them, that single and without witness, would be all cowards,

are, for fear of incurring one another's contempt, made valiant by

being together. To continue and heighten this artificial courage, all

that run away ought to be punished with ignominy; those that fought

well, whether they did beat or were beaten, must be flattered and

solemnly commended; those that lost their limbs rewarded; and those

that were killed, ought, above all to be taken notice of, artfully

lamented, and to have extraordinary encomiums bestowed upon them;

for to pay honours to the dead, will ever be a sure method to make

bubbles of the living.

When I say, that the courage made use of in the wars is artificial,

I do not imagine that by the same art, all men may be made equally

valiant: as men have not an equal share of pride, and differ from

one another in shape and inward structure, it is impossible they

should be all equally fit for the same uses. Some men will never be

able to learn music, and yet make good mathematicians; others will

play excellently well upon the violin, and yet be coxcombs as long

as they live, let them converse with whom they please. But to show

that there is no evasion, I shall prove, that setting aside what I

said of artificial courage already, what the greatest heroe differs

in from the rankest coward, is altogether corporeal, and depends

upon the inward make of man. What I mean is called constitution; by

which is understood the orderly or disorderly mixture of the fluids

in our body: that constitution which favours courage, consists in the

natural strength, elasticity, and due contexture of the finer spirits,

and upon them wholly depends what we call stedfastness, resolution,

and obstinacy. It is the only ingredient that is common to natural

and artificial bravery, and is to either what size is to white walls,

which hinders them from coming off, and makes them lasting. That

some people are very much, others very little frightened at things

that are strange and sudden to them, is likewise altogether owing to

the firmness or imbecility in the tone of the spirits. Pride is of

no use in a fright, because while it lasts we cannot think, which,

being counted a disgrace, is the reason people is always angry with

any thing that frightens them, as soon as the surprise is over;

and when at the turn of a battle the conquerors give no quarter,

and are very cruel, it is a sign their enemies fought well, and had

put them first into great fears.

That resolution depends upon this tone of the spirits, appears likewise

from the effects of strong liquors, the fiery particles whereof

crowding into the brain, strengthen the spirits; their operation

imitates that of anger, which I said before was an ebullition of

the spirits. It is for this reason, that most people when they are in

drink, are sooner touched and more prone to anger, than at other times,

and some raving mad without any provocation at all. It is likewise

observed, that brandy makes men more quarrelsome at the same pitch of

drunkenness than wine; because the spirits of distilled waters have

abundance of fiery particles mixed with them, which the other has

not. The contexture of spirits is so weak in some, that though they

have pride enough, no art can ever make them fight, or overcome their

fears; but this is a defect in the principle of the fluids, as other

deformities are faults of the solids. These pusillanimous people,

are never thoroughly provoked to anger, where there is any danger,

and drinking makes them bolder, but seldom so resolute as to attack

any, unless they be women or children, or such who they know dare not

resist. This constitution is often influenced by health and sickness,

and impaired by great losses of blood; sometimes it is corrected

by diet; and it is this which the Duke de la Rochefoucauld means,

when he says: vanity, shame, and above all constitution, make up very

often the courage of men, and virtue of women.

There is nothing that more improves the useful martial courage

I treat of, and at the same time shows it to be artificial, than

practice; for when men are disciplined, come to be acquainted with

all the tools of death, and engines of destruction, when the shouts,

the outcries, the fire and smoke, the grones of wounded, and ghostly

looks of dying men, with all the various scenes of mangled carcases

and bloody limbs tore off, begin to be familiar to them, their fear

abate apace; not that they are now less afraid to die than before,

but being used so often to see the same dangers, they apprehend the

reality of them less than they did: as they are deservedly valued

for every siege they are at, and every battle they are in, it is

impossible but the several actions they share in, must continually

become as many solid steps by which their pride mounts up; and thus

their fear of shame, as I said before, will always be proportioned to

their pride, increasing as the apprehension of the danger decreases,

it is no wonder that most of them learn to discover little or no fear:

and some great generals are able to preserve a presence of mind,

and counterfeit a calm serenity within the midst of all the noise,

horror, and confusion, that attend a battle.

So silly a creature is man, as that, intoxicated with the fumes of

vanity, he can feast on the thoughts of the praises that shall be

paid his memory in future ages, with so much ecstacy, as to neglect

his present life, nay, court and covet death, if he but imagines that

it will add to the glory he had acquired before. There is no pitch

of self-denial, that a man of pride and constitution cannot reach,

nor any passion so violent but he will sacrifice it to another, which

is superior to it; and here I cannot but admire at the simplicity

of some good men, who, when they hear of the joy and alacrity

with which holy men in persecutions have suffered for their faith,

imagine that such constancy must exceed all human force, unless it

was supported by some miraculous assistance from Heaven. As most

people are willing to acknowledge all the frailties of their species,

so they are unacquainted with the strength of our nature, and know

not that some men of firm constitution may work themselves up into

enthusiasm, by no other help than the violence of their passions; yet,

it is certain, that there have been men who only assisted with pride

and constitution to maintain the worst of causes, have undergone

death and torments, with as much cheerfulness as the best of men,

animated with piety and devotion, ever did for the true religion.

To prove this assertion, I could produce many instances; but one

or two will be sufficient. Jordanus Bruno of Nola, who wrote that

silly piece of blasphemy, called Spaccio della Bestia triumphante,

and the infamous Vanini, were both executed for openly professing and

teaching of atheism: the latter might have been pardoned the moment

before the execution, if he would have retracted his doctrine; but

rather than recant, he chose to be burnt to ashes. As he went to the

stake, he was so far from showing any concern, that he held his hand

out to a physician whom he happened to know, desiring him to judge

of the calmness of his mind by the regularity of his pulse, and from

thence taking an opportunity of making an impious comparison, uttered

a sentence too execrable to be mentioned. To these we may join one

Mahomet Effendi, who, as Sir Paul Ricaut tells us, was put to death at

Constantinople, for having advanced some notions against the existence

of a God. He likewise might have saved his life by confessing his

error, and renouncing it for the future; but chose rather to persist

in his blasphemies, saying, "Though he had no reward to expect,

the love of truth constrained him to suffer martyrdom in its defence."

I have made this digression chiefly to show the strength of human

nature, and what mere man may perform by pride and constitution

alone. Man may certainly be as violently roused by his vanity,

as a lion is by his anger; and not only this, avarice, revenge,

ambition, and almost every passion, pity not excepted, when they

are extraordinary, may, by overcoming fear, serve him instead of

valour, and be mistaken for it even by himself; as daily experience

must teach every body that will examine and look into the motives

from which some men act. But that we may more clearly perceive what

this pretended principle is really built upon, let us look into the

management of military affairs, and we shall find that pride is no

where so openly encouraged as there. As for clothes, the very lowest

of the commission officers have them richer, or at least more gay and

splendid, than are generally wore by other people of four or five times

their income. Most of them, and especially those that have families,

and can hardly subsist, would be very glad, all Europe over, to be

less expensive that way; but it is a force put upon them to uphold

their pride, which they do not think on.

But the ways and means to rouse man's pride, and catch him by it,

are nowhere more grossly conspicuous, than in the treatment which the

common soldiers receive, whose vanity is to be worked upon (because

there must be so many) at the cheapest rate imaginable. Things we are

accustomed to we do not mind, or else what mortal that never had seen

a soldier, could look without laughing upon a man accoutred with so

much paltry gaudiness, and affected finery? The coarsest manufacture

that can be made of wool, dyed of a brickdust colour, goes down with

him, because it is in imitation of scarlet or crimson cloth; and to

make him think himself as like his officer as it is possible, with

little or no cost, instead of silver or gold lace, his hat is trimmed

with white or yellow worsted, which in others would deserve bedlam;

yet these fine allurements, and the noise made upon a calf's skin,

have drawn in, and been the destruction of more men in reality,

than all the killing eyes and bewitching voices of women ever slew

in jest. To-day the swine herd puts on his red coat, and believes

every body in earnest that calls him gentleman; and two days after

Serjeant Kite gives him a swinging wrap with his cane, for holding

his musket an inch higher than he should do. As to the real dignity

of the employment, in the two last wars, officers, when recruits were

wanted, were allowed to list fellows that were convicted of burglary

and other capital crimes, which shows that to be made a soldier is

deemed to be a preferment next to hanging. A trooper is yet worse than

a foot soldier; for when he is most at ease, he has the mortification

of being groom to a horse, that spends more money than himself. When

a man reflects on all this, the usage they generally receive from

their officers, their pay, and the care that is taken of them, when

they are not wanted, must he not wonder how wretches can be so silly

as to be proud of being called gentlemen soldiers? Yet if there were

not, no art, discipline, or money, would be capable of making them

so brave as thousands of them are.

If we will mind what effects man's bravery, without any other

qualifications to sweeten him, would have out of an army, we shall find

that it would be very pernicious to the civil society; for if man could

conquer all his fears, you would hear of nothing but rapes, murders,

and violences of all sorts, and valiant men would be like giants

in romances: politics, therefore, discovered in men a mixed-metal

principle, which was a compound of justice, honesty, and all the moral

virtues joined to courage, and all that were possessed of it turned

knights-errant of course. They did abundance of good throughout the

world, by taming monsters, delivering the distressed, and killing the

oppressors: but the wings of all the dragons being clipped, the giants

destroyed, and the damsels every where set at liberty, except some few

in Spain and Italy, who remained still captivated by their monsters,

the order of chivalry, to whom the standard of ancient honour belonged,

has been laid aside some time. It was like their armours very massy and

heavy; the many virtues about it made it very troublesome, and as ages

grew wiser and wiser, the principle of honour in the beginning of the

last century was melted over again, and brought to a new standard; they

put in the same weight of courage, half the quantity of honesty, and

a very little justice, but not a scrap of any other virtue, which has

made it very easy and portable to what it was. However, such as it is,

there would be no living without it in a large nation; it is the tie

of society, and though we are beholden to our frailties for the chief

ingredient of it, there is no virtue, at least that I am acquainted

with, that has been half so instrumental to the civilizing of mankind,

who in great societies would soon degenerate into cruel villains and

treacherous slaves, were honour to be removed from among them.

