Hor. Very well.

Cleo. Men of tolerable parts in plentiful circumstances, that were

artfully educated, and are not singular in their temper, can hardly

fail of a genteel behaviour: the more pride they have, and the greater

value they set on the esteem of others, the more they will make it

their study to render themselves acceptable to all they converse

with; and they will take uncommon pains to conceal and stifle in

their bosoms, every thing which their good sense tells them ought

not to be seen or understood.

Hor. I must interrupt you, and cannot suffer you to go on thus. What

is all this but the old story over again, that every thing is pride,

and all we see hypocrisy, without proof or argument? Nothing in the

world is more false than what you have advanced now; for, according

to that, the most noble, the most gallant, and the best bred man

would be the proudest; which is so clashing with daily experience,

that the very reverse is true. Pride and insolence are no where more

common than among upstarts; men of no family, that raise estates out of

nothing, and the most ordinary people, that having had no education,

are puffed up with their fortune whenever they are lifted up above

mediocrity, and from mean stations advanced to posts of honour:

whereas, no men upon earth, generally speaking, are more courteous,

humane, or polite, than persons of high birth, that enjoy the large

possessions and known seats of their ancestors; men illustrious by

descent, that have been used to grandeur and titles of honour from

their infancy, and received an education suitable to their quality. I

do not believe there ever was a nation, that were not savages, in which

the youth of both sexes were not expressly taught never to be proud

or haughty: did you ever know a school, a tutor, or a parent, that

did not continually inculcate to those under their care to be civil

and obliging; nay, does not the word mannerly itself import as much?

Cleo. I beg of you, let us be calm, and speak with exactness. The

doctrine of good manners furnishes us with a thousand lessons,

against the various appearances and outward symptoms of pride, but

it has not one precept against the passion itself.

Hor. How is that?

Cleo. No, not one against the passion itself; the conquest of it

is never attempted, nor talked of in a gentleman's education, where

men are to be continually inspired and kept warm with the sense of

their honour, and the inward value they must put upon themselves on

all emergencies.

Hor. This is worth consideration, and requires time to be examined

into; but where is your fine gentleman, the picture you promised?

Cleo. I am ready, and shall begin with his dwelling: Though he has

several noble seats in different countries, yet I shall only take

notice of his chief mansion-house that bears the name, and does the

honours of the family: this is amply magnificent, and yet, commodious

to admiration. His gardens are very extensive, and contain an infinite

variety of pleasing objects: they are divided into many branches

for divers purposes, and every where filled with improvements of

art upon nature; yet a beautiful order and happy contrivance are

conspicuous through every part; and though nothing is omitted to

render them stately and delightful; the whole is laid out to the

best advantage. Within doors, every thing bespeaks the grandeur and

judgment of the master; and as no cost is spared any where to procure

beauty or conveniency, so you see none impertinently lavished. All his

plate and furniture are completely fine, and you see nothing but what

is fashionable. He has no pictures but of the most eminent hands: the

rarities he shows are really such; he hoards up no trifles, nor offers

any thing to your sight that is shocking: but the several collections

he has of this sort, are agreeable as well as extraordinary, and rather

valuable than large: but curiosities and wealth are not confined to his

cabinet; the marble and sculpture that are displayed up and down are a

treasure themselves; and there is abundance of admirable gilding and

excellent carving to be seen in many places. What has been laid out

on the great hall, and one gallery, would be a considerable estate;

and there is a salloon and a stair-case not inferior to either;

these are all very spacious and lofty; the architecture of them is

of the best taste, and the decorations surprising. Throughout the

whole there appears a delicate mixture and astonishing variety of

lively embellishments, the splendour of which, joined to a perfect

cleanliness, no where neglected, are highly entertaining to the

most careless and least observing eye; whilst the exactness of the

workmanship bestowed on every part of the meanest utensil, gives a

more solid satisfaction, and is ravishing to the curious. But the

greatest excellency in this model of perfection is this; that as in

the most ordinary rooms there is nothing wanting for their purpose,

and the least passage is handsomely finished; so in those of the

greatest eclat there is nothing overcharged, nor any part of them

encumbered with ornaments.

Hor. This is a studied piece; but I do not like it the worse for it,

pray go on.

Cleo. I have thought of it before, I own. His equipage is rich and

well chosen, and there is nothing to be seen about him that art or

expence, within the compass of reason, could make better. At his own

table his looks are ever jovial; and his heart seems to be as open as

his countenance. His chief business there is to take care of others,

without being troublesome; and all his happiness seems to consist in

being able to please his friends: in his greatest mirth, he is wanting

in respect to no man; and never makes use of abbreviations in names,

or unhandsome familiarities with the meanest of his guests. To every

one that speaks to him, he gives an obliging attention, and seems never

to disregard any thing but what is said in commendation of his fare:

he never interrupts any discourse but what is made in his praise,

and seldom assents to any encomiums, though the most equitable that

are made on any thing that is his. When he is abroad he never spies

faults; and whatever is amiss, he either says nothing, or, in answer

to the complaints and uneasiness of others, gives every thing the

best-natured turn it can bear; but he seldom leaves a house before he

finds out something to extol in it, without wronging his judgment. His

conversation is always facetious and good-humoured, but as solid as it

is diverting. He never utters a syllable that has the least tincture

of obscenity or profaneness; nor ever made a jest that was offensive.

Hor. Very fine!

Cleo. He seems to be entirely free from bigotry and superstition,

avoids all disputes about religion; but goes constantly to church,

and is seldom absent from his family devotions.

Hor. A very godly gentleman!

Cleo. I expected we should differ there.

Hor. I do not find fault. Proceed, pray.

Cleo. As he is a man of erudition himself, so he is a promoter of

arts and sciences; he is a friend to merit, a rewarder of industry,

and a professed enemy to nothing but immorality and oppression. Though

no man's table is better furnished, nor cellars better stored; he

is temperate in his eating, and never commits excess in drinking:

though he has an exquisite palate, he always prefers wholesome meats

to those that are delicious only, and never indulges his appetite in

any thing that might probably be prejudicial to his health.

Hor. Admirably good!

Cleo. As he is in all other things, so he is elegant in his clothes,

and has often new ones: neatness he prefers to finery in his own dress;

but his retinue is rich. He seldom wears gold or silver himself, but

on very solemn occasions, in compliment to others; and to demonstrate

that these pompous habits are made for no other purpose, he is never

seen twice in the same; but having appeared in them one day, he gives

them away the next. Though of every thing he has the best of the sort,

and might be called curious in apparel; yet he leaves the care of

it to others; and no man has his clothes put on better that seem so

little to regard them.

Hor. Perfectly right; to be well dressed is a necessary article,

and yet to be solicitous about it is below a person of quality.

