PART II.

Opinionum enim Commenta delet dies;

Naturæ judicia confirmat.

Cicero de Nat. Deor. Lib. 2.

PREFACE.

Considering the manifold clamours, that have been raised from several

quarters, against the Fable of the Bees, even after I had published

the vindication of it, many of my readers will wonder to see me come

out with a second part, before I have taken any further notice of

what has been said against the first. Whatever is published, I take

it for granted, is submitted to the judgment of all the world that

see it; but it is very unreasonable, that authors should not be upon

the same footing with their critics. The treatment I have received,

and the liberties some gentlemen have taken with me, being well known,

the public must be convinced before now, that, in point of civility,

I owe my adversaries nothing: and if those, who have taken upon them

to school and reprimand me, had an undoubted right to censure what

they thought fit, without asking my leave, and to say of me what

they pleased, I ought to have an equal privilege to examine their

censures, and, without consulting them, to judge in my turn, whether

they are worth answering or not. The public must be the umpire between

us. From the Appendix that has been added to the first part, ever

since the third edition, it is manifest, that I have been far from

endeavouring to stifle, either the arguments or the invectives that

were made against me; and, not to have left the reader uninformed

of any thing extant of either sort, I once thought to have taken

this opportunity of presenting him with a list of the adversaries

that have appeared in print against me: but as they are in nothing

so considerable as they are in their numbers, I was afraid it would

have looked like ostentation, unless I would have answered them all,

which I shall never attempt. The reason, therefore, of my obstinate

silence has been all along, that hitherto I have not been accused

of any thing that is criminal or immoral, for which every middling

capacity could not have framed a very good answer, from some part or

other, either of the vindication or the book itself.

However, I have wrote, and had by me near two years, a defence of

the Fable of the Bees, in which I have stated and endeavoured to

solve all the objections that might reasonably be made against it,

as to the doctrine contained in it, and the detriment it might be

of to others: for this is the only thing about which I ever had

any concern. Being conscious, that I have wrote with no ill design,

I should be sorry to lie under the imputation of it: but as to the

goodness or badness of the performance itself, the thought was never

worth my care; and therefore those critics, that found fault with

my bad reasoning, and said of the book, that it is ill wrote, that

there is nothing new in it, that it is incoherent stuff, that the

language is barbarous, the humour low, and the style mean and pitiful;

those critics, I say, are all very welcome to say what they please:

In the main, I believe they are in the right; but if they are not,

I shall never give myself the trouble to contradict them; for I never

think an author more foolishly employed, than when he is vindicating

his own abilities. As I wrote it for my diversion, so I had my ends;

if those who read it have not had theirs, I am sorry for it, though

I think myself not at all answerable for the disappointment. It was

not wrote by subscription, nor have I ever warranted, any where,

what use or goodness it would be of: on the contrary, in the very

preface, I have called it an inconsiderable trifle; and since that,

I have publicly owned that it was a rhapsody. If people will buy

books without looking into them, or knowing what they are, I cannot

see whom they have to blame but themselves, when they do not answer

expectations. Besides, it is no new thing for people to dislike books

after they have bought them: this will happen sometimes, even when

men of considerable figure had given them the strongest assurances,

before hand, that they would be pleased with them.

A considerable part of the defence I mentioned, has been seen by

several of my friends, who have been in expectation of it for some

time. I have stayed neither for types nor paper, and yet I have

several reasons, why I do not yet publish it; which, having touched

nobody's money, nor made any promise concerning it, I beg leave to

keep to myself. Most of my adversaries, whenever it comes out, will

think it soon enough; and nobody suffers by the delay but myself.

Since I was first attacked, it has long been a matter of wonder and

perplexity to me to find out, why and how men should conceive, that I

had wrote with an intent to debauch the nation, and promote all manner

of vice: and it was a great while before I could derive the charge from

any thing, but wilful mistake and premeditated malice. But since I have

seen, that men could be serious in apprehending the increase of rogues

and robberies, from the frequent representations of the Beggar's Opera,

I am persuaded, that there really are such wrongheads in the world,

as will fancy vices to be encouraged, when they see them exposed. To

the same perverseness of judgment it must have been owing, that some

of my adversaries were highly incensed with me, for having owned,

in the Vindication, that hitherto I had not been able to conquer

my vanity, as well as I could have wished. From their censure it

is manifest, that they must have imagined, that to complain of a

frailty, was the same as to brag of it. But if these angry gentlemen

had been less blinded with passion, or seen with better eyes,

they would easily have perceived, unless they were too well pleased

with their pride, that to have made the same confession themselves,

they wanted nothing but sincerity. Whoever boasts of his vanity, and

at the same time shows his arrogance, is unpardonable. But when we

hear a man complain of an infirmity, and his want of power entirely

to cure it, whilst he suffers no symptoms of it to appear, that we

could justly upbraid him with, we are so far from being offended,

that we are pleased with the ingenuity, and applaud his candour;

and when such an author takes no greater liberties with his readers,

than what is usual in the same manner of writing, and owns that to

be the result of vanity, which others tell a thousand lies about,

his confession is a compliment, and the frankness of it ought not

to be looked upon otherwise, than as a civility to the public, a

condescension he was not obliged to make. It is not in feeling the

passions, or in being affected with the frailties of nature, that vice

consists; but in indulging and obeying the call of them, contrary to

the dictates of reason. Whoever pays great deference to his readers,

respectfully submitting himself to their judgment, and tells them

at the same time, that he is entirely destitute of pride; whoever,

I say, does this, spoils his compliment whilst he is making of it:

for it is no better than bragging, that it costs him nothing. Persons

of taste, and the least delicacy, can be but little affected with a

man's modesty, of whom they are sure, that he is wholly void of pride

within: the absence of the one makes the virtue of the other cease;

at least the merit of it is not greater than that of chastity in an

eunuch, or humility in a beggar. What glory would it be to the memory

of Cato, that he refused to touch the water that was brought him,

if it was not supposed that he was very thirsty when he did it?

The reader will find, that in this second part I have endeavoured

to illustrate and explain several things, that were obscure and only

hinted at in the first.

Whilst I was forming this design, I found, on the one hand, that,

as to myself, the easiest way of executing it, would be by dialogue;

but I knew, on the other, that to discuss opinions, and manage

controversies, it is counted the most unfair manner of writing. When

partial men have a mind to demolish an adversary, and triumph over

him with little expence, it has long been a frequent practice to

attack him with dialogues, in which the champion, who is to lose the

battle, appears at the very beginning of the engagement, to be the

victim that is to be sacrificed, and seldom makes a better figure

than cocks on Shrove-Tuesday, that receive blows, but return none,

and are visibly set up on purpose to be knocked down. That this is

to be said against dialogues, is certainly true; but it is as true,

that there is no other manner of writing, by which greater reputation

has been obtained. Those, who have most excelled all others in it,

were the two most famous authors of all antiquity, Plato and Cicero:

the one wrote almost all his philosophical works in dialogues, and the

other has left us nothing else. It is evident, then, that the fault

of those, who have not succeeded in dialogues; was in the management,

and not in the manner of writing; and that nothing but the ill use that

has been made of it, could ever have brought it into disrepute. The

reason why Plato preferred dialogues to any other manner of writing,

he said, was, that things thereby might look, as if they were acted,

rather than told: the same was afterwards given by Cicero in the same

words, rendered into his own language. The greatest objection that

in reality lies against it, is the difficulty there is in writing

them well. The chief of Plato's interlocutors was always his master

Socrates, who every where maintains his character with great dignity;

but it would have been impossible to have made such an extraordinary

person speak like himself on so many emergencies, if Plato had not

been as great a man as Socrates.

Cicero, who studied nothing more than to imitate Plato, introduced in

his dialogues some of the greatest men in Rome, his contemporaries,

that were known to be of different opinions, and made them maintain

and defend every one his own sentiments, as strenuously, and in as

lively a manner, as they could possibly have done themselves; and

in reading his dialogues a man may easily imagine himself to be in

company with several learned men of different tastes and studies. But

to do this, a man must have Cicero's capacity. Lucian likewise,

and several others among the ancients, chose for their speakers,

persons of known characters. That this interests and engages the

reader more than strange names, is undeniable; but then, when the

personages fall short of those characters, it plainly shows, that

the author undertook what he was not able to execute. To avoid this

inconveniency, most dialogue-writers among the moderns, have made

use of fictitious names, which they either invented themselves or

borrowed of others. These are, generally speaking, judicious compounds,

taken from the Greek, that serve for short characters of the imaginary

persons they are given to, denoting either the party they side with,

or what it is they love or hate. But of all these happy compounds,

there is not one that has appeared equally charming to so many authors

of different views and talents, as Philalethes; a plain demonstration

of the great regard mankind generally have to truth. There has not been

a paper-war of note, these two hundred years, in which both parties,

at one time or other, have not made use of this victorious champion;

who, which side soever he has fought on, has hitherto, like Dryden's

Almanzor, been conqueror, and constantly carried all before him. But,

as by this means the event of the battle must always be known, as soon

as the combatants are named, and before a blow is struck; and as all

men are not equally peaceable in their dispositions, many readers have

complained, that they had not sport enough for their money, and that

knowing so much before hand, spoiled all their diversion. This humour

having prevailed for some time, authors are grown less solicitous

about the names of the personages they introduce. This careless way,

seeming to me at least as reasonable as any other, I have followed;

and had no other meaning by the names I have given my interlocutors,

than to distinguish them, without the least regard to the derivation

of words, or any thing relating to the etymology of them: all the care

I have taken about them, that I know of, is, that the pronunciation

of them should not be harsh, nor the sounds offensive.