As to the duelling part which belongs to it, I pity the unfortunate

whose lot it is; but to say, that those who are guilty of it go by

false rules, or mistake the notions of honour, is ridiculous; for

either there is no honour at all, or it teaches men to resent injuries,

and accept of challenges. You may as well deny that it is the fashion

what you see every body wear, as to say that demanding and giving

satisfaction is against the laws of true honour. Those that rail at

duelling do not consider the benefit the society receives from that

fashion: if every ill-bred fellow might use what language he pleased,

without being called to an account for it, all conversation would

be spoiled. Some grave people tell us, that the Greeks and Romans

were such valiant men, and yet knew nothing of duelling but in their

country's quarrel. This is very true, but, for that reason, the kings

and princes in Homer gave one another worse language than our porters

and hackney coachmen would be able to bear without resentment.

Would you hinder duelling, pardon nobody that offends that way, and

make the laws as severe as you can, but do not take away the thing

itself, the custom of it. This will not only prevent the frequency of

it, but likewise, by rendering the most resolute and most powerful

cautious and circumspect in their behaviour, polish and brighten

society in general. Nothing civilizes a man equally as his fear,

and if not all (as my lord Rochester said), at least most men would

be cowards if they durst. The dread of being called to an account

keeps abundance in awe; and there are thousands of mannerly and

well-accomplished gentlemen in Europe, who would have been insolent

and insupportable coxcombs without it: besides, if it was out of

fashion to ask satisfaction for injuries which the law cannot take

hold of, there would be twenty times the mischief done there is now,

or else you must have twenty times the constables and other officers

to keep the peace. I confess that though it happens but seldom, it is

a calamity to the people, and generally the families it falls upon;

but there can be no perfect happiness in this world, and all felicity

has an allay. The act itself is uncharitable, but when above thirty in

a nation destroy themselves in one year, and not half that number are

killed by others, I do not think the people can be said to love their

neighbours worse than themselves. It is strange that a nation should

grudge to see, perhaps, half-a-dozen men sacrificed in a twelvemonth

to obtain so valuable a blessing, as the politeness of manners, the

pleasure of conversation, and the happiness of company in general, that

is often so willing to expose, and sometimes loses as many thousands

in a few hours, without knowing whether it will do any good or not.

I would have nobody that reflects on the mean original of honour,

complain of being gulled and made a property by cunning politicians,

but desire every body to be satisfied, that the governors of societies,

and those in high stations, are greater bubbles to pride than any

of the rest. If some great men had not a superlative pride, and

every body understood the enjoyment of life, who would be a lord

chancellor of England, a prime minister of state in France, or what

gives more fatigue, and not a sixth part of the profit of either, a

grand pensionary of Holland? The reciprocal services which all men pay

to one another, are the foundation of the society. The great ones are

not flattered with their high birth for nothing: it is to rouse their

pride, and excite them to glorious actions, that we extol their race,

whether it deserves it or not; and some men have been complimented with

the greatness of their family, and the merit of their ancestors, when

in the whole generation you could not find two but what were uxorious

fools, silly biggots, noted poltrons, or debauched whore-masters. The

established pride that is inseparable from those that are possessed of

titles already, makes them often strive as much not to seem unworthy

of them, as the working ambition of others that are yet without,

renders them industrious and indefatigable to deserve them. When a

gentleman is made a baron or an earl, it is as great a check upon

him in many respects, as a gown and cassock are to a young student

that has been newly taken into orders.

The only thing of weight that can be said against modern honour

is, that it is directly opposite to religion. The one bids you bear

injuries with patience; the other tells you if you do not resent them,

you are not fit to live. Religion commands you to leave all revenge

to God; honour bids you trust your revenge to nobody but yourself,

even where the law would do it for you: religion plainly forbids

murder; honour openly justifies it: religion bids you not shed blood

upon any account whatever; honour bids you fight for the least trifle:

religion is built on humility, and honour upon pride: how to reconcile

them must be left to wiser heads than mine.

The reason why there are so few men of real virtue, and so many of real

honour, is, because all the recompence a man has of a virtuous action,

is the pleasure of doing it, which most people reckon but poor pay;

but the self-denial a man of honour submits to in one appetite, is

immediately rewarded by the satisfaction he receives from another,

and what he abates of his avarice, or any other passion, is doubly

repaid to his pride: besides, honour gives large grains of allowance,

and virtue none. A man of honour must not cheat or tell a lie; he

must punctually repay what he borrows at play, though the creditor has

nothing to show for it; but he may drink, and swear, and owe money to

all the tradesmen in town, without taking notice of their dunning. A

man of honour must be true to his prince and country, while he is in

their service; but if he thinks himself not well used, he may quit it,

and do them all the mischief he can. A man of honour must never change

his religion for interest; but he may be as debauched as he pleases,

and never practise any. He must make no attempts upon his friend's

wife, daughter, sister, or any body that is trusted to his care;

but he may lie with all the world besides.

Line 353. No limner for his art is fam'd,

Stone-cutters, carvers are not nam'd.

It is, without doubt, that among the consequences of a national honesty

and frugality, it would be one not to build any new houses, or use

new materials as long as there were old ones enough to serve. By this

three parts in four, of masons, carpenters, bricklayers, &c. would

want employment; and the building trade being once destroyed, what

would become of limning, carving, and other arts that are ministering

to luxury, and have been carefully forbid by those lawgivers that

preferred a good and honest, to a great and wealthy society, and

endeavoured to render their subjects rather virtuous than rich. By

a law of Lycurgus, it was enacted, that the ceilings of the Spartan

houses should only be wrought by the ax, and their gates and doors only

smoothed by the saw; and this, says Plutarch, was not without mystery:

for if Epaminondas could say with so good a grace, inviting some of

his friends to his table: "Come, gentlemen, be secure, treason would

never come to such a poor dinner as this:" Why might not this great

lawgiver, in all probability, have thought that such ill-favoured

houses would never be capable of receiving luxury and superfluity?

It is reported, as the same author tells us, that Leotichidas, the

first of that name, was so little used to the sight of carved work,

that being entertained at Corinth in a stately room, he was much

surprised to see the timber and ceiling so finely wrought, and asked

his host whether the trees grew so in his country.

The same want of employment would reach innumerable callings; and,

among the rest, that of the

Weavers that join'd rich silk with plate,

And all the trades subordinate,

(as the fable has it) would be one of the first that should have

reason to complain; for the price of land and houses being, by the

removal of the vast numbers that had left the hive, sunk very low

on the one side, and every body abhorring all other ways of gain,

but such as were strictly honest on the other, it is not probable

that many without pride or prodigality should be able to wear cloth

of gold and silver, or rich brocades. The consequence of which would

be, that not only the weaver, but likewise the silver-spinner, the

flatter, the wire-drawer, the bar-man, and the refiner, would, in a

little time be affected with this frugality.

Line 367. ----To live great,

Had made her husband rob the state.

What our common rogues, when they are going to be hanged, chiefly

complain of, as the cause of their untimely end, is, next to the

neglect of the Sabbath, their having kept company with ill women,

meaning whores; and I do not question, but that among the lesser

villains, many venture their necks to indulge and satisfy their

low amours. But the words that have given occasion to this remark,

may serve to hint to us, that among the great ones, men are often

put upon such dangerous projects, and forced into such pernicious

measures by their wives, as the most subtle mistress never could have

persuaded them to. I have shown already, that the worst of women,

and most profligate of the sex, did contribute to the consumption of

superfluities, as well as the necessaries of life, and consequently

were beneficial to many peaceable drudges, that work hard to maintain

their families, and have no worse design than an honest livelihood. Let

them be banished, notwithstanding, says a good man: When every strumpet

is gone, and the land wholly freed from lewdness, God Almighty will

pour such blessings upon it, as will vastly exceed the profits that

are now got by harlots. This perhaps would be true; but I can make it

evident, that, with or without prostitutes, nothing could make amends,

for the detriment trade would sustain, if all those of that sex, who

enjoy the happy state of matrimony, should act and behave themselves

as a sober wise man could wish them.

The variety of work that is performed, and the number of hands employed

to gratify the fickleness and luxury of women, is prodigious, and if

only the married ones should hearken to reason and just remonstrances,

think themselves sufficiently answered with the first refusal, and

never ask a second time what had been once denied them: If, I say,

married women would do this, and then lay out no money but what

their husbands knew, and freely allowed of, the consumption of a

thousand things, they now make use of, would be lessened by at least

a fourth part. Let us go from house to house, and observe the way of

the world only among the middling people, creditable shop-keepers,

that spend two or three hundred a-year, and we shall find the women

when they have half a score suits of clothes, two or three of them

not the worse for wearing, will think it a sufficient plea for new

ones, if they can say that they have never a gown or petticoat, but

what they have been often seen in, and are known by, especially at

church; I do not speak now of profuse extravagant women, but such as

are counted prudent and moderate in their desires.

If by this pattern we should in proportion judge of the highest ranks,

where the richest clothes are but a trifle to their other expences,

and not forget the furniture of all sorts, equipages, jewels, and

buildings of persons of quality, we should find the fourth part I

speak of a vast article in trade, and that the loss of it would be

a greater calamity to such a nation as ours, than it is possible to

conceive any other, a raging pestilence not excepted: for the death

of half a million of people could not cause a tenth part of the

disturbance to the kingdom, than the same number of poor unemployed

would certainly create, if at once they were to be added to those,

that already, one way or other, are a burden to the society.