Cleo. Therefore he has a domestic of good taste, a judicious man, who

saves him that trouble; and the management likewise of his lace and

linen, is the province of a skilful woman. His language is courtly,

but natural and intelligible; it is neither low nor bombastic, and

ever free from pedantic and vulgar expressions. All his motions are

genteel without affectation; his mien is rather sedate than airy,

and his manner noble: for though he is ever civil and condescending,

and no man less arrogant, yet in all his carriage there is something

gracefully majestic; and as there is nothing mean in his humility,

so his loftiness has nothing disobliging.

Hor. Prodigiously good!

Cleo. He is charitable to the poor; his house is never shut to

strangers; and all his neighbours he counts to be his friends. He is

a father to his tenants; and looks upon their welfare as inseparable

from his interest. No man is less uneasy at little offences, or more

ready to forgive all trespasses without design. The injuries that are

suffered from other landlords, he turns into benefits; and whatever

damages, great or small, are sustained on his account, either from

his diversions or otherwise, he doubly makes good. He takes care to

be early informed of such losses, and commonly repairs them before

they are complained of.

Hor. Oh rare humanity; hearken ye foxhunters!

Cleo. He never chides any of his people; yet no man is better served;

and though nothing is wanting in his housekeeping, and his family is

very numerous, yet the regularity of it is no less remarkable than

the plenty they live in. His orders he will have strictly obeyed;

but his commands are always reasonable, and he never speaks to the

meanest footman without regard to humanity. Extraordinary diligence

in servants, and all laudable actions he takes notice of himself,

and often commends them to their faces; but leaves it to his steward

to reprove or dismiss those he dislikes.

Hor. Well judged.

Cleo. Whoever lives with him is taken care of in sickness as well

as in health. The wages he gives are above double those of other

masters; and he often makes presents to those that are more than

ordinary observing and industrious to please: but he suffers nobody

to take a penny of his friends or others, that come to his house,

on any account whatever. Many faults are connived at, or pardoned

for the first time, but a breach of this order is ever attended with

the loss of their places as soon as it is found out; and there is a

premium for the discovery.

Hor. This is the only exceptionable thing, in my opinion, that I have

heard yet.

Cleo. I wonder at that: why so, pray?

Hor. In the first place, it is very difficult to enforce obedience

to such a command; secondly, if it could be executed, it would be of

little use; unless it could be made general, which is impossible:

and therefore I look upon the attempt of introducing this maxim

to be singular and fantastical. It would please misers and others,

that would never follow the example at home; but it would take away

from generous men a handsome opportunity of showing their liberal

and beneficent disposition: besides, it would manifestly make ones

house too open to all sorts of people.

Cleo. Ways might be found to prevent that; but then it would be a

blessing, and do great kindness to men of parts and education, that

have little to spare, to many of whom this money to servants is a

very grievous burden.

Hor. What you mention is the only thing that can be said for it,

and I own, of great weight: but I beg your pardon for interrupting you.

Cleo. In all his dealings he is punctual and just. As he has an immense

estate, so he has good managers to take care of it: but though all his

accounts are very neatly kept, yet he makes it part of his business

to look them over himself. He suffers no tradesman's bill to lie by

unexamined; and though he meddles not with his ready cash himself,

yet he is a quick and cheerful, as well as an exact paymaster; and

the only singularity he is guilty of, is, that he never will owe any

thing on a new-year's day.

Hor. I like that very well.

Cleo. He is affable with discretion, of easy access, and never ruffled

with passion. To sum up all, no man seems to be less elevated with

his condition than himself; and in the full enjoyment of so many

personal accomplishments, as well as other possessions, his modesty

is equal to the rest of his happiness; and in the midst of the pomp

and distinction he lives in, he never appears to be entertained with

his greatness, but rather unacquainted with the things he excels in.

Hor. It is an admirable character, and pleases me exceedingly; but I

will freely own to you, that I should have been more highly delighted

with the description, if I had not known your design, and the use you

intend to make of it; which, I think, is barbarous: to raise so fine,

so elegant, and so complete an edifice, in order to throw it down,

is taking great pains to show one's skill in doing mischief. I have

observed the several places where you left room for evasions, and

lapping the foundation you have built upon. His heart seems to be as

open; and he never appears to be entertained with his greatness, I am

persuaded, that wherever you have put in this seeming and appearing,

you have done it designedly, and with an intent to make use of them as

so many back doors to creep out at. I could never have taken notice

of these things, if you had not acquainted me with your intention

before hand.

Cleo. I have made use of the caution you speak of: but with no other

view than to avoid just censure and prevent your accusing me of

incorrectness, or judging with too much precipitation; if it should

be proved afterwards, that this gentleman had acted from an ill

principle, which is the thing I own I purposed to convince you of;

but seeing, that it would be unpleasant to you, I will be satisfied

with having given you some small entertainment of the description,

and for the rest, I give you leave to think me in the wrong.

Hor. Why so? I thought the character was made and contrived on purpose

for my instruction.

Cleo. I do not pretend to instruct you: I would have offered something,

and appealed to your judgment; but I have been mistaken, and plainly

see my error. Both last night and now, when we began our discourse,

I took you to be in another disposition of thinking than I perceive

you are. You spoke of an impression that had been made upon you, and

of looking into yourself, and gave some other hints, which too rashly

I misconstrued in my favour; but I have found since, that you are as

warm as ever against the sentiments I profess myself to be of; and

therefore I will desist. I expect no pleasure from any triumph, and I

know nothing that would vex me more, than the thoughts of disobliging

you. Pray let us do in this as we do in another matter of importance,

never touch upon it: friends in prudence should avoid all subjects

in which they are known essentially to differ. Believe me, Horatio,

if it was in my power to divert or give you any pleasure, I would

grudge no pains to compass that end: but to make you uneasy, is a

thing that I shall never be knowingly guilty of, and I beg a thousand

pardons for having said so much both yesterday and to-day. Have you

heard any thing from Gibraltar?

Hor. I am ashamed of my weakness and your civility: you have not been

mistaken in the hints you speak of; what you have said has certainly

made a great impression upon me, and I have endeavoured to examine

myself: but, as you say, it is a severe task to do it faithfully. I

desired you to dine with me on purpose, that we might talk of these

things. It is I that have offended, and it is I that ought to ask

pardon for the ill manners I have been guilty of; but you know the

principles I have always adhered to; it is impossible to recede from

them at once. I see great difficulties, and now and then a glimpse of

truth, that makes me start: I sometimes feel great struggles within;

but I have been so used to derive all actions that are really good from

laudable motives, that as soon as I return to my accustomed way of

thinking, it carries all before it. Pray bear with my infirmities. I

am in love with your fine gentleman, and I confess, I cannot see how

a person so universally good, so far remote from all selfishness, can

act in such an extraordinary manner every way, but from principles of

virtue and religion. Where is there such a landlord in the world? If

I am in an error, I shall be glad to be undeceived. Pray inform me,

and say what you will, I promise you to keep my temper, and I beg of

you speak your mind with freedom.