But though the names I have chosen are feigned, and the circumstances

of the persons fictitious, the characters themselves are real, and

as faithfully copied from nature as I have been able to take them. I

have known critics find fault with play-wrights for annexing short

characters to the names they gave the persons of the drama; alleging,

that it is forestalling their pleasure, and that whatever the actors

are represented to be, they want no monitor, and are wise enough to

find it out themselves. But I could never approve of this censure:

there is a satisfaction, I think, in knowing one's company; and when

I am to converse with people for a considerable time, I desire to

be well acquainted with them, and the sooner the better. It is for

this reason, I thought it proper to give the reader some account

of the persons that are to entertain him. As they are supposed to

be people of quality, I beg leave, before I come to particulars,

to premise some things concerning the beau monde in general; which,

though most people perhaps know them every body does not always attend

to. Among the fashionable part of mankind throughout Christendom,

there are, in all countries, persons, who, though they feel a just

abhorrence to atheism and professed infidelity, yet have very little

religion, and are scarce half-believers, when their lives come to be

looked into, and their sentiments examined. What is chiefly aimed

at in a refined education, is to procure as much ease and pleasure

upon earth, as that can afford: therefore men are first instructed

in all the various arts of rendering their behaviour agreeable to

others, with the least disturbance to themselves. Secondly, they

are imbued with the knowledge of all the elegant comforts of life,

as well as the lessons of human prudence, to avoid pain and trouble,

in order to enjoy as much of the world, and with as little opposition,

as it is possible. Whilst thus men study their own private interest,

in assisting each other to promote and increase the pleasures of life

in general, they find by experience, that to compass those ends,

every thing ought to be banished from conversation, that can have

the least tendency of making others uneasy; and to reproach men

with their faults or imperfections, neglects or omissions, or to

put them in mind of their duty, are offices that none are allowed

to take upon them, but parents or professed masters and tutors; nor

even they before company: but to reprove and pretend to teach others,

we have no authority over, is ill manners, even in a clergyman out of

the pulpit; nor is he there to talk magisterially, or ever to mention

things, that are melancholy or dismal, if he should pass for a polite

preacher: but whatever we may vouchsafe to hear at church, neither

the certainty of a future state, nor the necessity of repentance, nor

any thing else relating to the essentials of Christianity, are ever

to be talked of when we are out of it, among the beau monde, upon

any account whatever. The subject is not diverting: besides, every

body is supposed to know those things, and to take care accordingly;

nay, it is unmannerly to think otherwise. The decency in fashion

being the chief, if not the only, rule, all modish people walk by,

not a few of them go to church, and receive the sacrament, from the

same principle that obliges them to pay visits to one another, and

now and then to make an entertainment. But as the greatest care of

the beau monde is to be agreeable, and appear well-bred, so most of

them take particular care, and many against their consciences, not

to seem burdened with more religion than it is fashionable to have,

for fear of being thought to be either hypocrites or bigots.

Virtue, however, is a very fashionable word, and some of the most

luxurious are extremely fond of the amiable sound; though they

mean nothing by it, but a great veneration for whatever is courtly

or sublime, and an equal aversion to every thing that is vulgar or

unbecoming. They seem to imagine, that it chiefly consists in a strict

compliance to the rules of politeness, and all the laws of honour,

that have any regard to the respect that is due to themselves. It is

the existence of this virtue, that is often maintained with so much

pomp of words, and for the eternity of which so many champions are

ready to take up arms: whilst the votaries of it deny themselves

no pleasure, they can enjoy, either fashionably or in secret,

and, instead of sacrificing the heart to the love of real virtue,

can only condescend to abandon the outward deformity of vice, for

the satisfaction they receive from appearing to be well-bred. It is

counted ridiculous for men to commit violence upon themselves, or to

maintain, that virtue requires self-denial: all court philosophers are

agreed, that nothing can be lovely or desirable, that is mortifying or

uneasy. A civil behaviour among the fair in public, and a deportment

inoffensive both in words and actions, is all the chastity the polite

world requires in men. What liberties soever a man gives himself in

private, his reputation shall never suffer, whilst he conceals his

amours from all those that are not unmannerly inquisitive, and takes

care that nothing criminal can ever be proved upon him. Si non caste,

saltem caute, is a precept that sufficiently shows what every body

expects; and though incontinence is owned to be a sin, yet never to

have been guilty of it is a character which most single men under

thirty would not be fond of, even amongst modest women.

As the world everywhere, in compliment itself, desires to be counted

really virtuous, so bare-faced vices, and all trespasses committed

in sight of it, are heinous and unpardonable. To see a man drunk in

the open street, or any serious assembly at noon-day, is shocking;

because it is a violation of the laws of decency, and plainly shows a

want of respect, and neglect of duty, which every body is supposed to

owe to the public. Men of mean circumstances likewise may be blamed

for spending more time or money in drinking, than they can afford;

but when these and all worldly considerations are out of the question,

drunkenness itself, as it is a sin, an offence to Heaven, is seldom

censured; and no man of fortune scruples to own, that he was at such

a time in such a company, where they drank very hard. Where nothing is

committed, that is either beastly, or otherwise extravagant, societies,

that meet on purpose to drink and be merry, reckon their manner of

passing away the time as innocent as any other, though most days in

the year they spend five or six hours of the four and twenty in that

diversion. No man had ever the reputation of being a good companion,

that would never drink to excess; and if a man's constitution be so

strong, or himself so cautious, that the dose he takes overnight,

never disorders him the next day, the worst that shall be said of him,

is, that he loves his bottle with moderation: though every night

constantly he makes drinking his pastime, and hardly ever goes to

bed entirely sober.

Avarice, it is true, is generally detested; but as men may be as guilty

of it by scraping money together, as they can be by hoarding it up,

so all the base, the sordid, and unreasonable means of acquiring

wealth, ought to be equally condemned and exploded, with the vile,

the pitiful, and penurious way of saving it: but the world is more

indulgent; no man is taxed with avarice, that will conform with the

beau monde, and live every way in splendour, though he should always

be raising the rents of his estate, and hardly suffer his tenants to

live under him; though he should enrich himself by usury, and all the

barbarous advantages that extortion can make of the necessities of

others: and though, moreover, he should be a bad paymaster himself,

and an unmerciful creditor to the unfortunate; it is all one, no

man is counted covetous, who entertains well, and will allow his

family what is fashionable for a person in his condition. How often

do we see men of very large estates unreasonably solicitous after

greater riches! What greediness do some men discover in extending

the perquisites of their offices! What dishonourable condescensions

are made for places of profit! What slavish attendance is given, and

what low submissions and unmanly cringes are made to favourites for

pensions, by men that could subsist without them! Yet these things

are no reproach to men, and they are never upbraided with them but by

their enemies, or those that envy them, and perhaps the discontented

and the poor. On the contrary, most of the well-bred people, that live

in affluence themselves, will commend them for their diligence and

activity; and say of them, that they take care of the main chance;

that they are industrious men for their families, and that they know

how, and are fit, to live in the world.

But these kind constructions are not more hurtful to the practice of

Christianity, than the high opinion which, in an artful education, men

are taught to have of their species, is to the belief of its doctrine,

if a right use be not made of it. That the great pre-eminence we

have over all other creatures we are acquainted with, consists in

our rational faculty, is very true; but it is as true, that the more

we are taught to admire ourselves, the more our pride increases,

and the greater stress we lay on the sufficiency of our reason: For

as experience teaches us, that the greater and the more transcendent

the esteem is, which men have for their own worth, the less capable

they generally are to bear injuries without resentment; so we see,

in like manner, that the more exalted the notions are which men

entertain of their better part, their reasoning faculty, the more

remote and averse they will be from giving their assent to any thing

that seems to insult over or contradict it: And asking a man to admit

of any thing he cannot comprehend, the proud reasoner calls an affront

to human understanding. But as ease and pleasure are the grand aim

of the beau monde, and civility is inseparable from their behaviour,

whether they are believers or not, so well-bred people never quarrel

with the religion they are brought up in: They will readily comply

with every ceremony in divine worship they have been used to, and

never dispute with you either about the Old or the New Testament,

if, in your turn, you will forbear laying great stress upon faith

and mysteries, and allow them to give an allegorical, or any other

figurative sense to the History of the Creation, and whatever else

they cannot comprehend or account for by the light of nature.

I am far from believing, that, among the fashionable people, there

are not, in all Christian countries, many persons of stricter virtue,

and greater sincerity in religion, than I have here described; but

that a considerable part of mankind have a great resemblance to the

picture I have been drawing, I appeal to every knowing and candid

reader. Horatio, Cleomenes, and Fulvia, are the names I have given

to my interlocutors: The first represents one of the modish people

I have been speaking of, but rather of the better sort of them as to

morality, though he seems to have a greater distrust of the sincerity

of clergymen, than he has of that of any other profession, and to

be of the opinion, which is expressed in that trite and specious, as

well as false and injurious saying, priests of all religions are the

same. As to his studies, he is supposed to be tolerably well versed

in the classics, and to have read more than is usual for people of

quality, that are born to great estates. He is a man of strict honour,

and of justice as well as humanity; rather profuse than covetous,

and altogether disinterested in his principles. He has been abroad,

seen the world, and is supposed to be possessed of the greatest part

of the accomplishments that usually gain a man the reputation of

being very much of a gentleman.

Cleomenes had been just such another, but was much reformed. As he

had formerly, for his amusement only, been dipping into anatomy,

and several parts of natural philosophy; so, since he was come home

from his travels, he had studied human nature, and the knowledge of

himself, with great application. It is supposed, that, whilst he was

thus employing most of his leisure hours, he met with the Fable of the

Bees; and, making a great use of what he read, compared what he felt

himself within, as well as what he had seen in the world, with the

sentiments set forth in that book, and found the insincerity of men

fully as universal, as it was there represented. He had no opinion of

the pleas and excuses that are commonly made to cover the real desires

of the heart; and he ever suspected the sincerity of men, whom he saw

to be fond of the world, and with eagerness grasping at wealth and

power, when they pretended that the great end of their labours was to

have opportunities of doing good to others upon earth, and becoming

themselves more thankful to Heaven; especially, if they conformed

with the beau monde, and seemed to take delight in a fashionable way

of living: He had the same suspicion of all men of sense, who, having

read and considered the gospel, would maintain the possibility that

persons might pursue worldly glory with all their strength, and, at the

same time, be good Christians. Cleomenes himself believed the Bible

to be the word of God, without reserve, and was entirely convinced

of the mysterious, as well as historical truths that are contained

in it. But as he was fully persuaded, not only of the veracity of the

Christian religion, but likewise of the severity of its precepts, so

he attacked his passions with vigour, but never scrupled to own his

want of power to subdue them, or the violent opposition he felt from

within; often complaining, that the obstacles he met with from flesh

and blood, were insurmountable. As he understood perfectly well the

difficulty of the task required in the gospel, so he ever opposed those

easy casuists, that endeavoured to lessen and extenuate it for their

own ends; and he loudly maintained, that men's gratitude to Heaven

was an unacceptable offering, whilst they continued to live in ease

and luxury, and were visibly solicitous after their share of the pomp

and vanity of this world. In the very politeness of conversation, the

complacency with which fashionable people are continually soothing each

other's frailties, and in almost every part of a gentleman's behaviour,

he thought there was a disagreement between the outward appearances,

and what is felt within, that was clashing with uprightness and

sincerity. Cleomenes was of opinion, that of all religious virtues,

nothing was more scarce, or more difficult to acquire, than Christian

humility; and that to destroy the possibility of ever attaining to it,

nothing was so effectual as what is called a gentleman's education;

and that the more dexterous, by this means, men grew in concealing

the outward signs, and every symptom of pride, the more entirely they

became enslaved by it within. He carefully examined into the felicity

that accrues from the applause of others, and the invisible wages

which men of sense and judicious fancy received for their labours;

and what it was at the bottom that rendered those airy rewards so

ravishing to mortals. He had often observed, and watched narrowly the

countenances and behaviour of men, when any thing of theirs was admired

or commended, such as the choice of their furniture, the politeness

of their entertainments, the elegancy of their equipages, their dress,

their diversions, or the fine taste displayed in their buildings.