Some few men have a real passion for their wives, and are fond of them

without reserve; others that do not care, and have little occasion

for women, are yet seemingly uxorious, and love out of vanity; they

take delight in a handsome wife, as a coxcomb does in a fine horse,

not for the use he makes of it, but because it is his: The pleasure

lies in the consciousness of an uncontrolable possession, and what

follows from it, the reflection on the mighty thoughts he imagines

others to have of his happiness. The men of either sort may be very

lavish to their wives, and often preventing their wishes, crowd new

clothes, and other finery upon them, faster than they can ask it, but

the greatest part are wiser, than to indulge the extravagances of their

wives so far, as to give them immediately every thing they are pleased

to fancy. It is incredible what vast quantity of trinkets, as well as

apparel, are purchased and used by women, which they could never have

come at by any other means, than pinching their families, marketing,

and other ways of cheating and pilfering from their husbands: Others,

by ever teazing their spouses, tire them into compliance, and conquer

even obstinate churls by perseverance, and their assiduity of asking:

A third sort are outrageous at a denial, and by downright noise and

scolding, bully their tame fools out of any thing they have a mind

to; while thousands, by the force of wheedling, know how to overcome

the best weighed reasons, and the most positive reiterated refusals;

the young and beautiful, especially, laugh at all remonstrances and

denials, and few of them scruple to employ the most tender minutes of

wedlock to promote a sordid interest. Here, had I time, I could inveigh

with warmth against those base, those wicked women, who calmly play

their arts and false deluding charms against our strength and prudence,

and act the harlots with their husbands! Nay, she is worse than whore,

who impiously profanes and prostitutes the sacred rites of love to

vile ignoble ends; that first excites to passion, and invites to joy

with seeming ardour, then racks our fondness for no other purpose than

to extort a gift, while full of guile in counterfeited transports,

she watches for the moment when men can least deny.

I beg pardon for this start out of my way, and desire the experienced

reader duly to weigh what has been said as to the main purpose, and

after that call to mind the temporal blessings, which men daily hear

not only toasted and wished for, when people are merry and doing of

nothing; but likewise gravely and solemnly prayed for in churches,

and other religious assemblies, by clergymen of all sorts and sizes:

And as soon as he shall have laid these things together, and, from

what he has observed in the common affairs of life, reasoned upon

them consequentially without prejudice, I dare flatter myself, that

he will be obliged to own, that a considerable portion of what the

prosperity of London and trade in general, and consequently the honour,

strength, safety, and all the worldly interest of the nation consist

in, depend entirely on the deceit and vile stratagems of women; and

that humility, content, meekness, obedience to reasonable husbands,

frugality, and all the virtues together, if they were possessed of

them in the most eminent degree, could not possibly be a thousandth

part so serviceable, to make an opulent, powerful, and what we call

a flourishing kingdom, than their most hateful qualities.

I do not question, but many of my readers will be startled at this

assertion, when they look on the consequences that may be drawn

from it; and I shall be asked, whether people may not as well be

virtuous in a populous, rich, wide, extended kingdom, as in a small,

indigent state or principality, that is poorly inhabited? And if that

be impossible, Whether it is not the duty of all sovereigns to reduce

their subjects, as to wealth and numbers, as much as they can? If I

allow they may, I own myself in the wrong; and if I affirm the other,

my tenets will justly be called impious, or at least dangerous to

all large societies. As it is not in this place of the book only,

but a great many others, that such queries might be made even by a

well-meaning reader, I shall here explain myself, and endeavour to

solve those difficulties, which several passages might have raised in

him, in order to demonstrate the consistency of my opinion to reason,

and the strictest morality.

I lay down as a first principle, that in all societies, great or

small, it is the duty of every member of it to be good, that virtue

ought to be encouraged, vice discountenanced, the laws obeyed, and

the transgressors punished. After this I affirm, that if we consult

history, both ancient and modern, and take a view of what has passed

in the world, we shall find that human nature, since the fall of Adam,

has always been the same, and that the strength and frailties of it

have ever been conspicuous in one part of the globe or other, without

any regard to ages, climates, or religion. I never said, nor imagined,

that man could not be virtuous as well in a rich and mighty kingdom,

as in the most pitiful commonwealth; but I own it is my sense, that

no society can be raised into such a rich and mighty kingdom, or so

raised, subsist in their wealth and power for any considerable time,

without the vices of man.

This, I imagine, is sufficiently proved throughout the book; and as

human nature still continues the same, as it has always been for so

many thousand years, we have no great reason to suspect a future change

in it, while the world endures. Now, I cannot see what immorality there

is in showing a man the origin and power of those passions, which so

often, even unknowingly to himself, hurry him away from his reason;

or that there is any impiety in putting him upon his guard against

himself, and the secret stratagems of self-love, and teaching him the

difference between such actions as proceed from a victory over the

passions, and those that are only the result of a conquest which one

passion obtains over another; that is, between real and counterfeited

virtue. It is an admirable saying of a worthy divine, That though many

discoveries have been made in the world of self-love, there is yet

abundance of terra incognita left behind. What hurt do I do to man,

if I make him more known to himself than he was before? But we are

all so desperately in love with flattery, that we can never relish a

truth that is mortifying, and I do not believe that the immortality

of the soul, a truth broached long before Christianity, would have

ever found such a general reception in human capacities as it has,

had it not been a pleasing one, that extolled, and was a compliment

to the whole species, the meanest and most miserable not excepted.

Every one loves to hear the thing well spoke of that he has a share in,

even bailiffs, gaol-keepers, and the hangman himself would have you

think well of their functions; nay, thieves and house breakers have a

greater regard to those of their fraternity, than they have for honest

people; and I sincerely believe, that it is chiefly self-love that has

gained this little treatise (as it was before the last impression), so

many enemies; every one looks upon it as an affront done to himself,

because it detracts from the dignity, and lessens the fine notions

he had conceived of mankind, the most worshipful company he belongs

to. When I say that societies cannot be raised to wealth and power,

and the top of earthly glory, without vices, I do not think that,

by so saying, I bid men be vicious, any more than I bid them be

quarrelsome or covetous, when I affirm that the profession of the

law could not be maintained in such numbers and splendor, if there

was not abundance of too selfish and litigious people.

But as nothing would more clearly demonstrate the falsity of my

notions, than that the generality of the people should fall in

with them, so I do not expect the approbation of the multitude. I

write not to many, nor seek for any well-wishers, but among the few

that can think abstractly, and have their minds elevated above the

vulgar. If I have shown the way to worldly greatness, I have always,

without hesitation, preferred the road that leads to virtue.

Would you banish fraud and luxury, prevent profaneness and irreligion,

and make the generality of the people charitable, good, and virtuous;

break down the printing-presses, melt the founds, and burn all the

books in the island, except those at the universities, where they

remain unmolested, and suffer no volume in private hands but a Bible:

knock down foreign trade, prohibit all commerce with strangers,

and permit no ships to go to sea, that ever will return, beyond

fisher-boats. Restore to the clergy, the king and the barons their

ancient privileges, prerogatives, and professions: build new churches,

and convert all the coin you can come at into sacred utensils: erect

monasteries and alms-houses in abundance, and let no parish be without

a charity-school. Enact sumptuary laws, and let your youth be inured

to hardship: inspire them with all the nice and most refined notions

of honour and shame, of friendship and of heroism, and introduce among

them a great variety of imaginary rewards: then let the clergy preach

abstinence and self-denial to others, and take what liberty they please

for themselves; let them bear the greatest sway in the management of

state-affairs, and no man be made lord-treasurer but a bishop.

But by such pious endeavours, and wholesome regulations, the scene

would be soon altered; the greatest part of the covetous, the

discontented, the restless and ambitious villains, would leave the

land; vast swarms of cheating knaves would abandon the city, and be

dispersed throughout the country: artificers would learn to hold the

plough, merchants turn farmers, and the sinful overgrown Jerusalem,

without famine, war, pestilence, or compulsion, be emptied in the most

easy manner, and ever after cease to be dreadful to her sovereigns. The

happy reformed kingdom would by this means be crowded in no part of

it, and every thing necessary for the sustenance of man, be cheap and

abound: on the contrary, the root of so many thousand evils, money,

would be very scarce, and as little wanted, where every man should

enjoy the fruits of his own labour, and our own dear manufacture

unmixed, be promiscuously wore by the lord and the peasant. It is

impossible, that such a change of circumstances should not influence

the manners of a nation, and render them temperate, honest, and

sincere; and from the next generation we might reasonably expect a

more healthy and robust offspring than the present; an harmless,

innocent, and well-meaning people, that would never dispute the

doctrine of passive obedience, nor any other orthodox principles,

but be submissive to superiors, and unanimous in religious worship.

Here I fancy myself interrupted by an Epicure, who, not to want a

restorative diet in case of necessity, is never without live ortolans;

and I am told that goodness and probity are to be had at a cheaper rate

than the ruin of a nation, and the destruction of all the comforts of

life; that liberty and property may be maintained without wickedness

or fraud, and men be good subjects without being slaves, and religious

though they refused to be priest-rid; that to be frugal and saving

is a duty incumbent only on those, whose circumstances require it,

but that a man of a good estate does his country a service by living

up to the income of it; that as to himself, he is so much master of

his appetites, that he can abstain from any thing upon occasion; that

where true Hermitage was not to be had, he could content himself with

plain Bourdeaux, if it had a good body; that many a morning, instead

of St. Lawrence, he has made a shift with Fronteniac, and after dinner

given Cyprus wine, and even Madeira, when he has had a large company,

and thought it extravagant to treat with Tockay; but that all voluntary

mortifications are superstitious, only belonging to blind zealots

and enthusiasts. He will quote my Lord Shaftsbury against me, and

tell me that people may be virtuous and sociable without self-denial;

that it is an affront to virtue to make it inaccessible, that I make

a bugbear of it to frighten men from it as a thing impracticable;

but that for his part he can praise God, and at the same time enjoy

his creatures with a good conscience; neither will he forget any

thing to his purpose of what I have said, page 66. He will ask me

at last, whether the legislature, the wisdom of the nation itself,

while they endeavour as much as possible, to discourage profaneness

and immorality, and promote the glory of God, do not openly profess,

at the same time, to have nothing more at heart, than the ease and

welfare of the subject, the wealth, strength, honour, and what else

is called the true interest of the country? and, moreover, whether

the most devout and most learned of our prelates, in their greatest

concern for our conversion, when they beseech the Deity to turn their

own as well as our hearts, from the world and all carnal desires,

do not in the same prayer as loudly solicit him to pour all earthly

blessings and temporal felicity, on the kingdom they belong to?

These are the apologies, the excuses, and common pleas, not only

of those who are notoriously vicious, but the generality of mankind,

when you touch the copy-hold of their inclinations; and trying the real

value they have for spirituals, would actually strip them of what their

minds are wholly bent upon. Ashamed of the many frailties they feel

within, all men endeavour to hide themselves, their ugly nakedness,

from each other, and wrapping up the true motives of their hearts, in

the specious cloak of sociableness, and their concern for the public

good, they are in hopes of concealing their filthy appetites, and the

deformity of their desires; while they are conscious within of the

fondness for their darling lusts, and their incapacity, bare-faced,

to tread the arduous, rugged path of virtue.