Cleo. You have bid me before say what I would, and when I did,

you seemed displeased; but since you command me I will try once

more.----Whether there is or ever was such a man as I have described,

in the world, is not very material: but I will easily allow, that most

people would think it less difficult to conceive one, than to imagine

that such a clear and beautiful stream could flow from so mean and

muddy a spring, as an excessive thirst after praise, and an immoderate

desire of general applause from the most knowing judges; yet it is

certain, that great parts and extraordinary riches may compass all this

in a man, who is not deformed, and has had a refined education; and

that there are many persons naturally no better than a thousand others,

who by the helps mentioned, might attain to those good qualities and

accomplishments, if they had but resolution and perseverance enough,

to render every appetite and every faculty subservient to that one

predominant passion, which, if continually gratified, will always

enable them to govern, and, if required, to subdue all the rest

without exception, even in the most difficult cases.

Hor. To enter into an argument concerning the possibility of what

you say, might occasion a long dispute; but the probability, I think,

is very clear against you, and if there was such a man, it would be

much more credible, that he acted from the excellency of his nature,

in which so many virtues and rare endowments were assembled, than that

all his good qualities sprung from vicious motives. If pride could

be the cause of all this, the effect of it would sometimes appear

in others. According to your system, there is no scarcity of it, and

there are men of great parts and prodigious estates all over Europe:

why are there not several such patterns to be seen up and down,

as you have drawn as one; and why is it so very seldom, that many

virtues and good qualities are seen to meet in one individual?

Cleo. Why so few persons, though there are so many men of

immense fortune, ever arrive at any thing like this high pitch of

accomplishments; there are several reasons that are very obvious. In

the first place, men differ in temperament: some are naturally

of an active, stirring; others of an indolent, quiet disposition;

some of a bold, others of a meek spirit. In the second, it is to

be considered, that this temperament in men come to maturity is

more or less conspicuous, according as it has been either checked

or encouraged by education. Thirdly, that on these two depend the

different perception men have of happiness, according to which the love

of glory determines them different ways. Some think it the greatest

felicity to govern and rule over others: some take the praise of

bravery and undauntedness in dangers to be the most valuable: others,

erudition, and to be a celebrated author: so that, though they all love

glory, they set out differently to acquire it. But a man who hates a

bustle, and is naturally of a quiet easy temper, and which has been

encouraged in him by education, it is very likely might think nothing

more desirable than the character of a fine gentleman; and if he did,

I dare say that he would endeavour to behave himself pretty near

the pattern I have given you; I say pretty near, because I may have

been mistaken in some things, and as I have not touched upon every

thing, some will say, that I have left out several necessary ones:

but in the main I believe, that in the country and age we live in,

the qualifications I have named would get a man the reputation I have

supposed him to desire.

Hor. Without doubt, I make no manner of scruple about what you said

last; and I told you before that it was an admirable character,

and pleased me exceedingly. That I took notice of your making your

gentleman so very godly as you did, was because it is not common;

but I intended it not as a reflection. One thing, indeed, there was

in which I differed from you; but that was merely speculative; and,

since I have reflected on what you have answered me, I do not know but

I may be in the wrong, as I should certainly believe myself to be,

if there really was such a man, and he was of the contrary opinion:

to such a fine genius I would pay an uncommon deference, and with

great readiness submit my understanding to his superior capacity. But

the reasons you give why those effects which you ascribe to pride,

are not more common, the cause being so universal, I think are

insufficient. That men are prompted to follow different ends, as their

inclinations differ, I can easily allow; but there are great numbers

of rich men that are likewise of a quiet and indolent disposition,

and moreover very desirous of being thought fine gentlemen. How comes

it, that among so many persons of high birth, princely estates, and

the most refined education, as there are in Christendom, that study,

travel, and take great pains to be well accomplished, there is not

one, to whom all the good qualities, and every thing you named,

could be applied without flattery?

Cleo. It is very possible that thousands may aim at this, and not

one of them succeed to that degree: in some, perhaps the predominant

passion is not strong enough entirely to subdue the rest: love or

covetousness may divert others: drinking, gaming, may draw away many,

and break in upon their resolution; they may not have strength to

persevere in a design, and steadily to pursue the same ends; or they

may want a true taste or knowledge of what is esteemed by men of

judgment; or, lastly, they may not be so thoroughly well-bred, as is

required to conceal themselves on all emergencies: for the practical

part of dissimulation is infinitely more difficult than the theory:

and any one of these obstacles is sufficient to spoil all, and hinder

the finishing of such a piece.

Hor. I shall not dispute that with you: but all this while you have

proved nothing; nor given the least reason why you should imagine,

that a man of a character, to all outward appearance so bright and

beautiful, acted from vicious motives. You would not condemn him

without so much as naming the cause why you suspect him.

Cleo. By no means; nor have I advanced any thing that is ill natured

or uncharitable: for I have not said, that if I found a gentleman

in possession of all the things I mentioned, I would give his rare

endowments this turn, and think all his perfections derived from no

better stock, than an extraordinary love of glory. What I argue for,

and insist upon, is, the possibility that all these things might

be performed by a man from no other views, and with no other helps,

than those I have named: nay, I believe moreover, that a gentleman

so accomplished, all his knowledge and great parts notwithstanding,

may himself be ignorant, or at least not well assured of the motive

he acts from.

Hor. This is more unintelligible than any thing you have said yet;

why will you heap difficulties upon one another, without solving

any? I desire you would clear up this last paradox, before you do

any thing else.

Cleo. In order to obey you, I must put you in mind of what happens

in early education, by the first rudiments of which, infants are

taught in the choice of actions to prefer the precepts of others

to the dictates of their own inclinations; which, in short, is no

more than doing as they are bid. To gain this point, punishments and

rewards are not neglected, and many different methods are made use of;

but it is certain, that nothing proves more often effectual for this

purpose, or has a greater influence upon children, than the handle

that is made of shame; which, though a natural passion, they would

not be sensible of so soon, if we did not artfully rouse and stir

it up in them, before they can speak or go: by which means, their

judgment being then weak, we may teach them to be ashamed of what we

please, as soon as we can perceive them to be any ways affected with

the passion itself: but as the fear of shame is very insignificant,

where there is but little pride, so it is impossible to augment the

first, without increasing the latter in the same proportion.

Hor. I should have thought that this increase of pride would render

children more stubborn and less docile.