Cleomenes seemed charitable, and was a man of strict morals, yet he

would often complain that he was not possessed of one Christian virtue,

and found fault with his own actions, that had all the appearances of

goodness; because he was conscious, he said, that they were performed

from a wrong principle. The effects of his education, and his aversion

to infamy, had always been strong enough to keep him from turpitude;

but this he ascribed to his vanity, which he complained was in such

full possession of his heart, that he knew no gratification of any

appetite from which he was able to exclude it. Having always been a

man of unblameable behaviour, the sincerity of his belief had made

no visible alteration in his conduct to outward appearances; but in

private he never ceased from examining himself. As no man was less

prone to enthusiasm than himself, so his life was very uniform; and

as he never pretended to high flights of devotion, so he never was

guilty of enormous offences. He had a strong aversion to rigorists

of all sorts; and when he saw men quarrelling about forms and creeds,

and the interpretation of obscure places, and requiring of others the

strictest compliance to their own opinions in disputable matters, it

raised his indignation to see the generality of them want charity, and

many of them scandalously remiss in the plainest and most necessary

duties. He took uncommon pains to search into human nature, and

left no stone unturned, to detect the pride and hypocrisy of it,

and, among his intimate friends, to expose the stratagems of the

one, and the exorbitant power of the other. He was sure, that the

satisfaction which arose from worldly enjoyments, was something

distinct from gratitude, and foreign to religion; and he felt plainly,

that as it proceeded from within, so it centered in himself: The very

relish of life, he said, was accompanied with an elevation of mind,

that seemed to be inseparable from his being. Whatever principle

was the cause of this, he was convinced within himself, that the

sacrifice of the heart, which the gospel requires, consisted in the

utter extirpation of that principle; confessing, at the same time,

that this satisfaction he found in himself, this elevation of mind,

caused his chief pleasure; and that, in all the comforts of life,

it made the greatest part of the enjoyment.

Cleomenes, with grief, often owned his fears, that his attachment to

the world would never cease whilst he lived; the reasons he gave, were

the great regard he continued to have for the opinion of worldly men;

the stubbornness of his indocile heart, that could not be brought

to change the objects of its pride; and refused to be ashamed of

what, from his infancy, it had been taught to glory in; and, lastly,

the impossibility, he found in himself, of being ever reconciled to

contempt, and enduring, with patience, to be laughed at and despised

for any cause, or on any consideration whatever. These were the

obstacles, he said, that hindered him from breaking off all commerce

with the beau monde, and entirely changing his manner of living;

without which, he thought it mockery to talk of renouncing the world,

and bidding adieu to all the pomp and vanity of it.

The part of Fulvia, which is the third person, is so inconsiderable,

she just appearing only in the first dialogue, that it would be

impertinent to trouble the reader with a character of her. I had a mind

to say some things on painting and operas, which I thought might, by

introducing her, be brought in more naturally, and with less trouble,

than they could have been without her. The ladies, I hope, will find

no reason, from the little she does say, to suspect that she wants

either virtue or understanding.

As to the fable, or what is supposed to have occasioned the first

dialogue between Horatio and Cleomenes, it is this. Horatio, who had

found great delight in my Lord Shaftsbury's polite manner of writing,

his fine raillery, and blending virtue with good manners, was a great

stickler for the social system; and wondered how Cleomenes could

be an advocate for such a book as the Fable of the Bees, of which

he had heard a very vile character from several quarters. Cleomenes,

who loved and had a great friendship for Horatio, wanted to undeceive

him; but the other, who hated satire, was prepossessed, and having

been told likewise, that martial courage, and honour itself, were

ridiculed in that book, he was very much exasperated against the

author and his whole scheme: he had two or three times heard Cleomenes

discourse on this subject with others; but would never enter into

the argument himself; and finding his friend often pressing to come

to it, he began to look cooly upon him, and at last to avoid all

opportunities of being alone with him: till Cleomenes drew him in,

by the stratagem which the reader will see he made use of, as Horatio

was one day taking his leave after a short complimentary visit.

I should not wonder to see men of candour, as well as good sense, find

fault with the manner, in which I have chose to publish these thoughts

of mine to the world: There certainly is something in it, which I

confess I do not know how to justify to my own satisfaction. That

such a man as Cleomenes, having met with a book agreeable to his own

sentiments, should desire to be acquainted with the author of it,

has nothing in it that is improbable or unseemly; but then it will be

objected, that, whoever the interlocutors are, it was I myself who

wrote the dialogues; and that it is contrary to all decency, that a

man should proclaim concerning his own work, all that a friend of

his, perhaps, might be allowed to say: this is true; and the best

answer which I think can be made to it, is, that such an impartial

man, and such a lover of truth, as Cleomenes is represented to be,

would be as cautious in speaking of his friend's merit, as he would

be of his own. It might be urged likewise, that when a man professes

himself to be an author's friend, and exactly to entertain the same

sentiments with another, it must naturally put every reader upon his

guard, and render him as suspicious and distrustful of such a man,

as he would be of the author himself. But how good soever the excuses

are, that might be made for this manner of writing, I would never

have ventured upon it, if I had not liked it in the famous Gassendus,

who, by the help of several dialogues and a friend, who is the chief

personage in them, has not only explained and illustrated his system,

but likewise refuted his adversaries: him I have followed, and I

hope the reader will find, that whatever opportunity I have had by

this means, of speaking well of myself indirectly, I had no design

to make that, or any other ill use of it.

As it is supposed, that Cleomenes is my friend, and speaks my

sentiments, so it is but justice, that every thing which he advances

should be looked upon and considered as my own; but no man in his

senses would think, that I ought to be equally responsible for every

thing that Horatio says, who is his antagonist. If ever he offers

any thing that favours of libertinism, or is otherwise exceptionable,

which Cleomenes does not reprove him for in the best and most serious

manner, or to which he gives not the most satisfactory and convincing

answer that can be made, I am to blame, otherwise not. Yet from the

fate the first part has met with, I expect to see in a little time

several things transcribed and cited from this, in that manner, by

themselves, without the replies that are made to them, and so shown to

the world, as my words and my opinion. The opportunity of doing this

will be greater in this part than it was in the former, and should I

always have fair play, and never be attacked, but by such adversaries,

as would make their quotations from me without artifice, and use me

with common honesty, it would go a great way to the refuting of me;

and I should myself begin to suspect the truth of several things I

have advanced, and which hitherto I cannot help believing.

A stroke made in this manner,----which the reader will sometimes meet

with in the following dialogues, is a sign, either of interruption,

when the person speaking is not suffered to go on with what he was

going to say, or else of a pause, during which something is supposed

to be said or done, not relating to the discourse.

As in this part I have not altered the subject, on which a former,

known by the name of the Fable of the Bees, was wrote; and the same

unbiassed method of searching after truth, and inquiring into the

nature of man and society, made use of in that, is continued in this,

I thought it unnecessary to look out for another title; and being

myself a great lover of simplicity, and my invention none of the most

fruitful, the reader, I hope, will pardon the bald, inelegant aspect,

and unusual emptiness of the title page.

Here I would have made an end of my Preface, which I know very well is

too long already: but the world having been very grossly imposed upon

by a false report, that some months ago was very solemnly made, and

as industriously spread in most of the newspapers, for a considerable

time, I think it would be an unpardonable neglect in me, of the public,

should I suffer them; to remain in the error they were led into,

when I am actually addressing them; and there is no other person,

from whom they can so justly expect to be undeceived. In the London

Evening Post of Saturday March 9, 1727-8, the following paragraph

was printed in small Italic, at the end of the home news.

On Friday evening the first instant, a gentleman, well-dressed,

appeared at the bonfire before St. James's Gate, who declared himself

the author of a book, intituled, the Fable of the Bees; and that he

was sorry for writing the same: and recollecting his former promise,

pronounced these words: I commit my book to the flames; and threw it

in accordingly.

The Monday following, the same piece of news was repeated in the Daily

Journal, and after that for a considerable time, as I have said,

in most of the papers: but since the Saturday mentioned, which was

the only time it was printed by itself, it appeared always with a

small addition to it, and annexed (with a N. B. before it) to the

following advertisement.

ARETÊ-LOGIA:

Or an Inquiry into the Original of Moral Virtue, wherein the false

notions of Machiavel, Hobbs, Spinosa, and Mr. Bayle, as they are

collected and digested by the Author of the Fable of the Bees,

are examined and confuted; and the eternal and unalterable nature

and obligation of moral virtue is stated and vindicated; to which

is prefixed, a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to that Author,

By Alexander Innes, D. D. Preacher Assistant at St. Margaret's,

Westminster.