As to the two last questions, I own they are very puzzling: to what the

Epicure asks, I am obliged to answer in the affirmative; and unless

I would (which God forbid!) arraign the sincerity of kings, bishops,

and the whole legislative power, the objection stands good against me:

all I can say for myself is, that in the connection of the facts, there

is a mystery past human understanding; and to convince the reader,

that this is no evasion, I shall illustrate the incomprehensibility

of it in the following parable.

In old heathen times, there was, they say, a whimsical country,

where the people talked much of religion, and the greatest part, as

to outward appearance, seemed really devout: the chief moral evil

among them was thirst, and to quench it a damnable sin; yet they

unanimously agreed that every one was born thirsty, more or less:

small beer in moderation was allowed to all, and he was counted an

hypocrite, a cynic, or a madman, who pretended that one could live

altogether without it; yet those, who owned they loved it, and drank

it to excess, were counted wicked. All this, while the beer itself

was reckoned a blessing from Heaven, and there was no harm in the

use of it; all the enormity lay in the abuse, the motive of the

heart, that made them drink it. He that took the least drop of it

to quench his thirst, committed a heinous crime, while others drank

large quantities without any guilt, so they did it indifferently,

and for no other reason than to mend their complexion.

They brewed for other countries as well as their own, and for the small

beer they sent abroad, they received large returns of Westphalia-hams,

neats tongues, hung-beef, and Bologna sausages, red-herrings, pickled

sturgeon, caviar, anchovies, and every thing that was proper to make

their liquor go down with pleasure. Those who kept great stores of

small beer by them without making use of it, were generally envied,

and at the same time very odious to the public, and nobody was

easy that had not enough of it come to his own share. The greatest

calamity they thought could befal them, was to keep their hops and

barley upon their hands, and the more they yearly consumed of them,

the more they reckoned the country to flourish.

The government had many very wise regulations concerning the returns

that were made for their exports, encouraged very much the importation

of salt and pepper, and laid heavy duties on every thing that was not

well seasoned, and might any ways obstruct the sale of their own hops

and barley. Those at helm, when they acted in public, showed themselves

on all accounts exempt and wholly divested from thirst, made several

laws to prevent the growth of it, and punish the wicked who openly

dared to quench it. If you examined them in their private persons,

and pryed narrowly into their lives and conversations, they seemed to

be more fond, or at least drank larger draughts of small beer than

others, but always under pretence that the mending of complexions

required greater quantities of liquor in them, than it did in those

they ruled over; and that, what they had chiefly at heart, without any

regard to themselves, was to procure great plenty of small beer, among

the subjects in general, and a great demand for their hops and barley.

As nobody was debarred from small beer, the clergy made use of it as

well as the laity, and some of them very plentifully; yet all of them

desired to be thought less thirsty by their function than others, and

never would own that they drank any but to mend their complexions. In

their religious assemblies they were more sincere; for as soon as they

came there, they all openly confessed, the clergy as well as the laity,

from the highest to the lowest, that they were thirsty, that mending

their complexions was what they minded the least, and that all their

hearts were set upon small beer and quenching their thirst, whatever

they might pretend to the contrary. What was remarkable, is, that to

have laid hold of those truths to any ones prejudice, and made use of

those confessions afterwards out of their temples, would be counted

very impertinent, and every body thought it an heinous affront to

be called thirsty, though you had seen him drink small beer by whole

gallons. The chief topics of their preachers, was the great evil of

thirst, and the folly there was in quenching it. They exhorted their

hearers to resist the temptations of it, inveighed against small beer,

and often told them it was poison, if they drank it with pleasure,

or any other design than to mend their complexions.

In their acknowledgments to the gods, they thanked them for the plenty

of comfortable small beer they had received from them, notwithstanding

they had so little deserved it, and continually quenched their thirst

with it; whereas, they were so thoroughly satisfied, that it was

given them for a better use. Having begged pardon for those offences,

they desired the gods to lessen their thirst, and give them strength

to resist the importunities of it; yet, in the midst of their sorest

repentance, and most humble supplications, they never forgot small

beer, and prayed that they might continue to have it in great plenty,

with a solemn promise, that how neglectful soever they might hitherto

have been in this point, they would for the future not drink a drop

of it, with any other design than to mend their complexions.

These were standing petitions put together to last; and having

continued to be made use of without any alterations, for several

hundred years together; it was thought by some, that the gods, who

understood futurity, and knew that the same promise they heard in June,

would be made to them the January following, did not rely much more

on those vows, than we do on those waggish inscriptions by which men

offer us their goods; to-day for money, and to-morrow for nothing. They

often began their prayers very mystically, and spoke many things in

a spiritual sense; yet, they never were so abstract from the world in

them, as to end one without beseeching the gods to bless and prosper

the brewing trade in all its branches, and for the good of the whole,

more and more to increase the consumption of hops and barley.

Line 388. Content, the bane of industry.

I have been told by many, that the bane of industry is laziness,

and not content; therefore to prove my assertion, which seems a

paradox to some, I shall treat of laziness and content separately,

and afterwards speak of industry, that the reader may judge which it

is of the two former, that is opposite to the latter.

Laziness is an aversion to business, generally attended with an

unreasonable desire of remaining unactive; and every body is lazy, who,

without being hindered by any other warrantable employment, refuses or

puts off any business which he ought to do for himself or others. We

seldom call any body lazy, but such as we reckon inferior to us, and

of whom we expect some service. Children do not think their parents

lazy, nor servants their masters; and if a gentleman indulges his

ease and sloth so abominably, that he will not put on his own shoes,

though he is young and slender, nobody shall call him lazy for it,

if he can keep but a footman, or some body else to do it for him.

Mr. Dryden has given us a very good idea of superlative slothfulness,

in the person of a luxurious king of Egypt. His majesty having bestowed

some considerable gifts on several of his favourites, is attended by

some of his chief ministers with a parchment, which he was to sign

to confirm those grants. First, he walks a few turns to and fro,

with a heavy uneasiness in his looks, then sets himself down like a

man that is tired, and, at last, with abundance of reluctancy to what

he was going about, he takes up the pen, and falls a complaining very

seriously of the length of the word Ptolemy, and expresses a great

deal of concern, that he had not some short monosyllable for his name,

which he thought would save him a world of trouble.

We often reproach others with laziness, because we are guilty of it

ourselves. Some days ago, as two young women sat knotting together,

says one to the other, there comes a wicked cold through that door;

you are the nearest to it, sister, pray shut it. The other, who was

the youngest, vouchsafed, indeed, to cast an eye towards the door,

but sat still, and said nothing; the eldest spoke again two or three

times, and at last the other making her no answer, nor offering to

stir, she got up in a pet, and shut the door herself; coming back

to sit down again, she gave the younger a very hard look; and said,

Lord, sister Betty, I would not be so lazy as you are for all the

world; which she spoke so earnestly, that it brought a colour in

her face. The youngest should have risen, I own; but if the eldest

had not overvalued her labour, she would have shut the door herself,

as soon as the cold was offensive to her, without making any words of

it. She was not above a step farther from the door than her sister,

and as to age, there was not eleven months difference between them,

and they were both under twenty. I thought it a hard matter to

determine which was the laziest of the two.

There are a thousand wretches that are always working the marrow out

of their bones for next to nothing, because they are unthinking and

ignorant of what the pains they take are worth: while others who are

cunning, and understand the true value of their work, refuse to be

employed at under rates, not because they are of an unactive temper,

but because they will not beat down the price of their labour. A

country gentleman sees at the back side of the Exchange a porter

walking to and fro with his hands in his pockets. Pray, says he,

friend, will you step for me with this letter as far as Bow-church,

and I will give you a penny? I will go with all my heart, says the

other, but I must have twopence, master; which the gentleman refusing

to give, the fellow turned his back, and told him, he would rather

play for nothing than work for nothing. The gentleman thought it

an unaccountable piece of laziness in a porter, rather to saunter

up and down for nothing, than to be earning a penny with as little

trouble. Some hours after he happened to be with some friends at a

tavern in Threadneedle-street, where one of them calling to mind that

he had forgot to send for a bill of exchange that was to go away with

the post that night, was in great perplexity, and immediately wanted

some body to go for him to Hackney with all the speed imaginable. It

was after ten, in the middle of winter, a very rainy night, and all

the porters thereabouts were gone to bed. The gentleman grew very

uneasy, and said, whatever it cost him, that somebody he must send;

at last one of the drawers seeing him so very pressing, told him

that he knew a porter, who would rise, if it was a job worth his

while. Worth his while, said the gentleman very eagerly, do not

doubt of that, good lad, if you know of any body, let him make what

haste he can, and I will give him a crown if he be back by twelve

o'clock. Upon this the drawer took the errand, left the room, and in

less than a quarter of an hour, came back with the welcome news that

the message would be dispatched with all expedition. The company in

the mean time, diverted themselves as they had done before; but when

it began to be towards twelve, the watches were pulled out, and the

porter's return was all the discourse. Some were of opinion he might

yet come before the clock had struck; others thought it impossible,

and now it wanted but three minutes of twelve, when in comes the

nimble messenger smoking hot, with his clothes as wet as dung with

the rain, and his head all over in a bath of sweat. He had nothing

dry about him but the inside of his pocket-book, out of which he took

the bill he had been for, and by the drawer's direction, presented

it to the gentleman it belonged to; who, being very well pleased

with the dispatch he had made, gave him the crown he had promised,

while another filled him a bumper, and the whole company commended his

diligence. As the fellow came nearer the light, to take up the wine,

the country gentleman I mentioned at first, to his great admiration,

knew him to be the same porter that had refused to earn his penny,

and whom he thought the laziest mortal alive.

The story teaches us, that we ought not to confound those who remain

unemployed for want of an opportunity of exerting themselves to the

best advantage, with such as for want of spirit, hug themselves in

their sloth, and will rather starve than stir. Without this caution,

we must pronounce all the world more or less lazy, according to their

estimation of the reward they are to purchase with their labour,

and then the most industrious may be called lazy.