Cleo. You judge right; it would so, and must have been a great

hinderance to good manners, till experience taught men, that though

pride was not to be destroyed by force, it might be governed by

stratagem, and that the best way to manage it, is by playing the

passion against itself. Hence it is, that in an artful education,

we are allowed to place as much pride as we please in our dexterity

of concealing it. I do not suppose, that this covering ourselves,

notwithstanding the pride we take in it, is performed without a

difficulty that is plainly felt, and perhaps very unpleasant at first;

but this wears off as we grow up; and when a man has behaved himself

with so much prudence as I have described, lived up to the strictest

rules of good-breeding for many years, and has gained the esteem

of all that know him, when this noble and polite manner is become

habitual to him, it is possible he may in time forget the principle

he set out with, and become ignorant, or at least insensible of the

hidden spring that gives life and motion to all his actions.

Hor. I am convinced of the great use that may be made of pride, if

you will call it so; but I am not satisfied yet, how a man of so much

sense, knowledge, and penetration, one that understands himself so

entirely well, should be ignorant of his own heart, and the motives

he acts from. What is it that induces you to believe this, besides

the possibility of his forgetfulness?

Cleo. I have two reasons for it, which I desire may be seriously

considered. The first is, that in what relates to ourselves, especially

our own worth and excellency, pride blinds the understanding in men of

sense and great parts as well as in others, and the greater value we

may reasonably set upon ourselves, the fitter we are to swallow the

grossest flatteries, in spite of all our knowledge and abilities in

other matters: witness Alexander the Great, whose vast genius could not

hinder him from doubting seriously, whether he was a god or not. My

second reason will prove to us, that if the person in question was

capable of examining himself, it is yet highly improbable, that he

would ever set about it: for, it must be granted, that, in order to

search into ourselves, it is required we should be willing as well as

able; and we have all the reason in the world to think, that there

is nothing which a very proud man of such high qualifications would

avoid more carefully than such an inquiry: because, for all other acts

of self-denial, he is repaid in his darling passion; but this alone is

really mortifying, and the only sacrifice of his quiet for which he can

have no equivalent. If the hearts of the best and sincerest men are

corrupt and deceitful, what condition must theirs be in, whose whole

life is one continued scene of hypocrisy! therefore inquiring within,

and boldly searching into ones own bosom, must be the most shocking

employment, that a man can give his mind to, whose greatest pleasure

consists in secretly admiring himself. It would be ill manners,

after this, to appeal to yourself; but the severity of the task----

Hor. Say no more, I yield this point, though I own I cannot conceive

what advantage you can expect from it: for, instead of removing, it

will rather help to increase the grand difficulty, which is to prove,

that this complete person you have described, acts from a vicious

motive: and if that be not your design, I cannot see what you drive at.

Cleo. I told you it was.

Hor. You must have a prodigious sagacity in detecting abstruse matters

before other men.

Cleo. You wonder, I know, which way I arrogate to myself such a

superlative degree of penetration, as to know an artful cunning man

better than he does himself, and how I dare pretend to enter and look

into a heart, which I have owned to be completely well concealed

from all the world; which in strictness is an impossibility, and

consequently not to be bragged of but by a coxcomb.

Hor. You may treat yourself as you please, I have said no such thing;

but I own that I long to see it proved, that you have this capacity. I

remember the character very well: Notwithstanding the precautions

you have taken, it is very full: I told you before, that where things

have a handsome appearance every way, there can be no just cause to

suspect them. I will stick close to that; your gentleman is all of a

piece: You shall alter nothing, either by retracting any of the good

qualities you have given him, or making additions that are either

clashing with, or unsuitable to what you have allowed already.

Cleo. I shall attempt neither: And without that decisive trials may

be made, by which it will plainly appear whether a person acts from

inward goodness, and a principle of religion, or only from a motive

of vain glory; and, in the latter case, there is an infallible way of

dragging the lurking fiend from his darkest recesses into a glaring

light, where all the world shall know him.

Hor. I do not think myself a match for you in argument; but I have

a great mind to be your gentleman's advocate against all your

infallibility: I never liked a cause better in my life. Come, I

undertake to defend him in all the suppositions you can make that

are reasonable and consistent with what you have said before.

Cleo. Very well: let us suppose what may happen to the most

inoffensive, the most prudent, and best-bred man; that our fine

gentleman differs in opinion before company, with another, who is his

equal in birth and quality, but not so much master over his outward

behaviour, and less guarded in his conduct; let this adversary, mal

á propos, grow warm, and seem to be wanting in the respect that is

due to the other, and reflect on his honour in ambiguous terms. What

is your client to do?

Hor. Immediately to ask for an explanation.

Cleo. Which, if the hot man disregards with scorn, or flatly refuses

to give, satisfaction must be demanded, and tilt they must.

Hor. You are too hasty: it happened before company; in such cases,

friends, or any gentlemen present, should interpose and take care,

that if threatening words ensue, they are, by the civil authority, both

put under arrest; and before they came to uncourteous language, they

ought to have been parted by friendly force, if it were possible. After

that, overtures may be made of reconciliation with the nicest regard

to the point of honour.

Cleo. I do not ask for directions to prevent a quarrel; what you say

may be done, or it may not be done: The good offices of friends may

succeed, and they may not succeed. I am to make what suppositions I

think fit within the verge of possibility, so they are reasonable and

consistent with the character I have drawn: can we not suppose these

two persons in such a situation that you yourself would advise your

friend to send his adversary a challenge?

Hor. Without doubt such a thing may happen.

Cleo. That is enough. After that a duel must ensue, in which,

without determining any thing, the fine gentleman, we will say,

behaves himself with the utmost gallantry.

Hor. To have suspected or supposed otherwise would have been

unreasonable.

Cleo. You see, therefore, how fair I am. But what is it, pray, that

so suddenly disposes a courteous sweet-tempered man, for so small an

evil, to seek a remedy of that extreme violence? But above all, what

is it that buoys up and supports him against the fear of death? for

there lies the greatest difficulty.

Hor. His natural courage and intrepidity, built on the innocence of

his life, and the rectitude of his manners.

Cleo. But what makes so just and prudent a man, that has the good

of society so much at heart, act knowingly against the laws of his

country?

Hor. The strict obedience he pays to the laws of honour, which are

superior to all others.

Cleo. If men of honour would act confidently, they ought all to be

Roman Catholics.

Hor. Why, pray?

Cleo. Because they prefer oral tradition to all written laws: for

nobody can tell when, in what king's or emperor's reign, in what

country, or by what authority these laws of honour were first enacted:

it is very strange they should be of such force.

Hor. They are wrote and engraved in every ones breast that is a man of

honour: there is no denying of it; you are conscious of it yourself;

every body feels it within.