The small addition which I said was made to that notable piece of news,

after it came to be annexed to this advertisement, consisted of these

five words (upon reading the above book), which were put in after,

"sorry for writing the same." This story having been often repeated in

the papers, and never publicly contradicted, many people, it seems,

were credulous enough to believe, notwithstanding the improbability

of it. But the least attentive would have suspected the whole, as soon

as they had seen the addition that was made to it, the second time it

was published; for supposing it to be intelligible, as it follows the

advertisement, it cannot be pretended, that the repenting gentleman

pronounced those very words. He must have named the book; and if he

had said, that his sorrow was occasioned by reading the ARETÊ-LOGIA,

or the new book of the reverend Dr. Innes, how came such a remarkable

part of his confession to be omitted in the first publication, where

the well-dressed gentleman's words and actions seemed to be set down

with so much care and exactness? Besides, every body knows the great

industry, and general intelligence of our news-writers: if such a farce

had really been acted, and a man had been hired to pronounce the words

mentioned, and throw a book into the fire, which I have often wondered

was not done, is it credible at all, that a thing so remarkable,

done so openly, and before so many witnesses, the first day of March,

should not be taken notice of in any of the papers before the ninth,

and never be repeated afterwards, or ever mentioned but as an appendix

of the advertisement to recommend Dr. Innes's book?

However, this story has been much talked of, and occasioned a great

deal of mirth among my acquaintance, several of whom have earnestly

pressed me more than once to advertise the falsity of it, which I

would never comply with for fear of being laughed at, as some years

ago poor Dr. Patridge was, for seriously maintaining that he was

not dead. But all this while we were in the dark, and nobody could

tell how this report came into the world, or what it could be that

had given a handle to it, when one evening a friend of mine, who had

borrowed Dr. Innes's book, which till then I had never seen, showed

me in it the following lines.

But à propos Sir, if I rightly remember, the ingenuous Mr. Law, in

his Remarks upon your Fable of the Bees, puts you in mind of a promise

you had made, by which you obliged yourself to burn that book at any

time or place your adversary should appoint, if any thing should be

found in it tending to immorality or the corruption of manners. I

have a great respect for that gentleman, though I am not personally

acquainted with him, but I cannot but condemn his excessive credulity

and good nature, in believing that a man of your principles could be

a slave to his word; for my own part, I think, I know you too well

to be so easily imposed upon; or if, after all, you should. really

persist in your resolution, and commit it to the flames, I appoint

the first of March, before St. James's Gate, for that purpose, it

being the birthday of the best and most glorious queen upon earth;

and the burning of your book the smallest atonement you can make, for

endeavouring to corrupt and debauch his majesty's subjects in their

principles. Now, Sir, if you agree to this, I hope you are not so

destitute of friends, but that you may find some charitable neighbour

or other, who will lend you a helping hand, and throw in the author

at the same time by way of appendix; the doing of which will, in my

opinion, complete the solemnity of the day. I am not your patient,

but, your most humble servant.

Thus ends what, in the ARETÊ-LOGIA Doctor Innes is pleased to call

a Prefatory Introduction, in a Letter to the Author of the Fable of

the Bees. It is signed A. I. and dated Tot-hill-fields, Westminster,

Jan. 20. 1727-8.

Now all our wonder ceased. The judicious reader will easily allow me,

that, having read thus much, I had an ample dispensation from going on

any further; therefore I can say nothing of the book: and as to the

reverend author of it, who seems to think himself so well acquainted

with my principles, I have not the honour to know either him or his

morals, otherwise than from what I have quoted here. Ex pede Herculem.

London, October 20. 1728.

THE FIRST

DIALOGUE.

BETWEEN

HORATIO, CLEOMENES, and FULVIA.

CLEOMENES.

Always in haste, Horatio?

Hor. I must beg of you to excuse me, I am obliged to go.

Cleo. Whether you have other engagements than you used to have, or

whether your temper is changed, I cannot tell, but something has made

an alteration in you, of which I cannot comprehend the cause. There

is no man in the world whose friendship I value more than I do yours,

or whose company I like better, yet I can never have it. I profess

I have thought sometimes that you have avoided me on purpose.

Hor. I am sorry, Cleomenes, I should have been wanting in civility

to you; I come every week constantly to pay my respects to you,

and if ever I fail, I always send to inquire after your health.

Cleo. No man outdoes Horatio in civility; but I thought something more

was due to our affections and long acquaintance, besides compliments

and ceremony: Of late I have never been to wait upon you, but you are

gone abroad, or I find you engaged; and when I have the honour to see

you here, your stay is only momentary. Pray pardon my rudeness for

once: What is it that hinders you now from keeping me company for an

hour or two? My cousin talks of going out, and I shall be all alone.

Hor. I know better than to rob you of such an opportunity for

speculation?

Cleo. Speculation! on what, pray?

Hor. That vileness of our species in the refined way of thinking you

have of late been so fond of, I call it the scheme of deformity, the

partisans of which study chiefly to make every thing in our nature

appear as ugly and contemptible as it is possible, and take uncommon

pains to persuade men that they are devils.

Cleo. If that be all, I shall soon convince you.

Hor. No conviction to me, I beseech you: I am determined, and fully

persuaded, that there is good in the world as well as evil; and that

the words, honesty, benevolence, and humanity, and even charity, are

not empty sounds only, but that there are such things in spite of the

Fable of the Bees; and I am resolved to believe, that, notwithstanding

the degeneracy of mankind, and the wickedness of the age, there are

men now living, who are actually possessed of those virtues.

Cleo. But you do not know what I am going to say: I am----

Hor. That may be, but I will not hear one word; all you can say is

lost upon me, and if you will not give me leave to speak out, I am gone

this moment. That cursed book has bewitched you, and made you deny the

existence of those very virtues that had gained you the esteem of your

friends. You know this is not my usual language; I hate to say harsh

things: But what regard can, or ought one to have for an author that

treats every body de haut en bas, makes a jest of virtue and honour,

calls Alexander the Great a madman, and spares kings and princes no

more than any one, would the most abject of the people? The business

of his philosophy is just the reverse to that of the herald's office;

for, as there they are always contriving and finding out high and

illustrious pedigrees for low and obscure people, so your author is

ever searching after, and inventing mean contemptible origins for

worthy and honourable actions. I am your very humble servant.

Cleo. Stay. I am of your opinion; what I offered to convince you of,

was, how entirely I am recovered of the folly which you have so justly

exposed: I have left that error.

Hor. Are you in earnest?

Cleo. No man more: There is no greater stickler for the social

virtues than myself; and I much question, whether there is any of

Lord Shaftsbury's admirers that will go my lengths!

Hor. I shall be glad to see you go my lengths first, and as many more

as you please. You cannot conceive, Cleomenes, how it has grieved me,

when I have seen how many enemies you made yourself by that extravagant

way of arguing. If you are but serious, whence comes this change?

Cleo. In the first place, I grew weary of having every body against

me: and, in the second, there is more room for invention in the other

system. Poets and orators in the social system have fine opportunities

of exerting themselves.

Hor. I very much suspect the recovery you boast of: Are you convinced,

that the other system was false, which you might have easily learned

from seeing every body against you?

Cleo. False to be sure; but what you allege is no proof of it: for if

the greatest part of mankind were not against that scheme of deformity,

as you justly call it, insincerity could not be so general, as the

scheme itself supposes it to be: But since my eyes have been opened,

I have found out that truth and probability are the silliest things in

the world; they are of no manner of use, especially among the people

de bon gout.

Hor. I thought what a convert you was: but what new madness has seized

you now?

Cleo. No madness at all: I say, and will maintain it to the world,

that truth, in the sublime, is very impertinent; and that in the arts

and sciences, fit for men of taste to look into, a master cannot commit

a more unpardonable fault, than sticking to, or being influenced by

truth, where it interferes with what is agreeable.

Hor. Homely truths indeed----

Cleo. Look upon that Dutch piece of the nativity: what charming

colouring there is! What a fine pencil, and how just are the outlines

for a piece so curiously finished! But what a fool the fellow was

to draw hay, and straw, and water, and a rack as well as a manger:

it is a wonder he did not put the bambino into the manger.

Ful. The bambino? That is the child, I suppose: why it should be in

the manger; should it not? Does not the history tell us, that the

child was laid in the manger? I have no skill in painting; but I can

see whether things are drawn to the life or not: sure nothing can be

more like the head of an ox than that there. A picture then pleases

me best when the art in such a manner deceives my eye, that, without

making any allowance, I can imagine I see the things in reality which

the painter has endeavoured to represent. I have always thought it

an admirable piece; sure nothing in the world can be more like nature.

Cleo. Like nature! So much the worse: Indeed, cousin, it is easily

seen, that you have no skill in painting. It is not nature, but

agreeable nature, la belle nature, that is to be represented: all

things that are abject, low, pitiful, and mean, are carefully to be

avoided, and kept out of sight; because, to men of the true taste,

they are as offensive as things that are shocking, and really nasty.

Ful. At that rate, the Virgin Mary's condition, and our Saviour's

birth, are never to be painted.

Cleo. That is your mistake; the subject itself is noble: Let us go

but in the next room, and I will show you the difference.----Look upon

that picture, which is the same history. There is fine architecture,

there is a colonnade; can any thing be thought of more magnificent? How

skilfully is that ass removed, and how little you see of the ox: pray,

mind the obscurity they are both placed in. It hangs in a strong

light, or else one might look ten times upon the picture without

observing them: Behold these pillars of the Corinthian order, how

lofty they are, and what an effect they have, what a noble space,

what an area here is! How nobly every thing concurs to express the

majestic grandeur of the subject, and strikes the soul with awe and

admiration at the same time!

Ful. Pray cousin, has good sense ever any share in the judgment which

your men of true taste form about pictures?

Hor. Madam!

Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, if I have offended: but to me it seems strange

to hear such commendations given to a painter, for turning the stable

of a country inn into a palace of extraordinary magnificence: This is

a great deal worse than Swift's Metamorphosis of Philemon and Baucis;

for there some show of resemblance is kept in the changes.

Hor. In a country stable, Madam, there is nothing but filth and

nastiness, or vile abject things not fit to be seen, at least not

capable of entertaining persons of quality.

Ful. The Dutch picture in the next room has nothing that is offensive:

but an Augean stable, even before Hercules had cleaned it, would be

less shocking to me than those fluted pillars; for nobody can please

my eye that affronts my understanding: When I desire a man to paint a

considerable history, which every body knows to have been transacted

at a country inn, does he not strangely impose upon me, because he

understands architecture, to draw me a room that might have served

for a great hall, or banqueting-house, to any Roman emperor? Besides,

that the poor and abject state in which our Saviour chose to appear

at his coming into the world, is the most material circumstance

of the history: it contains an excellent moral against vain pomp,

and is the strongest persuasive to humility, which, in the Italian,

are more than lost.