Content, I call that calm serenity of the mind, which men enjoy while

they think themselves happy, and rest satisfied with the station

they are in: It implies a favourable construction of our present

circumstances, and a peaceful tranquillity, which men are strangers

to as long as they are solicitous about mending their condition. This

is a virtue of which the applause is very precarious and uncertain:

for, according as mens circumstances vary, they will either be blamed

or commended for being possessed of it.

A single man that works hard at a laborious trade, has a hundred a year

left him by a relation: this change of fortune makes him soon weary of

working, and not having industry enough to put himself forward in the

world, he resolves to do nothing at all, and live upon his income. As

long as he lives within compass, pays for what he has, and offends

nobody, he shall be called an honest quiet man. The victualler, his

landlady, the tailor, and others, divide what he has between them,

and the society is every year the better for his revenue; whereas,

if he should follow his own or any other trade, he must hinder

others, and some body would have the less for what he should get;

and therefore, though he should be the idlest fellow in the world, lie

a-bed fifteen hours in four and twenty, and do nothing but sauntering

up and down all the rest of the time, nobody would discommend him,

and his unactive spirit is honoured with the name of content.

But if the same man marries, gets three or four children, and still

continues of the same easy temper, rests satisfied with what he has,

and without endeavouring to get a penny, indulges his former sloth:

first, his relations, afterwards, all his acquaintance, will be alarmed

at his negligence: they foresee that his income will not be sufficient

to bring up so many children handsomely, and are afraid, some of them

may, if not a burden, become a disgrace to them. When these fears

have been, for some time, whispered about from one to another, his

uncle Gripe takes him to task, and accosts him in the following cant:

"What, nephew, no business yet! fie upon it! I cannot imagine how you

do to spend your time; if you will not work at your own trade, there

are fifty ways that a man may pick up a penny by: you have a hundred

a-year, it is true, but your charges increase every year, and what

must you do when your children are grown up? I have a better estate

than you myself, and yet you do not see me leave off my business;

nay, I declare it, might I have the world I could not lead the life

you do. It is no business of mine, I own, but every body cries, it

is a shame for a young man, as you are, that has his limbs and his

health, should not turn his hands to something or other." If these

admonitions do not reform him in a little time, and he continues

half-a-year longer without employment, he will become a discourse to

the whole neighbourhood, and for the same qualifications that once

got him the name of a quiet contented man, he shall be called the

worst of husbands, and the laziest fellow upon earth: from whence it

is manifest, that when we pronounce actions good or evil, we only

regard the hurt or benefit the society receives from them, and not

the person who commits them. (See page 17.)

Diligence and industry are often used promiscuously, to signify the

same thing, but there is a great difference between them. A poor wretch

may want neither diligence nor ingenuity, be a saving pains-taking man,

and yet without striving to mend his circumstances, remain contented

with the station he lives in; but industry implies, besides the

other qualities, a thirst after gain, and an indefatigable desire of

meliorating our condition. When men think either the customary profits

of their calling, or else the share of business they have too small,

they have two ways to deserve the name of industrious; and they must

be either ingenious enough to find out uncommon, and yet warrantable

methods to increase their business or their profit, or else supply that

defect by a multiplicity of occupations. If a tradesman takes care to

provide his shop, and gives due attendance to those that come to it,

he is a diligent man in his business; but if, besides that, he takes

particular pains to sell, to the same advantage, a better commodity

than the rest of his neighbours, or if, by his obsequiousness, or

some other good quality, getting into a large acquaintance, he uses

all possible endeavours of drawing customers to his house, he then

may be called industrious. A cobbler, though he is not employed half

of his time, if he neglects no business, and makes dispatch when he

has any, is a diligent man; but if he runs of errands when he has

no work, or makes but shoe-pins, and serves as a watchman a-nights,

he deserves the name of industrious.

If what has been said in this remark be duly weighed, we shall find

either, that laziness and content are very near a-kin, or, if there

be a great difference between them, that the latter is more contrary

to industry than the former.

Line 410. To make a great and honest hive.

This perhaps might be done where people are contented to be poor and

hardy; but if they would likewise enjoy their ease and the comforts

of the world, and be at once an opulent, potent, and flourishing,

as well as a warlike nation, it is utterly impossible. I have heard

people speak of the mighty figure the Spartans made above all the

commonwealths of Greece, notwithstanding their uncommon frugality

and other exemplary virtues. But certainly there never was a nation

whose greatness was more empty than theirs: The splendor they lived

in was inferior to that of a theatre, and the only thing they could

be proud of, was, that they enjoyed nothing. They were, indeed,

both feared and esteemed abroad: they were so famed for valour and

skill in martial affairs, that their neighbours did not only court

their friendship and assistance in their wars, but were satisfied,

and thought themselves sure of the victory, if they could but get a

Spartan general to command their armies. But then their discipline

was so rigid, and their manner of living so austere and void of all

comfort, that the most temperate man among us would refuse to submit

to the harshness of such uncouth laws. There was a perfect equality

among them: gold and silver coin were cried down; their current money

was made of iron, to render it of a great bulk, and little worth: To

lay up twenty or thirty pounds, required a pretty large chamber, and

to remove it, nothing less than a yoke of oxen. Another remedy they

had against luxury, was, that they were obliged to eat in common of

the same meat, and they so little allowed any body to dine, or sup by

himself at home, that Agis, one of their kings, having vanquished the

Athenians, and sending for his commons at his return home (because he

desired privately to eat with his queen) was refused by the Polemarchi.

In training up their youth, their chief care, says Plutarch, was to

make them good subjects, to fit them to endure the fatigues of long

and tedious marches, and never to return without victory from the

field. When they were twelve years old, they lodged in little bands,

upon beds made of the rushes, which grew by the banks of the river

Eurotas; and because their points were sharp, they were to break them

off with their hands without a knife: If it were a hard winter, they

mingled some thistle-down with their rushes to keep them warm (see

Plutarch in the life of Lycurgus.) From all these circumstances it is

plain, that no nation on earth was less effeminate; but being debarred

from all the comforts of life, they could have nothing for their pains,

but the glory of being a warlike people, inured to toils and hardships,

which was a happiness that few people would have cared for upon the

same terms: and, though they had been masters of the world, as long

as they enjoyed no more of it, Englishmen would hardly have envied

them their greatness. What men want now-a-days has sufficiently been

shewn in Remark on line 200, where I have treated of real pleasures.

Line 411. T' enjoy the world's conveniencies.

That the words, decency and conveniency, were very ambiguous, and

not to be understood, unless we were acquainted with the quality and

circumstances of the persons that made use of them, has been hinted

already in Remark on line 177. The goldsmith, mercer, or any other

of the most creditable shopkeepers, that has three or four thousand

pounds to set up with, must have two dishes of meat every day, and

something extraordinary for Sundays. His wife must have a damask bed

against her lying-in, and two or three rooms very well furnished: the

following summer she must have a house, or at least very good lodgings

in the country. A man that has a being out of town, must have a horse;

his footman must have another. If he has a tolerable trade, he expects

in eight or ten years time to keep his coach, which, notwithstanding,

he hopes, that after he has slaved (as he calls it) for two or three

and twenty years, he shall be worth at least a thousand a-year for

his eldest son to inherit, and two or three thousand pounds for

each of his other children to begin the world with; and when men of

such circumstances pray for their daily bread, and mean nothing more

extravagant by it, they are counted pretty modest people. Call this

pride, luxury, superfluity, or what you please, it is nothing but what

ought to be in the capital of a flourishing nation: those of inferior

condition must content themselves with less costly conveniencies, as

others of higher rank will be sure to make theirs more expensive. Some

people call it but decency to be served in plate, and reckon a coach

and six among the necessary comforts of life; and if a peer has not

above three or four thousand a-year, his lordship is counted poor.

Since the first edition of this book, several have attacked me with

demonstrations of the certain ruin, which excessive luxury must bring

upon all nations, who yet were soon answered, when I showed them the

limits within which I had confined it; and therefore, that no reader

for the future may misconstrue me on this head, I shall point at the

cautions I have given, and the provisos I have made in the former,

as well as this present impression, and which, if not overlooked,

must prevent all rational censure, and obviate several objections

that otherwise might be made against me. I have laid down as maxims

never to be departed from, that the [3] poor should be kept strictly

to work, and that it was prudence to relieve their wants, but folly

to cure them; that agriculture [4] and fishery should be promoted in

all their branches, in order to render provisions, and consequently

labour cheap. I have named [5] ignorance as a necessary ingredient

in the mixture of society: from all which it is manifest that I could

never have imagined, that luxury was to be made general through every

part of a kingdom. I have likewise required [6] that property should

be well secured, justice impartially administered, and in every thing

the interest of the nation taken care of: but what I have insisted

on the most, and repeated more than once, is the great regard that

is to be had to the balance of trade, and the care the legislature

ought to take, that the yearly [7] imports never exceed the exports;

and where this is observed, and the other things I spoke of are not

neglected, I still continue to assert that no foreign luxury can

undo a country: the height of it is never seen but in nations that

are vastly populous, and there only in the upper part of it, and the

greater, that is, the larger still in proportion must be the lowest,

the basis that supports all, the multitude of working poor.

Those who would too nearly imitate others of superior fortune, must

thank themselves if they are ruined. This is nothing against luxury;

for whoever can subsist, and lives above his income is a fool. Some

persons of quality may keep three or four coaches and six, and at the

same time lay up money for their children: while a young shopkeeper

is undone for keeping one sorry horse. It is impossible there should

be a rich nation without prodigals, yet I never knew a city so full

of spendthrifts, but there were covetous people enough to answer

their number. As an old merchant breaks for having been extravagant

or careless a great while, so a young beginner falling into the same

business, gets an estate by being saving or more industrious before

he is forty years old: besides, that the frailties of men often work

by contraries: some narrow souls can never thrive because they are too

stingy, while longer heads amass great wealth by spending their money

freely, and seeming to despise it. But the vicissitudes of fortune

are necessary, and the most lamentable are no more detrimental to

society, than the death of the individual members of it. Christenings

are a proper balance to burials. Those who immediately lose by

the misfortunes of others, are very sorry, complain, and make a

noise; but the others who get by them, as there always are such,

hold their tongues, because it is odious to be thought the better

for the losses and calamities of our neighbour. The various ups and

downs compose a wheel, that always turning round, gives motion to the

whole machine. Philosophers, that dare extend their thoughts beyond

the narrow compass of what is immediately before them, look on the

alternate changes in the civil society, no otherwise than they do on

the risings and fallings of the lungs; the latter of which are much

a part of respiration in the most perfect animals as the first; so

that the fickle breath of never-stable fortune is to the body politic,

the same as floating air is to a living creature.