Cleo. Let them be wrote or engraved wherever you please, they are

directly opposite to and clashing with the laws of God; and if the

gentleman I described was as sincere in his religion as he appeared to

be, he must have been of an opinion contrary to yours; for Christians

of all persuasions are unanimous in allowing the divine laws to

be far above all other; and that all other considerations ought to

give way to them. How, and under what pretence can a Christian, who

is a man of sense, submit or agree to laws that prescribe revenge,

and countenance murder; both which are so expressly forbid by the

precepts of his religion?

Hor. I am no casuist: but you know, that what I say is true; and that,

among persons of honour, a man would be laughed at, that should make

such a scruple. Not but that I think killing a man to be a great sin,

where it can be helped; and that all prudent men ought to avoid the

occasion, as much as it is in their power. He is highly blameable who

is the first aggressor, and gives the affront; and whoever enters upon

it out of levity, or seeks a quarrel out of wantonness, ought to be

hanged. Nobody would choose it, who is not a fool; and yet, when it

is forced upon one, all the wisdom in the world cannot teach him how

to avoid it. It has been my case you know: I shall never forget the

reluctancy I had against it; but necessity has no law.

Cleo. I saw you that very morning, and you seemed to be sedate and

void of passion: you could have no concern.

Hor. It is silly to show any at such times; but I know best what I

felt; the struggle I had within was unspeakable: it is a terrible

thing. I would then have given a considerable part of my estate,

that the thing which forced me into it had not happened; and yet,

upon less provocation, I would act the same part again to-morrow.

Cleo. Do you remember what your concern was chiefly about?

Hor. How can you ask? It is an affair of the highest importance that

can occur in life; I was no boy; it was after we came from Italy;

I was in my nine and twentieth year, had very good acquaintance,

and was not ill received: a man of that age, in health and vigour,

who has seven thousand a-year, and the prospect of being a peer of

England, has no reason to quarrel with the world, or wish himself out

of it. It is a very great hazard a man runs in a duel; besides the

remorse and uneasiness one must feel as long as he lives, if he has the

misfortune of killing his adversary. It is impossible to reflect on

all these things, and at the same time resolve to run those hazards

(though there are other considerations of still greater moment),

without being under a prodigious concern.

Cleo. You say nothing about the sin.

Hor. The thoughts of that, without doubt, are a great addition; but

the other things are so weighty of themselves, that a man's condition

at such a time, is very perplexed without further reflection.

Cleo. You have now a very fine opportunity, Horatio, of looking into

your heart, and with a little of my assistance, examining yourself. If

you can condescend to this, I promise you that you shall make great

discoveries, and be convinced of truths you are now unwilling to

believe. A lover of justice and probity, as you are, ought not to be

fond of a road of thinking, where he is always forced to skulk, and

never dares to meet with light or reason. Will you suffer me to ask you

some questions, and will you answer them directly and in good humour?

Hor. I will, without reserve.

Cleo. Do you remember the storm upon the coast of Genoa?

Hor. Going to Naples? Very well; it makes me cold to think of it.

Cleo. Was you afraid?

Hor. Never more in my life: I hate that fickle element; I cannot

endure the sea.

Cleo. What was you afraid of?

Hor. That is a pretty question: do you think a young fellow of

six-and-twenty, as I was then, and in my circumstances, had a great

mind to be drowned? The captain himself said we were in danger.

Cleo. But neither he nor any body else discovered half so much fear

and anxiety as you did.

Hor. There was nobody there, yourself excepted, that had half a

quarter so much to lose as I had: besides, they are used to the sea;

storms are familiar to them. I had never been at sea before, but that

fine afternoon we crossed from Dover to Calais.

Cleo. Want of knowledge or experience may make men apprehend danger

where there is none; but real dangers, when they are known to be such,

try the natural courage of all men; whether they have been used to them

or not: sailors are as unwilling to lose their lives as other people.

Hor. I am not ashamed to own, that I am a great coward at sea: give

me terra firma, and then--

Cleo. Six or seven months after you fought that duel, I remember you

had the small-pox; you was then very much afraid of dying.

Hor. Not without a cause.

Cleo. I heard your physicians say, that the violent apprehension

you was under, hindered your sleep, increased your fever, and was as

mischievous to you as the distemper itself.

Hor. That was a terrible time; I am glad it is over: I had a sister

died of it. Before I had it, I was in perpetual dread of it, and many

times to hear it named only has made me uneasy.

Cleo. Natural courage is a general armour against the fear of death,

whatever shape that appears in, Si fractus illabatur erbis. It supports

a man in tempestuous seas, and in a burning fever, whilst he is in his

senses, as well as in a siege before a town, or in a duel with seconds.

Hor. What! you are going to show me, that I have no courage.

Cleo. Far from it; it would be ridiculous to doubt a man's bravery,

that has shown it in such an extraordinary manner as you have done

more than once: what I question, is the epithet you joined to it at

first, the word natural; for there is a great difference between that

and artificial courage.

Hor. That is a chicane I will not enter into: but I am not of your

opinion, as to what you said before. A gentleman is not required to

show his bravery, but where his honour is concerned; and if he dares

to fight for his king, his friend, his mistress, and every thing where

his reputation is engaged, you shall think of him what you please

for the rest. Besides, that in sickness and other dangers, as well

as afflictions, where the hand of God is plainly to be seen, courage

and intrepidity are impious as well as impertinent. Undauntedness in

chastisements is a kind of rebellion: it is waging war with Heaven,

which none but atheists and freethinkers would be guilty of; it is only

they that can glory in impenitence, and talk of dying hard. All others

that have any sense of religion, desire to repent before they go out of

the world: the best of us do not always live, as we could wish to die.

Cleo. I am very glad to hear you are so religious: but do not you

perceive yet, how inconsistent you are with yourself: how can a man

sincerely wish to repent, that wilfully plunges himself into a mortal

sin, and an action where he runs a greater and more immediate hazard

of his life, than he could have done in almost any other, without

force or necessity?

Hor. I have over and over owned to you that duelling is a sin; and,

unless a man is forced to it by necessity, I believe, a mortal one:

but this was not my case, and therefore I hope God will forgive me:

let them look to it that make a sport of it. But when a man comes to

an action with the utmost reluctancy, and what he does is not possibly

to be avoided, I think he then may justly be said to be forced to it,

and to act from necessity. You may blame the rigorous laws of honour,

and the tyranny of custom, but a man that will live in the world must,

and is bound to obey them. Would not you do it yourself?

Cleo. Do not ask me what I would do: the question is, what every

body ought to do. Can a man believe the Bible, and at the same time

apprehend a tyrant more crafty or malicious, more unrelenting or

inhuman than the devil, or a mischief worse than hell, and pains

either more exquisite or more durable than torments unspeakable

and yet everlasting? You do not answer. What evil is it? Think of

it, and tell me what dismal thing it is you apprehend, should you

neglect these laws, and despise that tyrant: what calamity could

befall you? Let me know the worst that can be feared.