Hor. Indeed, Madam, experience is against you; and it is certain, that,

even among the vulgar, the representations of mean and abject things,

and such as they are familiar with, have not that effect, and either

breed contempt, or are insignificant: whereas vast piles, stately

buildings, roofs of uncommon height, surprising ornaments, and all the

architecture of the grand taste, are the fittest to raise devotion,

and inspire men with veneration, and a religious awe for the places

that have these excellencies to boast of. Is there ever a meeting-house

or barn to be compared to a fine cathedral, for this purpose?

Ful. I believe there is a mechanical way of raising devotion in silly

superstitious creatures; but an attentive contemplation on the works

of God, I am sure----

Cleo. Pray, cousin, say no more in defence of your low taste: The

painter has nothing to do with the truth of the history; his business

is to express the dignity of the subject, and, in compliment to his

judges, never to forget the excellency of our species: All his art

and good sense must be employed in raising that to the highest pitch;

Great masters do not paint for the common people, but for persons

of refined understanding: What you complain o£ is the effect of the

good manners and complaisance of the painter. When he had drawn the

Infant and the Madona, he thought the least glimpse of the ox and

the ass would be sufficient to acquaint you with the history: They

who want more fescuing, and a broader explanation, he does not desire

his picture should ever be shown to; for the rest, he entertains you

with nothing but what is noble and worthy your attention: You see he

is an architect, and completely skilled in perspective, and he shows

you how finely he can round a pillar, and that both the depth, and

the height of a space, may be drawn on a flat, with all the other

wonders he performs by his skill in that inconceivable mystery of

light and shadows.

Ful. Why then is it pretended that painting is an imitation of nature?

Cleo. At first setting out a scholar is to copy things exactly as

he sees them; but from a great matter, when he is left to his own

invention, it is expected he should take the perfections of nature,

and not paint it as it is, but as we would wish it to be. Zeuxis,

to draw a goddess, took five beautiful women, from which he culled

what was most graceful in each.

Ful. Still every grace he painted was taken from nature.

Cleo. That's true; but he left nature her rubbish, and imitated

nothing but what was excellent, which made the assemblage superior

to any thing in nature. Demetrius was taxed for being too natural;

Dionysus was also blamed for drawing men like us. Nearer our times,

Michael Angelo was esteemed too natural, and Lysippus of old upbraided

the common sort of sculptors for making men such as they were found

in nature.

Ful. Are these things real?

Cleo. You may read it yourself in Graham's Preface to The Art of

Painting: the book is above in the library.

Hor. These things may seem strange to you, Madam, but they are of

immense use to the public: the higher we can carry the excellency of

our species, the more those beautiful images will fill noble minds

with worthy and suitable ideas of their own dignity, that will seldom

fail of spurring them on to virtue and heroic actions. There is a

grandeur to be expressed in things that far surpasses the beauties of

simple nature. You take delight in operas, Madam, I do not question;

you must have minded the noble manner and stateliness beyond nature,

which every thing there is executed with. What gentle touches, what

slight and yet majestic motions are made use of to express the most

boisterous passions! As the subject is always lofty, so no posture is

to be chosen but what is serious and significant, as well as comely

and agreeable; should the actions there be represented as they are

in common life, they would ruin the sublime, and at once rob you of

all your pleasure.

Ful. I never expected any thing natural at an opera; but as persons

of distinction resort thither, and every body comes dressed, it is

a sort of employment, and I seldom miss a night, because it is the

fashion to go: besides, the royal family, and the monarch himself,

generally honouring them with their presence, it is almost become a

duty to attend them, as much as it is to go to court. What diverts me

there is the company, the lights, the music, the scenes, and other

decorations: but as I understand but very few words of Italian, so

what is most admired in the recitativo is lost upon me, which makes

the acting part to me rather ridiculous than----

Hor. Ridiculous, Madam! For Heaven's sake----

Ful. I beg pardon, Sir, for the expression, I never laughed at an

opera in my life; but I confess, as to the entertainment itself,

that a good play is infinitely more diverting to me; and I prefer

any thing that informs my understanding beyond all the recreations

which either my eyes or my ears can be regaled with.

Hor. I am sorry to hear a lady of your good sense make such a

choice. Have you no taste for music, Madam?

Ful. I named that as part of my diversion.

Cleo. My cousin plays very well upon the harpsichord herself.

Ful. I love to hear good music; but it does not throw me into those

raptures, I hear others speak of.

Hor. Nothing certainly can elevate the mind beyond a fine concert:

it seems to disengage the soul from the body, and lift it up

to heaven. It is in this situation, that we are most capable of

receiving extraordinary impressions: when the instruments cease, our

temper is subdued, and beautiful action joins with the skilful voice,

in setting before us in a transcendent light, the heroic labours we

are come to admire, and which the word Opera imports. The powerful

harmony between the engaging sounds and speaking gestures invades

the heart, and forcibly inspires us with those noble sentiments,

which to entertain, the most expressive words can only attempt to

persuade us. Few comedies are tolerable, and in the best of them, if

the levity of the expressions does not corrupt, the meanness of the

subject must debase the manners; at least to persons of quality. In

tragedies the style is more sublime; and the subjects generally

great; but all violent passions, and even the representations of

them, ruffle and discompose the mind: besides, when men endeavour to

express things strongly, and they are acted to the life, it often

happens that the images do mischief, because they are too moving,

and that the action is faulty for being too natural; and experience

teaches us, that in unguarded minds, by those pathetic performances,

flames are often raised that are prejudicial to virtue. The playhouses

themselves are far from being inviting, much less the companies, at

least the greatest part of them that frequent them, some of which

are almost of the lowest rank of all. The disgust that persons of

the least elegance receive from these people are many; besides, the

ill scents, and unseemly sights one meets with, of careless rakes and

impudent wenches, that, having paid their money, reckon themselves to

be all upon the level with every body there; the oaths, scurrilities,

and vile jests one is often obliged to hear, without resenting them;

and the odd mixture of high and low that are all partaking of the same

diversion, without regard to dress or quality, are all very offensive;

and it cannot but be very disagreeable to polite people to be in the

same crowd with a variety of persons, some of them below mediocrity,

that pay no deference to one another. At the opera, every thing charms

and concurs to make happiness complete. The sweetness of voice, in the

first place, and the solemn composure of the action, serve to mitigate

and allay every passion; it is the gentleness of them, and the calm

serenity of the mind, that make us amiable, and bring us the nearest

to the perfection of angels; whereas, the violence of the passions,

in which the corruption of the heart chiefly consists, dethrones our

reason, and renders us more like unto savages. It is incredible, how

prone we are to imitation, and how strangely, unknown to ourselves,

we are shaped and fashioned after the models and examples that are

often set before us. No anger nor jealousy are ever to be seen at

an opera, that distort the features; no flames that are noxious,

nor is any love represented in them, that is not pure and next to

seraphic; and it is impossible for the remembrance to carry any

thing away from them, that can sully the imagination. Secondly, the

company is of another sort: the place itself is a security to peace,

as well as every one's honour; and it is impossible to name another,

where blooming innocence and irresistible beauty stand in so little

need of guardians. Here we are sure never to meet with petulancy or

ill manners, and to be free from immodest ribaldry, libertine wit,

and detestable satire. If you will mind, on the one hand, the richness

and splendour of dress, and the quality of the persons that appear in

them; the variety of colours, and the lustre of the fair in a spacious

theatre, well illuminated and adorned; and on the other, the grave

deportment of the assembly, and the consciousness that appears in

every countenance, of the respect they owe to each other, you will

be forced to confess, that upon earth there cannot be a pastime more

agreeable: believe me, Madam, there is no place, where both sexes

have such opportunities of imbibing exalted sentiments, and raising

themselves above the vulgar, as they have at the opera; and there is

no other sort of diversion or assembly, from the frequenting of which,

young persons of quality can have equal hopes of forming their manners,

and contracting a strong and lasting habit of virtue.

Ful. You have said more in commendation of operas, Horatio, than I

ever heard or thought of before; and I think every body who loves

that diversion is highly obliged to you. The grand gout, I believe,

is a great help in panegyric, especially, where it is an incivility

strictly to examine and over-curiously to look into matters.

Cleo. What say you now, Fulvia, of nature and good sense, are they

not quite beat out of doors?

Ful. I have heard nothing yet, to make me out of conceit with good

sense; though what you insinuated of nature, as if it was not to be

imitated in painting, is an opinion, I must confess, which hitherto

I more admire at, than I can approve of it.

Hor. I would never recommend any thing, Madam, that is repugnant

to good sense; but Cleomenes must have some design in over-acting

the part he pretends to have chosen. What he said about painting is

very true, whether he spoke it in jest or in earnest; but he talks so

diametrically opposite to the opinion which he is known every where

to defend of late, that I do not know what to make of him.

Ful. I am convinced of the narrowness of my own understanding, and am

going to visit some persons, with whom I shall be more upon the level.

Hor. You will give me leave to wait upon you to your coach,

Madam.----Pray, Cleomenes, what is it you have got in your head?

Cleo. Nothing at all: I told you before, that I was so entirely

recovered from my folly, that few people went my lengths. What jealousy

you entertain of me I do not know; but I find myself much improved in

the social system. Formerly I thought, that chief ministers, and all

those at the helm of affairs, acted from principles of avarice and

ambition; that in all the pains they took, and even in the slaveries

they underwent for the public good, they had their private ends, and

that they were supported in the fatigue by secret enjoyments they

were unwilling to own. It is not a month ago, that I imagined that

the inward care and real solicitude of all great men centered within

themselves; and that to enrich themselves, acquire titles of honour,

and raise their families on the one hand, and to have opportunities on

the other of displaying a judicious fancy to all the elegant comforts

of life, and establishing, without the least trouble of self-denial,

the reputation of being wise, humane, and munificent, were the

things, which, besides the satisfaction there is in superiority and

the pleasure of governing, all candidates to high offices and great

posts proposed to themselves, from the places they sued for: I was

so narrow minded, that I could not conceive how a man would ever

voluntarily submit to be a slave but to serve himself. But I have

abandoned that ill-natured way of judging: I plainly perceive the

public good, in all the designs of politicians, the social virtues

shine in every action, and I find that the national interest is the

compass that all statesmen steer by.