Avarice then, and prodigality, are equally necessary to the

society. That in some countries, men are most generally lavish

than in others, proceeds from the difference in circumstances that

dispose to either vice, and arise from the condition of the social

body, as well as the temperament of the natural. I beg pardon of the

attentive reader, if here, in behalf of short memories, I repeat some

things, the substance of which they have already seen in Remark, line

307. More money than land, heavy taxes and scarcity of provisions,

industry, laboriousness, an active and stirring spirit, ill-nature,

and saturnine temper; old age, wisdom, trade, riches, acquired

by our own labour, and liberty and property well secured, are all

things that dispose to avarice. On the contrary, indolence, content,

good-nature, a jovial temper, youth, folly, arbitrary power, money

easily got, plenty of provisions and the uncertainty of possessions,

are circumstances that render men prone to prodigality: where there

is the most of the first, the prevailing vice will be avarice, and

prodigality where the other turns the scale; but a national frugality

there never was nor never will be without a national necessity.

Sumptuary laws, may be of use to an indigent country, after great

calamities of war, pestilence, or famine, when work has stood still,

and the labour of the poor been interrupted; but to introduce them

into an opulent kingdom, is the wrong way to consult the interest of

it. I shall end my remarks on the Grumbling-Hive, with assuring the

champions of national frugality, that it would be impossible for the

Persians and other eastern people, to purchase the vast quantities

of fine English cloth they consume, should we load our women with

less cargoes of Asiatic silks.

AN

ESSAY ON CHARITY,

AND

CHARITY-SCHOOLS.

Charity, is that virtue by which part of that sincere love we have for

ourselves, is transferred pure and unmixed to others, not tied to us

by the bonds of friendship or consanguinity, and even mere strangers,

whom we have no obligation to, nor hope or expect any thing from. If

we lessen any ways the rigour of this definition, part of the virtue

must be lost. What we do for our friends and kindred, we do partly

for ourselves: when a man acts in behalf of nephews or nieces,

and says they are my brother's children, I do it out of charity;

he deceives you: for if he is capable, it is expected from him, and

he does it partly for his own sake: if he values the esteem of the

world, and is nice as to honour and reputation, he is obliged to have

a greater regard to them than for strangers, or else he must suffer

in his character.

The exercise of this virtue, relates either to opinion, or to action,

and is manifested in what we think of others, or what we do for

them. To be charitable, then, in the first place, we ought to put

the best construction on all that others do or say, that things

are capable of. If a man builds a fine house, though he has not one

symptom of humility, furnishes it richly, and lays out a good estate

in plate and pictures, we ought not to think that he does it out of

vanity, but to encourage artists, employ hands, and set the poor to

work for the good of his country: and if a man sleeps at church, so

he does not snore, we ought to think he shuts his eyes to increase

his attention. The reason is, because in our turn we desire that

our utmost avarice should pass for frugality; and that for religion,

which we know to be hypocrisy. Secondly, that virtue is conspicuous

in us, when we bestow our time and labour for nothing, or employ

our credit with others, in behalf of those who stand in need of it,

and yet could not expect such an assistance from our friendship or

nearness of blood. The last branch of charity consists in giving

away (while we are alive) what we value ourselves, to such as I have

already named; being contented rather to have and enjoy less, than

not relieve those who want, and shall be the objects of our choice.

This virtue is often counterfeited by a passion of ours, called Pity

or Compassion, which consists in a fellow-feeling and condolence for

the misfortunes and calamities of others: all mankind are more or

less affected with it; but the weakest minds generally the most. It

is raised in us, when the sufferings and misery of other creatures

make so forcible an impression upon us, as to make us uneasy. It

comes in either at the eye, or ear, or both; and the nearer and more

violently the object of compassion strikes those senses, the greater

disturbance it causes in us, often to such a degree, as to occasion

great pain and anxiety.

Should any of us be locked up in a ground-room, where in a yard

joining to it, there was a thriving good humoured child at play,

of two or three years old, so near us that through the grates of the

window we could almost touch it with our hand; and if while we took

delight in the harmless diversion, and imperfect prittle-prattle of the

innocent babe, a nasty overgrown sow should come in upon the child,

set it a screaming, and frighten it out of its wits; it is natural

to think, that this would make us uneasy, and that with crying out,

and making all the menacing noise we could, we should endeavour to

drive the sow away. But if this should happen to be an half-starved

creature, that, mad with hunger, went roaming about in quest of food,

and we should behold the ravenous brute, in spite of our cries, and

all the threatening gestures we could think of, actually lay hold of

the helpless infant, destroy and devour it; to see her widely open

her destructive jaws, and the poor lamb beat down with greedy haste;

to look on the defenceless posture of tender limbs first trampled on,

then tore asunder; to see the filthy snout digging in the yet living

entrails, suck up the smoking blood, and now and then to hear the

crackling of the bones, and the cruel animal with savage pleasure

grunt over the horrid banquet; to hear and see all this, what tortures

would it give the soul beyond expression! let me see the most shining

virtue the moralists have to boast of, so manifest either to the

person possessed of it, or those who behold his actions: let me see

courage, or the love of ones country so apparent without any mixture,

cleared and distinct, the first from pride and anger, the other from

the love of glory, and every shadow of self-interest, as this pity

would be cleared and distinct from all other passions. There would

be no need of virtue or self-denial to be moved at such a scene;

and not only a man of humanity, of good morals and commiseration,

but likewise an highwayman, an house-breaker, or a murderer could

feel anxieties on such an occasion; how calamitous soever a man's

circumstances might be, he would forget his misfortunes for the time,

and the most troublesome passion would give way to pity, and not one

of the species has a heart so obdurate or engaged, that it would not

ache at such a sight, as no language has an epithet to fit it.

Many will wonder at what I have said of pity, that it comes in at the

eye or ear, but the truth of this will be known when we consider that

the nearer the object is, the more we suffer, and the more remote

it is, the less we are troubled with it. To see people executed for

crimes, if it is a great way off, moves us but little, in comparison to

what it does when we are near enough to see the motion of the soul in

their eyes, observe their fears and agonies, and are able to read the

pangs in every feature of the face. When the object is quite removed

from our senses, the relation of the calamities or the reading of them,

can never raise in us the passion called pity. We may be concerned at

bad news, the loss and misfortunes of friends and those whose cause we

espouse, but this is not pity, but grief or sorrow; the same as we feel

for the death of those we love, or the destruction of what we value.

When we hear that three or four thousand men, all strangers to us,

are killed with the sword, or forced into some river where they

are drowned, we say, and perhaps believe, that we pity them. It is

humanity bids us have compassion with the sufferings of others;

and reason tells us, that whether a thing be far off or done in

our sight, our sentiments concerning it ought to be the same, and

we should be ashamed to own, that we felt no commiseration in us

when any thing requires it. He is a cruel man, he has no bowels of

compassion; all these things are the effects of reason and humanity,

but nature makes no compliments; when the object does not strike,

the body does not feel it; and when men talk of pitying people out of

sight, they are to be believed in the same manner as when they say,

that they are our humble servants. In paying the usual civilities at

first meeting, those who do not see one another every day, are often

very glad and very sorry alternately, for five or six times together,

in less than two minutes, and yet at parting carry away not a jot

more of grief or joy than they met with. The same it is with pity,

and it is a choice no more than fear or anger. Those who have a strong

and lively imagination, and can make representations of things in

their minds, as they would be if they were actually before them,

may work themselves up into something that resembles compassion;

but this is done by art, and often the help of a little enthusiasm,

and is only an imitation of pity; the heart feels little of it, and

it is as faint as what we suffer at the acting of a tragedy; where

our judgment leaves part of the mind uninformed, and to indulge a lazy

wantonness, suffers it to be led into an error, which is necessary to

have a passion raised, the slight strokes of which are not unpleasant

to us, when the soul is in an idle unactive humour.

As pity is often by ourselves and in our own cases mistaken for

charity, so it assumes the shape, and borrows the very name of it; a

beggar asks you to exert that virtue for Jesus Christ's sake, but all

the while his great design is to raise your pity. He represents to your

view the first side of his ailments and bodily infirmities; in chosen

words he gives you an epitome of his calamities, real or fictitious;

and while he seems to pray God that he will open your heart, he is

actually at work upon your ears; the greatest profligate of them flies

to religion for aid, and assists his cant with a doleful tone, and a

studied dismality of gestures: but he trusts not to one passion only,

he flatters your pride with titles and names of honour and distinction;

your avarice he sooths with often repeating to you the smallness of the

gift he sues for, and conditional promises of future returns, with an

interest extravagant beyond the statute of usury, though out of the

reach of it. People not used to great cities, being thus attacked

on all sides, are commonly forced to yield, and cannot help giving

something though they can hardly spare it themselves. How oddly are

we managed by self-love! It is ever watching in our defence, and yet,

to sooth a predominant passion, obliges us to act against our interest:

for when pity seizes us, if we can but imagine, that we contribute to

the relief of him we have compassion with, and are instrumental to the

lessening of his sorrows, it eases us, and therefore pitiful people

often give an alms, when they really feel that they would rather not.