Hor. Would you be posted for a coward?

Cleo. For what? For not daring to violate all human and divine laws?

Hor. Strictly speaking you are in the right, it is unanswerable;

but who will consider things in that light?

Cleo. All good Christians.

Hor. Where are they then? For all mankind in general would despise

and laugh at a man, who should move those scruples. I have heard and

seen clergymen themselves in company show their contempt of poltrons,

whatever they might talk or recommend in the pulpit. Entirely to quit

the world, and at once to renounce the conversation of all persons

that are valuable in it, is a terrible thing to resolve upon. Would

you become a town and table-talk? Could you submit to be the jest

and scorn of public-houses, stage-coaches, and market-places? Is

not this the certain fate of a man, who should refuse to fight, or

bear an affront without resentment? be just, Cleomenes; is it to be

avoided? Must he not be made a common laughing-stock, be pointed at in

the streets, and serve for diversion to the very children; to link-boys

and hackney-coachmen? Is it a thought to be born with patience?

Cleo. How come you now to have such an anxious regard for what may be

the opinion of the vulgar, whom at other times you so heartily despise?

Hor. All this is reasoning, and you know the thing will not bear it:

how can you be so cruel?

Cleo. How can you be so backward in discovering and owning the passion,

that is so conspicuously the occasion of all this, the palpable and

only cause of the uneasiness we feel at the thoughts of being despised?

Hor. I am not sensible of any; and I declare to you, that I feel

nothing that moves me to speak as I do, but the sense and principle

of honour within me.

Cleo. Do you think that the lowest of the mob, and the scum of the

people, are possessed of any part of this principle?

Hor. No, indeed.

Cleo. Or that among the highest quality, infants can be affected with

it before they are two years old?

Hor. Ridiculous.

Cleo. If neither of these are affected with it, then honour should be

either adventitious, and acquired by culture; or, if contained in the

blood of those that are nobly born, imperceptible until the years

of discretion; and neither of them can be said of the principle,

the palpable cause I speak of. For we plainly see on the one hand,

that scorn and ridicule are intolerable to the poorest wretches,

and that there is no beggar so mean or miserable, that contempt will

never offend him: on the other, that human creatures are so early

influenced by the sense of shame; that children, by being laughed at

and made a jest of, may be set a crying before they can well speak

or go. Whatever, therefore, this mighty principle is, it is born with

us, and belongs to our nature: are you unacquainted with the proper,

genuine, homely name of it?

Hor. I know you call it pride. I will not dispute with you about

principles and origins of things; but that high value which men

of honour set upon themselves as such, and which is no more than

what is due to the dignity of our nature, when well cultivated,

is the foundation of their character, and a support to them in

all difficulties, that is of great use to the society. The desire,

likewise, of being thought well of, and the love of praise and even of

glory are commendable qualities, that are beneficial to the public. The

truth of this is manifest in the reverse; all shameless people that are

below infamy, and matter not what is said or thought of them, these,

we see nobody can trust; they stick at nothing, and if they can but

avoid death, pain, and penal laws, are always ready to execute all

manner of mischief, their selfishness or any brutal appetite shall

prompt them to, without regard to the opinion of others: such are

justly called men of no principles, because they have nothing of any

strength within, that can either spur them on to brave and virtuous

actions, or restrain them from villany and baseness.

Cleo. The first part of your assertion is very true, when that high

value, that desire, and that love are kept within the bounds of reason:

But, in the second, there is a mistake; those whom we call shameless,

are not more destitute of pride, than their betters. Remember what I

have said of education, and the power of it; you may add inclinations,

knowledge, and circumstances; for, as men differ in all these, so they

are differently influenced and wrought upon by all the passions. There

is nothing that some men may not be taught to be ashamed of. The same

passion that makes the well-bred man, and prudent officer, value and

secretly admire themselves for the honour and fidelity they display,

may make the rake and scoundrel brag of their vices, and boast of

their impudence.

Hor. I cannot comprehend, how a man of honour, and one that has none,

should both act from the same principle.

Cleo. This is not more strange, than that self-love may make a man

destroy himself, yet nothing is more true; and it is as certain, that

some men indulge their pride in being shameless. To understand human

nature, requires study and application, as well as penetration and

sagacity. All passions and instincts in general, were given to all

animals for some wise end, tending to the preservation and happiness

of themselves, or their species: It is our duty to hinder them from

being detrimental or offensive to any part of the society; but why

should we be ashamed of having them? The instinct of high value,

which every individual has for himself, is a very useful passion:

but a passion it is, and though I could demonstrate, that we should

be miserable creatures without it, yet, when it is excessive, it

often is the cause of endless mischiefs.

Hor. But in well-bred people it never is excessive.

Cleo. You mean the excess of it never appears outwardly: But we ought

never to judge of its height or strength from what we can discover

of the passion itself, but from the effects it produces: It often is

most superlative, where it is most concealed; and nothing increases

and influences it more, than what is called a refined education, and a

continual commerce with the beau monde: The only thing that can subdue,

or any ways curb it, is a strict adherence to the Christian religion.

Hor. Why do you so much insist upon it, that this principle, this

value men set upon themselves, is a passion? And why will you choose

to call it pride rather than honour?

Cleo. For very good reasons. Fixing this principle in human nature,

in the first place, takes away all ambiguity: Who is a man of honour,

and who is not, is often a disputable point; and, among those

that are allowed to be such, the several degrees of strictness,

in complying with the rules of it, make great difference in the

principle itself. But a passion that is born with us is unalterable,

and part of our frame, whether it exerts itself or not: The essence

of it is the same, which way soever it is taught to turn. Honour

is the undoubted offspring of pride, but the same cause produces

not always the same effect. All the vulgar, children, savages, and

many others that are not affected with any sense of honour, have all

of them pride, as is evident from the symptoms. Secondly, it helps

us to explain the phenomena that occur in quarrels and affronts,

and the behaviour of men of honour on these occasions, which cannot

be accounted for any other way. But what moves me to it most of all,

is the prodigious force and exorbitant power of this principle of self

esteem, where it has been long gratified and encouraged. You remember

the concern you was under, when you had that duel upon your hands,

and the great reluctancy you felt in doing what you did; you knew it

to be a crime, and, at the same time, had a strong aversion to it;

what secret power was it that subdued your will, and gained the victory

over that great reluctancy you felt against it? You call it honour,

and the too strict, though unavoidable adherence to the rules of it:

But men never commit violence upon themselves, but in struggling with

the passions that are innate and natural to them. Honour is acquired,

and the rules of it are taught: Nothing adventitious, that some are

possessed, and others destitute of, could raise such intestine wars

and dire commotions within us; and therefore, whatever is the cause

that can thus divide us against ourselves, and, as it were, rend human

nature in twain, must be part of us; and, to speak without disguise,

the struggle in your breast was between the fear of shame and the fear

of death: had this latter not been so considerable, your struggle would

have been less: Still the first conquered, because it was strongest;

but if your fear of shame had been inferior to that of death, you

would have reasoned otherwise, and found out some means or other to

have avoided fighting.