Hor. That is more than I can prove; but certainly there have been such

men, there have been patriots, that without selfish views have taken

incredible pains for their country's welfare: nay, there are men now

that would do the same, if they were employed; and we have had princes

that have neglected their ease and pleasure, and sacrificed their

quiet, to promote the prosperity and increase the wealth and honour

of the kingdom, and had nothing so much at heart as the happiness of

their subjects.

Cleo. No disaffection, I beg of you. The difference between past and

present times, and persons in and out of places, is perhaps clearer

to you than it is to me; but it is many years ago, you know, that it

has been agreed between us never to enter into party disputes: what I

desire your attention to, is my reformation, which you seem to doubt

of, and the great change that is wrought in me. The religion of most

kings and other high potentates, I formerly had but a slender opinion

of, but now I measure their piety by what they say of it themselves

to their subjects.

Hor. That is very kindly done.

Cleo. By thinking meanly of things, I once had strange blundering

notions concerning foreign wars: I thought that many of them arose

from trifling causes, magnified by politicians for their own ends;

that the most ruinous misunderstandings between states and kingdoms

might spring from the hidden malice, folly, or caprice of one man;

that many of them had been owing to the private quarrels, piques,

resentments, and the haughtiness of the chief ministers of the

respective nations, that were the sufferers; and that what is called

personal hatred between princes seldom was more at first, than either

an open or secret animosity which the two great favourites of those

courts had against one another: but now I have learned to derive those

things from higher causes. I am reconciled likewise to the luxury

of the voluptuous, which I used to be offended at, because now I am

convinced that the money of most rich men, is laid out with the social

design of promoting arts and sciences, and that in the most expensive

undertakings their principal aim is the employment of the poor.

Hor. These are lengths indeed.

Cleo. I have a strong aversion to satire, and detest it every whit

as much as you do: the most instructive writings to understand the

world, and penetrate into the heart of man, I take to be addresses,

epithets, dedications, and above all, the preambles to patents,

of which I am making a large collection.

Hor. A very useful undertaking!

Cleo. But to remove all your doubts of my conversion, I will show

you some easy rules I have laid down for young beginners.

Hor. What to do?

Cleo. To judge of mens actions by the lovely system of Lord Shaftsbury,

in a manner diametrically opposite to that of the Fable of the Bees.

Hor. I do not understand you.

Cleo. You will presently. I have called them rules, but they are rather

examples from which the rules are to be gathered: as for instance,

if we see an industrious poor woman, who has pinched her belly,

and gone in rags for a considerable time to save forty shillings,

part with her money to put out her son at six years of age to a

chimney-sweeper; to judge of her charitably, according to the system

of the social virtues, we must imagine, that though she never paid

for the sweeping of a chimney in her life, she knows by experience,

that for want of this necessary cleanliness the broth has been often

spoiled, and many a chimney has been set on fire, and therefore to

do good in her generation, as far as she is able, she gives up her

all, both offspring and estate, to assist in preventing the several

mischiefs that are often occasioned by great quantities of soot

disregarded; and, free from selfishness, sacrifices her only son to

the most wretched employment for the public welfare.

Hor. You do not vie I see with Lord Shaftsbury, for loftiness of

subjects.

Cleo. When in a starry night with amazement we behold the glory

of the firmament, nothing is more obvious than that the whole, the

beautiful all, must be the workmanship of one great Architect of power

and wisdom stupendous; and it is as evident, that every thing in the

universe is a constituent part of one entire fabric.

Hor. Would you make a jest of this too.

Cleo. Far from it: they are awful truths, of which I am as much

convinced as I am of my own existence; but I was going to name

the consequences, which Lord Shaftsbury draws from them, in order

to demonstrate to you, that I am a convert, and a very punctual

observer of his Lordship's instructions, and that, in my judgment

on the poor woman's conduct, there is nothing that is not entirely

agreeable to the generous way of thinking set forth and recommended

in the Characteristics.

Hor. Is it possible a man should read such a book, and make no better

use of it! I desire you would name the consequences you speak of.

Cleo. As that infinity of luminous bodies, however different in

magnitude, velocity, and the figures they describe in their courses,

concur all of them to make up the universe, so this little spot

we inhabit is likewise a compound of air, water, fire, minerals,

vegetables, and living creatures, which, though vastly differing from

one another in their nature, do altogether make up the body of this

terraqueous globe.

Hor. This is very right, and in the same manner as our whole species is

composed of many nations of different religions, forms of government,

interests and manners that divide and share the earth between them;

so the civil society in every nation consists in great multitudes of

both sexes, that widely differing from each other in age, constitution,

strength, temper, wisdom and possessions, all help to make up one

body politic.

Cleo. The same exactly which I would have said: now, pray Sir, is not

the great end of men's forming themselves into such societies, mutual

happiness; I mean, do not all individual persons, from being thus

combined, propose to themselves a more comfortable condition of life,

than human creatures, if they were to live like other wild animals,

without tie or dependance, could enjoy in a free and savage state?

Hor. This certainly is not only the end, but the end which is every

where attained to by government and society, in some degree or other.

Cleo. Hence it must follow, that it is always wrong for men to pursue

gain or pleasure, by means that are visibly detrimental to the civil

society, and that creatures who can do this must be narrow-souled,

short-sighted, selfish people; whereas, wise men never look upon

themselves as individual persons, without considering the whole,

of which they are but trifling parts in respect to bulk, and are

incapable of receiving any satisfaction from things that interfere

with the public welfare. This being undeniably true, ought not all

private advantage to give way to this general interest; and ought it

not to be every one's endeavour, to increase this common stock of

happiness; and, in order to it, do what he can to render himself a

serviceable and useful member of that whole body which he belongs to?

Hor. What of all this?

Cleo. Has not my poor woman, in what I have related of her, acted in

conformity to this social system?

Hor. Can any one in his senses imagine, that an indigent thoughtless

wretch, without sense or education, should ever act from such generous

principles?

Cleo. Poor I told you the woman was, and I will not insist upon her

education; but as for her being thoughtless and void of sense, you

will give me leave to say, that it is an aspersion for which you have

no manner of foundation; and from the account I have given of her,

nothing can be gathered but that she was a considerate, virtuous,

wise woman, in poverty.

Hor. I suppose you would persuade me that you are in earnest.

Cleo. I am much more so than you imagine; and say once, more, that, in

the example I have given, I have trod exactly in my Lord Shaftsbury's

steps, and closely followed the social system. If I have committed

any error, show it me.

Hor. Did that author ever meddle with any thing so low and pitiful.

Cleo. There can be nothing mean in noble actions, whoever the persons

are that perform them. But if the vulgar are to be all excluded from

the social virtues, what rule or instruction shall the labouring poor,

which are by far the greatest part of the nation, have left them to

walk by, when the Characteristics have made a jest of all revealed

religion, especially the Christian? but if you despise the poor

and illiterate, I can, in the same method, judge of men in higher

stations. Let the enemies to the social system behold the venerable

counsellor, now grown eminent for his wealth, that at his great age

continues sweltering at the bar to plead the doubtful cause, and,

regardless of his dinner, shorten his own life in endeavouring to

secure the possessions of others. How conspicuous is the benevolence

of the physician to his kind, who, from morning till night, visiting

the sick, keeps several sets of horses to be more serviceable to many,

and still grudges himself the time for the necessary functions of

life! In the same manner the indefatigable clergyman, who, with his

ministry, supplies a very large parish already, solicits with zeal

to be as useful and beneficent to another, though fifty of his order,

yet unemployed, offer their service for the same purpose.

Hor. I perceive your drift: from the strained panegyrics you labour

at, you would form arguments ad absurdum: the banter is ingenious

enough, and, at proper times, might serve to raise a laugh; but then

you must own likewise, that those studied encomiums will not bear to

be seriously examined into. When we consider that the great business

as well as perpetual solicitude of the poor, are to supply their

immediate wants, and keep themselves from starving, and that their

children are a burden to them, which they groan under, and desire

to be delivered from by all possible means, that are not clashing

with the low involuntary affection which nature forces them to have

for their offspring: when, I say, we consider this, the virtues of

your industrious make no great figure. The public spirit likewise,

and the generous principles, your sagacity has found out in the three

faculties, to which men are brought up for a livelihood, seem to be

very far fetched. Fame, wealth, and greatness, every age can witness:

but whatever labour or fatigue they submit to, the motives of their

actions are as conspicuous as their calling themselves.

Cleo. Are they not beneficial to mankind, and of use to the public?

Hor. I do not deny that; we often receive inestimable benefits from

them, and the good ones in either profession are not only useful,

but very necessary to the society: but though there are several that

sacrifice their whole lives, and all the comforts of them, to their

business, there is not one of them that would take a quarter of the

pains he now is at, if, without taking any, he could acquire the

same money, reputation, and other advantages that may accrue to him

from the esteem or gratitude of those whom he has been serviceable

to; and I do not believe, there is an eminent man among them that

would not own this if the question was put to him. Therefore, when

ambition and the love of money are avowed principles men act from,

it is very silly to ascribe virtues to them, which they themselves

pretend to lay no manner of claim to. But your encomium upon the

parson is the merriest jest of all: I have heard many excuses made,

and some of them very frivolous, for the covetousness of priests; but

what you have picked out in their praise is more extraordinary than

any thing I ever met with; and the most partial advocate and admirer

of the clergy never yet discovered before yourself a great virtue

in their hunting after pluralities, when they were well provided for

themselves, and many others for want of employ were ready to starve.

Cleo. But if there be any reality in the social system, it would be

better for the public, if men, in, all professions, were to act from

those generous principles; and you will allow, that the society would

be the gainers, if the generality in the three faculties would mind

others more, and themselves less than they do now.

Hor. I do not know that; and considering what slavery some lawyers,

as well as physicians, undergo, I much question whether it would

be possible for them to exert themselves in the same manner though

they would, if the constant baits and refreshments of large fees did

not help to support human nature, by continually stimulating this

darling passion.