When sores are very bare, or seem otherwise afflicting in an

extraordinary manner, and the beggar can bear to have them exposed

to the cold air, it is very shocking to some people; it is a shame,

they cry, such sights should be suffered; the main reason is, it

touches their pity feelingly, and at the same time they are resolved,

either because they are covetous, or count it an idle expence, to

give nothing, which makes them more uneasy. They turn their eyes,

and where the cries are dismal, some would willingly stop their ears

if they were not ashamed. What they can do is to mend their pace,

and be very angry in their hearts that beggars should be about the

streets. But it is with pity as it is with fear, the more we are

conversant with objects that excite either passion, the less we are

disturbed by them, and those to whom all these scenes and tones are by

custom made familiar, they make little impression upon. The only thing

the industrious beggar has left to conquer those fortified hearts,

if he can walk either with or without crutches, is to follow close,

and with uninterrupted noise teaze and importune them, to try if he can

make them buy their peace. Thus thousands give money to beggars from

the same motive as they pay their corn-cutter, to walk easy. And many

a halfpenny is given to impudent and designedly persecuting rascals,

whom, if it could be done handsomely, a man would cane with much

greater satisfaction. Yet all this, by the courtesy of the country,

is called charity.

The reverse of pity is malice: I have spoke of it where I treat of

envy. Those who know what it is to examine themselves, will soon

own that it is very difficult to trace the root and origin of this

passion. It is one of those we are most ashamed of, and therefore the

hurtful part of it is easily subdued and corrected by a judicious

education. When any body near us stumbles, it is natural even

before reflection, to stretch out our hands to hinder, or at least

break the fall, which shows that while we are calm we are rather

bent to pity. But though malice by itself is little to be feared,

yet assisted with pride it is often mischievous, and becomes most

terrible when egged on and heightened by anger. There is nothing that

more readily or more effectually extinguishes pity than this mixture,

which is called cruelty: from whence we may learn, that to perform a

meritorious action, it is not sufficient barely to conquer a passion,

unless it likewise be done from a laudable principle, and consequently

how necessary that clause was in the definition of virtue, that our

endeavours were to proceed from a rational ambition of being good.

Pity, as I have said somewhere else, is the most amiable of all our

passions, and there are not many occasions, on which we ought to

conquer or curb it. A surgeon may be as compassionate as he pleases,

so it does not make him omit or forbear to perform what he ought

to do. Judges likewise, and juries, may be influenced with pity, if

they take care that plain laws and justice itself are not infringed,

and do not suffer by it. No pity does more mischief in the world,

than what is excited by the tenderness of parents, and hinders them

from managing their children, as their rational love to them would

require, and themselves could wish it. The sway likewise which this

passion bears in the affections of women, is more considerable than

is commonly imagined, and they daily commit faults that are altogether

ascribed to lust, and yet are in a great measure owing to pity.

What I named last is not the only passion that mocks and resembles

charity; pride and vanity have built more hospitals than all the

virtues together. Men are so tenacious of their possessions, and

selfishness is so riveted in our nature, that whoever can but any

ways conquer it shall have the applause of the public, and all the

encouragement imaginable to conceal his frailty, and sooth any other

appetite he shall have a mind to indulge. The man that supplies,

with his private fortune, what the whole must otherwise have

provided for, obliges every member of the society, and, therefore,

all the world are ready to pay him their acknowledgment, and think

themselves in duty bound to pronounce all such actions virtuous,

without examining, or so much as looking into the motives from which

they were performed. Nothing is more destructive to virtue or religion

itself, than to make men believe, that giving money to the poor,

though they should not part with it till after death, will make a

full atonement in the next world, for the sins they have committed

in this. A villain, who has been guilty of a barbarous murder, may,

by the help of false witnesses, escape the punishment he deserved:

he prospers, we will say, heaps up great wealth, and, by the advice

of his father confessor, leaves all his estate to a monastery, and

his children beggars. What fine amends has this good Christian made

for his crime, and what an honest man was the priest who directed

his conscience? He who parts with all he has in his life-time,

whatever principle he acts from, only gives away what was his own;

but the rich miser who refuses to assist his nearest relations while

he is alive, though they never designedly disobliged him, and disposes

of his money, for what we call charitable uses, after his death, may

imagine of his goodness what he pleases, but he robs his posterity. I

am now thinking of a late instance of charity, a prodigious gift,

that has made a great noise in the world: I have a mind to set it

in the light I think it deserves, and beg leave, for once, to please

pedants, to treat it somewhat rhetorically.

That a man, with small skill in physic, and hardly any learning,

should, by vile arts, get into practice, and lay up great wealth,

is no mighty wonder; but, that he should so deeply work himself into

the good opinion of the world as to gain the general esteem of a

nation, and establish a reputation beyond all his contemporaries,

with no other qualities but a perfect knowledge of mankind, and a

capacity of making the most of it, is something extraordinary. If a

man arrived to such a height of glory should be almost distracted

with pride, sometime give his attendance on a servant or any mean

person for nothing, and, at the same time, neglect a nobleman that

gives exorbitant fees, at other times refuse to leave his bottle

for his business, without any regard to the quality of the persons

that sent for him, or the danger they are in: if he should be surly

and morose, affect to be an humourist, treat his patients like dogs,

though people of distinction, and value no man but what would deify

him, and never call in question the certainty of his oracles: if he

should insult all the world, affront the first nobility, and extend

his insolence even to the royal family: if, to maintain as well as

to increase the fame of his sufficiency, he should scorn to consult

with his betters on what emergency soever, look down with contempt

on the most deserving of his profession, and never confer with any

other physician but what will pay homage to his superior genius,

creep to his humour, and never approach him but with all the slavish

obsequiousness a court-flatterer can treat a prince with: If a man,

in his lifetime, should discover, on the one hand, such manifest

symptoms of superlative pride, and an insatiable greediness after

wealth at the same time, and, on the other, no regard to religion or

affection to his kindred, no compassion to the poor, and hardly any

humanity to his fellow-creatures, if he gave no proofs that he loved

his country, had a public spirit, or was a lover of arts, of books,

or of literature, what must we judge of his motive, the principle he

acted from, when, after his death, we find that he has left a trifle

among his relations who stood in need of it, and an immense treasure

to an university that did not want it.

Let a man be as charitable as it is possible for him to be without

forfeiting his reason or good sense: can he think otherwise, but that

this famous physician did, in the making of his will, as in every thing

else, indulge his darling passion, entertaining his vanity with the

happiness of the contrivance? when he thought on the monuments and

inscriptions, with all the sacrifices of praise that would be made

to him, and, above all, the yearly tribute of thanks, of reverence,

and veneration that would be paid to his memory, with so much pomp

and solemnity; when he considered, how in all these performances,

wit and invention would be racked, art and eloquence ransacked to find

out encomiums suitable to the public spirit, the munificence and the

dignity of the benefactor, and the artful gratitude of the receivers;

when he thought on, I say, and considered these things, it must have

thrown his ambitious soul into vast ecstasies of pleasure, especially

when he ruminated on the duration of his glory, and the perpetuity he

would by this means procure to his name. Charitable opinions are often

stupidly false; when men are dead and gone, we ought to judge of their

actions, as we do of books, and neither wrong their understanding

nor our own. The British Æsculapius was undeniably a man of sense,

and if he had been influenced by charity, a public spirit, or the

love of learning, and had aimed at the good of mankind in general,

or that of his own profession in particular, and acted from any of

these principles, he could never have made such a will; because so

much wealth might have been better managed, and a man of much less

capacity would have found out several better ways of laying out the

money. But if we consider, that he was as undeniably a man of vast

pride, as he was a man of sense, and give ourselves leave only to

surmise, that this extraordinary gift might have proceeded from such

a motive, we shall presently discover the excellency of his parts,

and his consummate knowledge of the world: for, if a man would render

himself immortal, be ever praised and deified after his death, and

have all the acknowledgment, the honours, and compliments paid to

his memory, that vain glory herself could wish for, I do not think

it in human skill to invent a more effectual method. Had he followed

arms, behaved himself in five-and-twenty sieges, and as many battles,

with the bravery of an Alexander, and exposed his life and limbs to

all the fatigues and dangers of war for fifty campaigns together;

or devoting himself to the muses, sacrificed his pleasure, his rest,

and his health to literature, and spent all his days in a laborious

study, and the toils of learning; or else, abandoning all worldly

interest, excelled in probity, temperance, and austerity of life,

and ever trod in the strictest path of virtue, he would not so

effectually have provided for the eternity of his name, as after a

voluptuous life, and the luxurious gratification of his passions, he

has now done without any trouble or self denial, only by the choice

in the disposal of his money, when he was forced to leave it.

A rich miser, who is thoroughly selfish, and would receive the interest

of his money, even after his death, has nothing else to do than to

defraud his relations, and leave his estate to some famous university;

they are the best markets to buy immortality at with little merit:

in them knowledge, wit, and penetration are the growth, I had almost

said the manufacture of the place: there men are profoundly skilled

in human nature, and know what it is their benefactors want; and

their extraordinary bounties shall always meet with an extraordinary

recompence, and the measure of the gift is ever the standard of

their praises, whether the donor be a physician or a tinker, when

once the living witnesses that might laugh at them are extinct. I can

never think on the anniversary of the thanksgiving-day decreed to a

great man, but it puts me in mind of the miraculous cures, and other

surprising things that will be said of him a hundred years hence;

and I dare prognosticate, that before the end of the present century,

he will have stories forged in his favour (for rhetoricians are never

upon oath) that shall be as fabulous, at least, as any legends of

the saints.

Of all this our subtle benefactor was not ignorant; he understood

universities, their genius, and their politics, and from thence

foresaw and knew, that the incense to be offered to him would not

cease with the present or few succeeding generations, and that it

would not only for the trifling space of three or four hundred years,

but that it would continue to be paid to him through all changes and

revolutions of government and religion, as long as the nation subsists,

and the island itself remains.

It is deplorable that the proud should have such temptations to wrong

their lawful heirs: For when a man in ease and affluence, brim-full

of vain glory, and humoured in his pride by the greatest of a polite

nation, has such an infallible security in petto for an everlasting

homage and adoration to his manes to be paid in such an extraordinary

manner, he is like a hero in battle, who, in feasting of his own

imagination, tastes all the felicity of enthusiasm. It buys him up

in sickness, relieves him in pain, and either guards him against,

or keeps from his view all the terrors of death, and the most dismal

apprehensions of futurity.