Hor. This is a strange anatomy of human nature.

Cleo. Yet, for want of making use of it, the subject we are upon is not

rightly understood by many; and men have discoursed very inconsistently

on duelling. A divine who wrote a dialogue to explode that practice,

said, that those who were guilty of it, had mistaken notions of, and

went by false rules of honour; for which my friend justly ridiculed

him, saying, You may as well deny, that it is the fashion what you see

every body wear, as to say, that demanding and giving satisfaction,

is against the laws of true honour. Had that man understood human

nature, he could not have committed such a blunder: But when once he

took it for granted, that honour is a just and good principle, without

inquiring into the cause of it among the passions, it is impossible

he should have accounted for duelling, in a Christian pretending to

act from such a principle; and therefore, in another place, with the

same justice, he said, that a man who had accepted a challenge was

not qualified to make his will, because he was not compos mentis: He

might, with greater show of reason, have said, that he was bewitched.

Hor. Why so?

Cleo. Because people out of their wits, as they think at random,

so commonly they act and talk incoherently; but when a man of known

sobriety, and who shows no manner of discomposure, discourses and

behaves himself in every thing, as he is used to do; and, moreover,

reasons on points of great nicety with the utmost accuracy, it is

impossible we should take him to be either a fool or a madman; and

when such a person, in an affair of the highest importance, acts so

diametrically against his interest, that a child can see it, and with

deliberation pursues his own destruction, those who believe that there

are malignant spirits of that power, would rather imagine that he was

led away by some enchantment, and over-ruled by the enemy of mankind,

than they would fancy a palpable absurdity: But even the supposition

of that is not sufficient to solve the difficulty, without the help of

that strange anatomy. For what spell or witchcraft is there, by the

delusion of which a man of understanding shall, keeping his senses,

mistake an imaginary duty for an unavoidable necessity to break all

real obligations? But let us wave all ties of religion, as well as

human laws, and the person we speak of to be a professed Epicure,

that has no thoughts of futurity; what violent power of darkness

is it, that can force and compel a peaceable quiet man, neither

inured to hardship, nor valiant by nature, to quit his beloved ease

and security; and seemingly by choice go fight in cold blood for his

life, with this comfortable reflection, that nothing forfeits it so

certainly as the entire defeat of his enemy?

Hor. As to the law and the punishment, persons of quality have little

to fear of that.

Cleo. You cannot say that in France, nor the Seven Provinces. But

men of honour, that are of much lower ranks, decline duelling no

more than those of the highest quality. How many examples have we,

even here, of gallant men, that have suffered for it either by exile

or the hangman! A man of honour must fear nothing: Do but consider

every obstacle which this principle of self-esteem has conquered at

one time or other; and then tell me whether it must not be something

more than magic, by the fascination of which a man of taste and

judgment, in health and vigour, as well as the flower of his age, can

be tempted, and actually drawn from the embraces of a wife he loves,

and the endearments of hopeful children, from polite conversation

and the charms of friendship, from the fairest possessions and the

happy enjoyment of all worldly pleasures, to an unwarrantable combat,

of which the victor must be exposed either to an ignominious death,

or perpetual banishment.

Hor. When things are set in this light, I confess it is very

unaccountable: but will your system explain this; can you make it

clear yourself?

Cleo. Immediately, as the sun: If you will but observe two things,

that must necessarily follow, and are manifest from what I have

demonstrated already. The first is, that the fear of shame, in general,

is a matter of caprice, that varies with modes and customs, and may be

fixed on different objects, according to the different lessons we have

received, and the precepts we are imbued with; and that this is the

reason, why this fear of shame, as it is either well or ill placed,

sometimes produces very good effects, and at others is the cause

of the most enormous crimes. Secondly, that, though shame is a real

passion, the evil to be feared from it is altogether imaginary, and

has no existence but in our own reflection on the opinion of others.

Hor. But there are real and substantial mischiefs which a man may

draw upon himself, by misbehaving in point of honour; it may ruin

his fortune, and all hopes of preferment: An officer may be broken

for putting up an affront: Nobody will serve with a coward, and who

will employ him?

Cleo. What you urge is altogether out of the question; at least it

was in your own case; you had nothing to dread or apprehend but the

bare opinion of men. Besides, when the fear of shame is superior to

that of death, it is likewise superior to, and outweighs all other

considerations; as has been sufficiently proved: But when the fear

of shame is not violent enough to curb the fear of death, nothing

else can; and whenever the fear of death is stronger than that of

shame, there is no consideration that will make a man fight in cold

blood, or comply with any of the laws of honour, where life is at

stake. Therefore, whoever acts from the fear of shame as a motive,

in sending and accepting of challenges, must be sensible, on the one

hand, that the mischiefs he apprehends, should he disobey the tyrant,

can only be the offspring of his own thoughts; and, on the other,

that if he could be persuaded anywise to lessen the great esteem and

high value he sets upon himself, his dread of shame would likewise

palpably diminish. From all which, it is most evident, that the grand

cause of this distraction, the powerful enchanter we are seeking after,

is pride, excess of pride, that highest pitch of self-esteem, to which

some men may be wound up by an artful education, and the perpetual

flatteries bestowed upon our species, and the excellencies of our

nature. This is the sorcerer, that is able to divert all other passions

from their natural objects, and make a rational creature ashamed

of what is most agreeable to his inclination, as well as his duty;

both which the duellist owns, that he has knowingly acted against.

Hor. What a wonderful machine, what an heterogenous compound is

man! You have almost conquered me.

Cleo. I aim at no victory, all I wish for is to do you service,

in undeceiving you.

Hor. What is the reason that, in the same person, the fear of death

should be so glaringly conspicuous in sickness, or a storm, and so

entirely well hid in a duel, and all military engagements? Pray,

solve that too.

Cleo. I will as well as I can: On all emergencies, where reputation

is thought to be concerned, the fear of shame is effectually roused

in men of honour, and immediately their pride rushes in to their

assistance, and summons all their strength to fortify and support them

in concealing the fear of death; by which extraordinary efforts, the

latter, that is the fear of death, is altogether stifled, or, at least,

kept out of sight, and remains undiscovered. But in all other perils,

in which they do not think their honour engaged, their pride lies

dormant. And thus the fear of death, being checked by nothing, appears

without disguise. That this is the true reason, is manifest from the

different behaviour that is observed in men of honour, according as

they are either pretenders to Christianity; or tainted with irreligion;

for there are of both sorts; and you shall see, most commonly at least,

that your esprits forts, and those who would be thought to disbelieve

a future state (I speak of men of honour), show the greatest calmness

and intrepidity in the same dangers, where the pretended believers

among them, appear to be the most ruffled and pusillanimous.