Cleo. Indeed, Horatio, this is a stronger argument against the social

system, and more injurious to it than any thing that has been said

by the author whom you have exclaimed against with so much bitterness.

Hor. I deny that: I do not conclude from the selfishness in some,

that there is no virtue in others.

Cleo. Nor he neither, and you very much wrong him if you assert that

he ever did.

Hor. I refuse to commend what is not praise-worthy; but as bad as

mankind are, virtue has an existence as well as vice, though it is

more scarce.

Cleo. What you said last, nobody ever contradicted; but I do not know

what you would be at: does not the Lord Shaftsbury endeavour to do

good, and promote the social virtues, and am I not doing the very

same? suppose me to be in the wrong in the favourable constructions

I have made of things, still it is to be wished for at least, that

men had a greater regard to the public welfare, less fondness for

their private interest, and more charity for their neighbours, than

the generality of them have.

Hor. To be wished for, perhaps, it may be, but what probability is

there that this ever will come to pass?

Cleo. And unless that can come to pass, it is the idlest thing in the

world to discourse upon, and demonstrate the excellency of virtue;

what signifies it to set forth the beauty of it, unless it was possible

that men should fall in love with it?

Hor. If virtue was never recommended, men might grow worse than

they are.

Cleo. Then, by the same reason, if it was recommended more, men

might grow better than they are. But I see perfectly well the reason

of these shifts and evasions you make use of against your opinion:

You find yourself under a necessity of allowing my panegyrics, as you

call them, to be just; or finding the same fault with most of my Lord

Shaftsbury's; and you would do neither if you could help it: From mens

preferring company to solitude, his Lordship pretends to prove the love

and natural affection we have for our own species: If this was examined

into with the same strictness as you have done every thing I have said

in behalf of the three faculties, I believe that the solidity of the

consequences would be pretty equal in both. But I stick to my text,

and stand up for the social virtues: The noble author of that system

had a most charitable opinion of his species, and extolled the dignity

of it in an extraordinary manner, and why my imitation of him should

be called a banter, I see no reason. He certainly wrote with a good

design, and endeavoured to inspire his readers with refined notions,

and a public spirit abstract from religion: The world enjoys the

fruits of his labours; but the advantage that is justly expected from

his writings, can never be so universally felt, before that public

spirit, which he recommended, comes down to the meanest tradesmen,

whom you would endeavour to exclude from the generous sentiments

and noble pleasures that are already so visible in many. I am now

thinking on two sorts of people that stand very much in need of,

and yet hardly ever meet with one another: This misfortune must have

caused such a chasm in the band of society, that no depth of thought,

or happiness of contrivance, could have filled up the vacuity, if a

most tender regard for the commonwealth, and the height of benevolence

did not influence and oblige others, mere strangers to those people,

and commonly men of small education, to afflict them with their good

offices, and stop up the gap. Many ingenious workmen, in obscure

dwellings, would be starved in spite of industry, only for want of

knowing where to sell the product of their labour, if there were not

others to dispose of it for them: And again, the rich and extravagant

are daily furnished with an infinite variety of superfluous knicknacks

and elaborate trifles, every one of them invented to gratify either

a needless curiosity, or else wantonness and folly; and which they

could never have thought of, much less wanted, had they never seen

or known where to buy them. What a blessing, then, to the public,

is the social toyman, who lays out a considerable estate to gratify

the desires of these two different classes of people? He procures

food and raiment for the deserving poor, and searches with great

diligence after the most skilful artificers, that no man shall be able

to produce better workmanship than himself: with studied civilities,

and a serene countenance, he entertains the greatest strangers; and,

often speaking to them first, kindly offers to guess at their wants:

He confines not his attendance to a few stated hours, but waits their

leisure all day long in an open shop, where he bears the summer's heat,

and winter's cold, with equal cheerfulness. What a beautiful prospect

is here of natural affection to our kind! For, if he acts from that

principle, who only furnishes us with necessaries of life, certainly

he shows a more superlative love and indulgence to his species, who

will not suffer the most whimsical of it to be an hour destitute of

what he shall fancy, even things the most unnecessary.

Hor. You have made the most of it indeed, but are you not tired yet

with these fooleries yourself?

Cleo. What fault do you find with these kind constructions; do they

detract from the dignity of our species?

Hor. I admire your invention, and thus much I will own, that,

by overacting the part in that extravagant manner, you have set

the social system in a more disadvantageous light than ever I had

considered it before: But the best things, you know, may be ridiculed.

Cleo. Whether I know that or not, Lord Shaftsbury has flatly denied

it; and takes joke and banter to be the best and surest touchstone

to prove the worth of things: It is his opinion, that no ridicule can

be fastened upon what is really great and good. His Lordship has made

use of that test to try the Scriptures and the Christian religion by,

and exposed them because it seems they could not stand it.

Hor. He has exposed superstition, and the miserable notions the vulgar

were taught to have of God; but no man ever had more sublime ideas

of the Supreme Being, and the universe, than himself.

Cleo. You are convinced, that what I charge him with is true.

Hor. I do not pretend to defend every syllable that noble Lord has

wrote. His style is engaging, his language is polite, his reasoning

strong; many of his thoughts are beautifully expressed, and his

images, for the greatest part, inimitably fine. I may be pleased

with an author, without obliging myself to answer every cavil that

shall be made against him. As to what you call your imitation of him,

I have no taste in burlesque: but the laugh you would raise might be

turned upon you with less trouble than you seem to have taken. Pray,

when you consider the hard and dirty labours that are performed to

supply the mob with the vast quantities of strong beer they swill,

do not you discover social virtue in a drayman?

Cleo. Yes, and in a dray-horse too; at least as well as I can in some

great men, who yet would be very angry should we refuse to believe,

that the most selfish actions of theirs, if the society received

but the least benefit from them, were chiefly owing to principles of

virtue, and a generous regard to the public. Do you believe that, in

the choice of a Pope, the greatest dependence of the Cardinals, and

what they principally rely upon, is the influence of the Holy Ghost?

Hor. No more than I do transubstantiation.

Cleo. But if you had been brought up a Roman Catholic, you would

believe both.

Hor. I do not know that.

Cleo. You would, if you was sincere in your religion, as thousands

of them are, that are no more destitute of reason and good sense than

you or I.

Hor. I have nothing to say as to that: there are many things

incomprehensible, that yet are certainly true: These are properly the

objects of faith; and, therefore, when matters are above my capacity,

and really surpass my understanding, I am silent, and submit with

great humility: but I will swallow nothing which I plainly apprehend

to be contrary to my reason, and is directly clashing with my senses.

Cleo. If you believe a Providence, what demonstration can you have,

that God does not direct men in an affair of higher importance to

all Christendom, than any other you can name?

Hor. This is an ensnaring, and a very unfair question. Providence

superintends and governs every thing without exception. To defend

my negative, and give a reason for my unbelief, it is sufficient,

if I prove, that all the instruments, and the means they make use of

in those elections, are visibly human and mundane, and many of them

unwarrantable and wicked.

Cleo. Not all the means; because every day they have prayers, and

solemnly invoke the Divine assistance.

Hor. But what stress they lay upon it may be easily gathered from

the rest of their behaviour. The court of Rome is, without dispute,

the greatest academy of refined politics, and the best school to learn

the art of caballing: there ordinary cunning, and known stratagems,

are counted rusticity, and designs are pursued through all the mazes of

human subtlety. Genius there must give way to finesse, as strength does

to art in wrestling; and a certain skill some men have in concealing

their capacities from others, is of far greater use with them, than

real knowledge, or the soundest understanding. In the sacred college,

where every thing is auro venale, truth and justice bear the lowest

price: Cardinal Palavicini, and other Jesuits, that have been the

stanch advocates of the Papal authority, have owned with ostentation

the Politia religiosa della chiésa, and not hid from us the virtues

and accomplishments, that were only valuable among the Purpurati,

in whose judgment over-reaching, at any rate, is the highest honour,

and to be outwitted, though by the basest artifice, the greatest

shame. In conclaves, more especially, nothing is carried on without

tricks and intrigue; and in them the heart of man is so deep, and

so dark an abyss, that the finest air of dissimulation is sometimes

found to have been insincere, and men often deceive one another,

by counterfeiting hypocrisy. And is it credible, that holiness,

religion, or the least concern for spirituals, should have any share

in the plots, machinations, brigues, and contrivances of a society,

of which each member, besides the gratification of his own passions,

has nothing at heart but the interest of his party, right or wrong,

and to distress every faction that opposes it?

Cleo. These sentiments confirm to me what I have often heard, that

renegadoes are the most cruel enemies.

Hor. Was ever I a Roman Catholic?

Cleo. I mean from the social system, of which you have been the

most strenuous assertor; and now no man can judge of actions more

severely, and indeed less charitably, than yourself, especially of

the poor cardinals. I little thought, if once I quitted the scheme

of deformity, to have found an adversary in you; but we have both

changed sides it seems.

Hor. Much alike, I believe.

Cleo. Nay, what could any body think to hear me making the kindest

interpretations of things that can be imagined, and yourself doing

quite the reverse?

Hor. What ignorant people, that knew neither of us, might have done,

I do not know: but it has been very manifest from our discourse,

that you have maintained your cause, by endeavouring to show the

absurdity of the contrary side, and that I have defended mine by

letting you see, that we were not such fools as you would represent

us to be. I had taken a resolution never to engage with you on this

topic, but you see I have broke it: I hate to be thought uncivil;

it was mere complaisance drew me in; though I am not sorry that we

talked of it so much as we did, because I found your opinion less

dangerous than 1 imagined: you have owned the existence of virtue,

and that there are men who act from it as a principle, both which I

thought you denied: but I would not have you flatter yourself that

you deceived me, by hanging out false colours.

Cleo. I did not lay on the disguise so thick, as not to have you see

through it, nor would I ever have discoursed upon this subject with

any body, who could have been so easily imposed upon. I know you to

be a man of very good sense and sound judgment; and it is for that

very reason I so heartily wish you would suffer me to explain myself,

and demonstrate to you, how small the difference is between us, which

you imagine to be so considerable: There is not a man in the world, in

whose opinion I would less pass for an ill man than in yours; but I am

so scrupulously fearful of offending you, that I never dared to touch

upon some points, unless you had given me leave. Yield something to our

friendship, and condescend for once to read the Fable of the Bees for

my sake: It is a handsome volume: you love books: I have one extremely

well bound; do; let me, suffer me to make you a present of it.