Should it be said, that to be thus censorious, and look into matters,

and men's consciences with that nicety, will discourage people from

laying out their money this way; and that, let the money and the

motive of the donor be what they will, he that receives the benefit

is the gainer, I would not disown the charge, but am of opinion, that

this is no injury to the public, should one prevent men from crowding

too much treasure into the dead stock of the kingdom. There ought to

be a vast disproportion between the active and unactive part of the

society to make it happy, and where this is not regarded, the multitude

of gifts and endowments may soon be excessive and detrimental to a

nation. Charity, where it is too extensive, seldom fails of promoting

sloth and idleness, and is good for little in the commonwealth but to

breed drones, and destroy industry. The more colleges and alms-houses

you build, the more you may. The first founders and benefactors

may have just and good intentions, and would perhaps, for their own

reputations, seem to labour for the most laudable purposes, but the

executors of those wills, the governors that come after him, have

quite other views, and we seldom see charities long applied as it was

first intended they should be. I have no design that is cruel, nor the

least aim that savours of inhumanity. To have sufficient hospitals for

sick and wounded, I look upon as an indispensable duty both in peace

and war: Young children without parents, old age without support,

and all that are disabled from working, ought to be taken care of

with tenderness and alacrity. But as, on the one hand, I would have

none neglected that are helpless, and really necessitous without

being wanting to themselves, so, on the other, I would not encourage

beggary or laziness in the poor: All should be set to work that are

anywise able, and scrutinies should be made even among the infirm:

Employments might be found out for most of our lame, and many that are

unfit for hard labour, as well as the blind, as long as their health

and strength would allow of it. What I have now under consideration

leads me naturally to that kind of distraction the nation has laboured

under for some time, the enthusiastic passion for Charity-Schools.

The generality are so bewitched with the usefulness and excellency

of them, that whoever dares openly oppose them is in danger of being

stoned by the rabble. Children that are taught the principles of

religion, and can read the word of God, have a greater opportunity

to improve in virtue and good morality, and must certainly be more

civilized than others, that are suffered to run at random, and

have nobody to look after them. How perverse must be the judgment

of those, who would not rather see children decently dressed, with

clean linen at least once a-week, that, in an orderly manner, follow

their master to church, than in every open place, meet with a company

of blackguards without shirts or any thing whole about them, that,

insensible of their misery, are continually increasing it with oaths

and imprecations! Can any one doubt but these are the great nursery of

thieves and pickpockets? What numbers of felons, and other criminals,

have we tried and convicted every sessions! This will be prevented by

charity-schools; and when the children of the poor receive a better

education, the society will, in a few years, reap the benefit of it,

and the nation be cleared of so many miscreants, as now this great

city, and all the country about it, are filled with.

This is the general cry, and he that speaks the least word against

it, an uncharitable, hard-hearted and inhuman, if not a wicked,

profane, and atheistical wretch. As to the comeliness of the sight,

nobody disputes it; but I would not have a nation pay too dear for

so transient a pleasure; and if we might set aside the finery of the

show, every thing that is material in this popular oration might soon

be answered.

As to religion, the most knowing and polite part of a nation have

every where the least of it; craft has a greater hand in making rogues

than stupidity, and vice, in general, is nowhere more predominant

than where arts and sciences flourish. Ignorance is, to a proverb,

counted to be the mother of devotion; and it is certain, that we shall

find innocence and honesty nowhere more general than among the most

illiterate, the poor silly country people. The next to be considered,

are the manners and civility that by charity-schools are to be grafted

into the poor of the nation. I confess that, in my opinion, to be in

any degree possessed of what I named, is a frivolous, if not a hurtful

quality, at least nothing is less requisite in the laborious poor. It

is not compliments we want of them, but their work and assiduity. But I

give up this article with all my heart; good manners we will say are

necessary to all people, but which way will they be furnished with

them in a charity-school? Boys there may be taught to pull off their

caps promiscuously to all they meet, unless it be a beggar: But that

they should acquire in it any civility beyond that I cannot conceive.

The master is not greatly qualified, as may be guessed by his salary,

and if he could teach them manners he has not time for it: while they

are at school they are either learning or saying their lesson to him,

or employed in writing or arithmetic; and as soon as school is done,

they are as much at liberty as other poor people's children. It is

precept, and the example of parents, and those they eat, drink and

converse with, that have an influence upon the minds of children:

reprobate parents that take ill courses, and are regardless to their

children, will not have a mannerly civilized offspring though they went

to a charity-school till they were married. The honest pains-taking

people, be they never so poor, if they have any notion of goodness

and decency themselves, will keep their children in awe, and never

suffer them to rake about the streets, and lie out a-nights. Those

who will work themselves, and have any command over their children,

will make them do something or other that turns to profit as soon as

they are able, be it never so little; and such are so ungovernable,

that neither words nor blows can work upon them, no charity-school will

mend; nay, experience teaches us, that among the charity-boys there are

abundance of bad ones that swear and curse about, and, bar the clothes,

are as much blackguard as ever Tower-hill or St. James's produced.

I am now come to the enormous crimes, and vast multitude of

malefactors, that are all laid upon the want of this notable

education. That abundance of thefts and robberies are daily committed

in and about the city, and great numbers yearly suffer death for

those crimes is undeniable: but because this is ever hooked in, when

the usefulness of charity-schools is called in question, as if there

was no dispute, but they would in a great measure remedy, and in time

prevent those disorders; I intend to examine into the real causes of

those mischiefs so justly complained of, and doubt not but to make

it appear that charity-schools, and every thing else that promotes

idleness, and keeps the poor from working, are more accessary to the

growth of villany, than the want of reading and writing, or even the

grossest ignorance and stupidity.

Here I must interrupt myself to obviate the clamours of some impatient

people, who, upon reading of what I said last, will cry out, that far

from encouraging idleness, they bring up their charity-children to

handicrafts, as well as trades, and all manner of honest labour. I

promise them that I shall take notice of that hereafter, and answer

it without stifling the least thing that can be said in their behalf.

In a populous city, it is not difficult for a young rascal, that has

pushed himself into a crowd, with a small hand and nimble fingers,

to whip away a handkerchief or snuff-box, from a man who is thinking

on business, and regardless of his pocket. Success in small crimes

seldom fails of ushering in greater; and he that picks pockets with

impunity at twelve, is likely to be a house-breaker at sixteen, and a

thorough-paced villain long before he is twenty. Those who are cautious

as well as bold, and no drunkards, may do a world of mischief before

they are discovered: and this is one of the greatest inconveniencies

of such vast overgrown cities, as London or Paris; that they harbour

rogues and villains as granaries do vermin; they afford a perpetual

shelter to the worst of people, and are places of safety to thousands

of criminals, who daily commit thefts and burglaries, and yet, by

often changing their places of abode, may conceal themselves for many

years, and will perhaps for ever escape the hands of justice, unless

by chance they are apprehended in a fact. And when they are taken,

the evidences perhaps want clearness, or are otherwise insufficient;

the depositions are not strong enough; juries and often judges are

touched with compassion; prosecutors though vigorous at first, often

relent before the time of trial comes on: few men prefer the public

safety to their own ease; a man of good-nature is not easily reconciled

with taking away of another man's life, though he has deserved the

gallows. To be the cause of any ones death, though justice requires

it, is what most people is startled at, especially men of conscience

and probity, when they want judgment or resolution: as this is the

reason that thousands escape that deserve to be capitally punished,

so it is likewise the cause that there are so many offenders, who

boldly venture, in hopes that if they are taken they shall have the

same good fortune of getting off.

But if men did imagine, and were fully persuaded, that as surely as

they committed a fact that deserved hanging, so surely they would be

hanged; executions would be very rare, and the most desperate felon

would almost as soon hang himself as he would break open a house. To

be stupid and ignorant is seldom the character of a thief. Robberies

on the highway, and other bold crimes, are generally perpetrated by

rogues of spirit, and a genius; and villains of any fame are commonly

subtle cunning fellows, that are well versed in the method of trials,

and acquainted with every quirk in the law that can be of use to them;

that overlook not the smallest flaw in an indictment, and know how to

make an advantage of the least slip of an evidence, and every thing

else, that can serve their turn to bring them off.

It is a mighty saying, that it is better that five hundred guilty

people should escape, than that one innocent person should suffer:

this maxim is only true as to futurity, and in relation to another

world; but it is very false in regard to the temporal welfare of

society. It is a terrible thing a man should be put to death for a

crime he is not guilty of; yet so oddly circumstances may meet in the

infinite variety of accidents, that it is possible it should come to

pass, all the wisdom that judges, and consciousness that juries may be

possessed of, notwithstanding. But where men endeavour to avoid this,

with all the care and precaution human prudence is able to take, should

such a misfortune happen perhaps once or twice in half a score years,

on condition that all that time justice should be administered with

all the strictness and severity, and not one guilty person suffered

to escape with impunity, it would be a vast advantage to a nation,

not only as to the securing of every ones property, and the peace of

the society in general, but would likewise save the lives of hundreds,

if not thousands, of necessitous wretches, that are daily hanged for

trifles, and who would never have attempted any thing against the

law, or at least have ventured on capital crimes, if the hopes of

getting off, should they be taken, had not been one of the motives

that animated their resolution. Therefore where the laws are plain

and severe, all the remissness in the execution of them, lenity of

juries, and frequency of pardons, are in the main a much greater

cruelty to a populous state or kingdom, than the use of racks and

the most exquisite torments.

Another great cause of those evils, is to be looked for in the want

of precaution in those that are robbed, and the many temptations that

are given. Abundance of families are very remiss in looking after

the safety of their houses; some are robbed by the carelessness

of servants, others for having grudged the price of bars and

shutters. Brass and pewter are ready money, they are every where

about the house; plate perhaps and money are better secured; but an

ordinary lock is soon opened, when once a rogue is got in.

It is manifest, then, that many different causes concur, and several

scarce avoidable evils contribute to the misfortune of being pestered

with pilferers, thieves, and robbers, which all countries ever were,

and ever will be, more or less, in and near considerable towns, more

especially vast and overgrown cities. It is opportunity makes the

thief; carelessness and neglect in fastening doors and windows, the

excessive tenderness of juries and prosecutors, the small difficulty

of getting a reprieve and frequency of pardons; but above all, the

many examples of those who are known to be guilty, are destitute both

of friends and money, and yet by imposing on the jury, baffling the

witnesses, or other tricks and stratagems, find out means to escape

the gallows. These are all strong temptations that conspire to draw

in the necessitous, who want principle and education.