Hor. I am no bigot, Cleomenes; but I am a man of honour, and, you know,

of strict honour: I cannot endure to hear that ridiculed, and the least

attempt of it chafes my blood: Honour is the strongest and noblest tie

of society by far, and therefore, believe me, can never be innocently

sported with. It is a thing so solid and awful, as well as serious,

that it can at no time become the object of mirth or diversion;

and it is impossible for any pleasantry to be so ingenious, or any

jest so witty, that I could bear with it on that head. Perhaps I

am singular in this, and, if you will, in the wrong; be that as it

will, all I can say is, Je ne'entens pas Raillerie la dessus; and

therefore, no Fable of the Bees for me, if we are to remain friends:

I have heard enough of that.

Cleo. Pray, Horatio, can there be honour without justice?

Hor. No: Who affirms there can?

Cleo. Have you not owned, that you have thought worse of me, than now

you find me to deserve? No men, nor their works, ought to be condemned

upon hearsays and bare surmises, much less upon the accusations of

their enemies, without being examined into.

Hor. There you are in the right: I heartily beg your pardon, and to

atone for the wrong I have done you, say what you please, I will hear

it with patience, be it never so shocking; but I beg of you be serious.

Cleo. I have nothing to say to you that is distasteful, much less

shocking: all I desire is, to convince you, that I am neither so

ill-natured nor uncharitable, in my opinion of mankind, as you take

me to be: and that the notions I entertain of the worth of things,

will not differ much from yours, when both come to be looked into. Do

but consider what we have been doing: I have endeavoured to set

every thing in the handsomest light I could think of; you say,

to ridicule the social system; I own it; now reflect on your own

conduct, which has been to show the folly of my strained panegyrics,

and replace things in that natural view, which all just, knowing men

would certainly behold them in. This is very well done: but it is

contrary to the scheme you pretended to maintain; and if you judge of

all actions in the same manner, there is an end of the social system;

or, at least, it will be evident, that it is a theory never to be

put into practice. You argue for the generality of men, that they

are possessed of these virtues, but when we come to particulars,

you can find none. I have tried you every where: you are as little

satisfied with persons of the highest rank, as you are with them

of the lowest, and you count it ridiculous to think better of the

middling people. Is this otherwise than standing up for the goodness

of a design, at the same time you confess, that it never was, or ever

can be executed? What sort of people are they, and where must we look

for them, whom you will own to act from those principles of virtue?

Hor. Are there not in all countries men of birth and ample fortune,

that would not accept of places, though they were offered, that are

generous and beneficent, and mind nothing but what is great and noble?

Cleo. Yes: But examine their conduct, look into their lives, and

scan their actions with as little indulgence as you did those of

the cardinals, or the lawyers and physicians, and then see what

figure their virtues will make beyond those of the poor industrious

woman. There is, generally speaking, less truth in panegyrics, than

there is in satires. When all our senses are soothed, when we have no

distemper of body or mind to disturb us, and meet with nothing that is

disagreeable, we are pleased with our being: it is in this situation

that we are most apt to mistake outward appearances for realities, and

judge of things more favourably than they deserve. Remember, Horatio,

how feelingly you spoke half an hour ago in commendation of operas:

Your soul seemed to be lifted up whilst you was thinking on the many

charms you find in them. I have nothing to say against the elegancy of

the diversion, or the politeness of those that frequent them: but I

am afraid you lost yourself in the contemplation of the lovely idea,

when you asserted that they were the most proper means to contract

a strong and lasting habit of virtue; do you think, that among the

same number of people, there is more real virtue at an opera, than

there is at a bear-garden?

Hor. What a comparison!

Cleo. I am very serious.

Hor. The noise of dogs, and bulls, and bears, make a fine harmony!

Cleo. It is impossible you should mistake me, and you know very

well, that it is not the different pleasures of those two places I

would compare together. The things you mentioned are the least to

be complained of: the continual sounds of oaths and imprecations,

the frequent repetitions of the word lie, and other more filthy

expressions, the loudness and dissonance of many strained and untuneful

voices, are a perfect torment to a delicate ear. The frowsiness of

the place, and the ill scents of different kinds, are a perpetual

nuisance; but in all mob meetings----

Hor. L'odorat souffre beaucoup.

Cleo. The entertainment in general is abominable, and all the senses

suffer. I allow all this. The greasy heads, some of them bloody, the

jarring looks, and threatening, wild, and horrid aspects, that one

meets with in those ever-restless assemblies, must be very shocking to

the sight, and so indeed is every thing else that can be seen among

a rude and ragged multitude, that are covered with dirt, and have in

none of their pastimes one action that is inoffensive: but, after all,

vice and what is criminal, are not to be confounded with roughness

and want of manners, no more than politeness and an artful behaviour

ought to be with virtue or religion. To tell a premeditated falsehood

in order to do mischief, is a greater sin, than to give a man the lie,

who speaks an untruth; and it is possible, that a person may suffer

greater damage, and more injury to his ruin, from slander in the low

whisper of a secret enemy, than he could have received from all the

dreadful swearing and cursing, the most noisy antagonist could pelt

him with. Incontinence, and adultery itself, persons of quality are

not more free from all over Christendom, than the meaner people:

but if there are some vices, which the vulgar are more guilty of

than the better sort, there are others the reverse. Envy, detraction,

and the spirit of revenge, are more raging and mischievous in courts

than they are in cottages. Excess of vanity and hurtful ambition are

unknown among the poor; they are seldom tainted with avarice, with

irreligion never; and they have much less opportunity of robbing the

public than their betters. There are few persons of distinction, whom

you are not acquainted with: I desire, you would seriously reflect

on the lives of as many as you can think of, and next opera night on

the virtues of the assembly.

Hor. You make me laugh. There is a good deal in what you say; and I

am persuaded, all is not gold that glisters. Would you add any more?

Cleo. Since you have given me leave to talk, and you are such a

patient hearer, I would not slip the opportunity of laying before

you some things of high concern, that perhaps you never considered

in the light, which you shall own yourself they ought to be seen in.

Hor. I am sorry to leave you; but I have really business that must

be done to-night: it is about my law-suit, and I have stayed beyond

my time already: but if you will come and eat a bit of mutton with

me to-morrow, I will see nobody but yourself, and we will converse

as long as you please.

Cleo. With all my heart. I will not fail to wait on you.

THE SECOND

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

HORATIO AND CLEOMENES

HORATIO.

The discourse we had yesterday, has made a great impression upon me;

you said several things that were very entertaining, and some which I

shall not easily forget: I do not remember I ever looked into myself

so much as I have done since last night after I left you.

Cleo. To do that faithfully, is a more difficult and a severer talk

than is commonly imagined. When, yesterday, I asked you where and

among what sort of people we were to look for those whom you would

allow to act from principles of virtue, you named a class, among

whom I have found very agreeable characters of men, that yet all have

their failings. If these could be left out, and the best were picked

and culled from the different good qualities that are to be seen in

several, the compound would make a very handsome picture.

Hor. To finish it well every way would be a great masterpiece.

Cleo. That I shall not attempt: but I do not think it would be very

difficult to make a little sketch of it, that yet should exceed nature,

and be a better pattern for imitation than any can be shown alive. I

have a mind to try; the very thought enlivens me. How charming is the

portrait of a complete gentleman, and how ravishing is the figure

which a person of great birth and fortune, to whom nature has been

no niggard, makes, when he understands the world, and is thoroughly

well-bred!

Hor. I think them so, I can assure you, whether you are in jest or

in earnest.

Cleo. How entirely well hid are his greatest imperfections! though

money is his idol, and he is covetous in his heart, yet his inward

avarice is forced to give way to his outward liberality, and an open

generosity shines through all his actions.

Hor. There lies your fault: it is this I cannot endure in you.

Cleo. What is the matter?

Hor. I know what you are about, you are going to give me the caricatura

of a gentleman, under pretence of drawing his portrait.

Cleo. You wrong me, I have no such thought.

Hor. But why is it impossible for human nature ever to be good? instead

of leaving out, you put in failings without the least grounds or

colour. When things have a handsome appearance every way, what reason

have you to suspect them still to be bad? How came you to know, and

which way have you discovered imperfections that are entirely well

hid; and why should you suppose a person to be covetous in his heart,

and that money is his idol, when you own yourself that he never shews

it, and that an open generosity shines through all his actions? This

is monstrous.

Cleo. I have made no such supposition of any man, and I protest to

you, that, in what I said, I had no other meaning than to observe,

that whatever frailties and natural infirmities persons might be

conscious of within, good sense and good manners were capable, and,

without any other assistance, sufficient to keep them out of sight:

but your questions are very reasonable, and since you have started

this, I will be very open to you, and acquaint you before hand

with my design of the description I am going to make; and the use I

intend it for; which in short is, to demonstrate to you, that a most

beautiful superstructure may be raised upon a rotten and despicable

foundation. You will understand me better presently.

Hor. But how do you know a foundation to be rotten that supports the

building, and is wholly concealed from you?

Cleo. Have patience, and I promise you, that I shall take nothing

for granted, which you shall not allow of yourself.

Hor. Stick close to that, and I desire no more: now say what you will.

Cleo. The true object of pride or vain glory is the opinion of

others; and the most superlative wish, which a man possessed, and

entirely filled with it can make, is, that he may be well thought of,

applauded, and admired by the whole world, not only in the present

but all future ages. This passion is generally exploded; but it is

incredible, how many strange and widely different miracles are, and may

be performed by the force of it; as persons differ in circumstances and

inclinations. In the first place, there is no danger so great, but by

the help of his pride a man may slight and confront it; nor any manner

of death so terrible, but with the same assistance he may court, and if

he has a firm constitution, undergo it with alacrity. In the second,

there are no good offices or duties, either to others or ourselves,

that Cicero has spoke of, nor any instance of benevolence, humanity,

or other social virtue, that Lord Shaftsbury has hinted at, but a man

of good sense and knowledge may learn to practise them from no better

principle than vain glory, if it be strong enough to subdue and keep

under all other passions that may thwart and interfere with his design.

Hor. Shall I allow all this?

Cleo. Yes.

Hor. When?

Cleo. Before we part.