Hor. But why pretended believers? at that rate there are no Christians

among the men of honour.

Cleo. I do not see how they can be real believers.

Hor. Why so?

Cleo. For the same reason that a Roman Catholic cannot be a good

subject, always to be depended upon, in a Protestant, or indeed any

other country, but the dominions of his Holiness. No sovereign can

confide with safety in a man's allegiance, who owns and pays homage

to another superior power upon earth. I am sure you understand me.

Hor. Too well.

Cleo. You may yoke a knight with a prebendary, and put them together

into the same stall; but honour, and the Christian religion, make no

couple, nec in unâ sede morantur, any more than majesty and love. Look

back on your own conduct, and you shall find, that what you said of the

hand of God was only a shift, an evasion you made to serve your then

present purpose. On another occasion, you had said yesterday yourself,

that Providence superintends and governs every thing without exception;

you must, therefore, have known, that the hand of God is as much

to be seen in one common accident in life, and in one misfortune,

as it is in another, that is not more extraordinary. A severe fit

of sickness may be less fatal, than a slight skirmish between two

hostile parties; and, among men of honour, there is often as much

danger in a quarrel about nothing, as there can be in the most

violent storm. It is impossible, therefore, that a man of sense,

who has a solid principle to go by, should, in one sort of danger,

think it impiety not to show fear, and in another be ashamed to be

thought to have any. Do but consider your own inconsistency with

yourself. At one time, to justify your fear of death, when pride is

absent, you become religious on a sudden, and your conscience then is

so tenderly scrupulous, that, to be undaunted under chastisements from

the Almighty, seems no less to you than waging war with Heaven; and,

at another, when honour calls, you dare not knowingly and willingly

break the most positive command of God, but likewise to own, that the

greatest calamity which, in your opinion, can befal you, is, that the

world should believe, or but suspect of you, that you had any scruple

about it. I defy the wit of man to carry the affront to the Divine

Majesty higher. Barely to deny his being, is not half so daring,

as it is to do this after you have owned him to exist. No Atheism----

Hor. Hold, Cleomenes; I can no longer resist the force of truth, and

I am resolved to be better acquainted with myself for the future. Let

me become your pupil.

Cleo. Do not banter me, Horatio; I do not pretend to instruct a

man of your knowledge; but if you will take my advice, search into

yourself with care and boldness, and, at your leisure, peruse the

book I recommended.

Hor. I promise you I will, and shall be glad to accept of the handsome

present I refused: Pray, send a servant with it to-morrow morning.

Cleo. It is a trifle. You had better let one of yours go with me now;

I shall drive home directly.

Hor. I understand your scruple. It shall be as you please.

THE THIRD

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

HORATIO AND CLEOMENES.

HORATIO.

I thank you for your book.

Cleo. Your acceptance of it I acknowledge as a great favour.

Hor. I confess, that once I thought nobody could have persuaded me

to read it; but you managed me very skilfully, and nothing could

have convinced me so well as the instance of duelling: The argument,

à majori ad minus, struck me, without your mentioning it. A passion

that can subdue the fear of death, may blind a man's understanding,

and do almost every thing else.

Cleo. It is incredible what strange, various, unaccountable, and

contradictory forms we may be shaped into by a passion, that is not to

be gratified without being concealed, and never enjoyed with greater

ecstacy than when we are most fully persuaded, that it is well hid:

and therefore, there is no benevolence or good nature, no amiable

quality or social virtue, that may not be counterfeited by it; and,

in short, no achievement, good or bad, that the human body or mind are

capable of, which it may not seem to perform. As to its blinding and

infatuating the persons possessed with it to a high degree, there is

no doubt of it: for what strength of reason, I pray, what judgment or

penetration, has the greatest genius, if he pretends to any religion,

to boast of, after he has owned himself to have been more terrified

by groundless apprehensions, and an imaginary evil from vain impotent

men, whom he has never injured, than he was alarmed with the just

fears of a real punishment from an all-wise and omnipotent God,

whom he has highly offended?

Hor. But your friend makes no such religious reflections: he actually

speaks in favour of duelling.

Cleo. What, because he would have the laws against it as severe

as possible, and nobody pardoned, without exception, that offends

that way?

Hor. That indeed seems to discourage it; but he shows the necessity

of keeping up that custom, to polish and brighten society in general.

Cleo. Do not you see the irony there?

Hor. No, indeed: he plainly demonstrates the usefulness of it, gives

as good reasons as it is possible to invent, and shows how much

conversation would suffer, if that practice was abolished.

Cleo. Can you think a man serious on a subject, when he leaves it in

the manner he does?

Hor. I do not remember that.

Cleo. Here is the book: I will look for the passage----Pray, read this.

Hor. It is strange, that a nation should grudge to see, perhaps,

half a dozen men sacrificed in a twelvemonth, to obtain so valuable a

blessing, as the politeness of manners, the pleasure of conversation,

and the happiness of company in general, that is often so willing to

expose, and sometimes loses as many thousands in a few hours, without

knowing whether it will do any good or not. This, indeed, seems to

be said with a sneer: but in what goes before he is very serious.

Cleo. He is so, when he says that the practice of duelling, that is

the keeping up of the fashion of it, contributes to the politeness

of manners and pleasure of conversation, and this is very true; but

that politeness itself, and that pleasure, are the things he laughs

at and exposes throughout his book.

Hor. But who knows, what to make of a man, who recommends a thing

very seriously in one page, and ridicules it in the next?

Cleo. It is his opinion, that there is no solid principle to go by but

the Christian religion, and that few embrace it with sincerity: always

look upon him in this view, and you will never find him inconsistent

with himself. Whenever at first sight he seems to be so, look again,

and upon nearer inquiry you will find, that he is only pointing at,

or labouring to detect the inconsistency of others with the principles

they pretend to.

Hor. He seems to have nothing less at heart than religion.

Cleo. That is true, and if he had appeared otherwise, he would never

have been read by the people whom he designed his book for, the modern

deists and all the beau monde: It is those he wants to come at. To

the first he sets forth the origin and insufficiency of virtue, and

their own insincerity in the practice of it: to the rest he shows

the folly of vice and pleasure, the vanity of worldly greatness,

and the hypocrisy of all those divines, who, pretending to preach

the gospel, give and take allowances that are inconsistent with,

and quite contrary to the precepts of it.

Hor. But this is not the opinion the world has of the book; it is

commonly imagined, that it is wrote for the encouragement of vice,

and to debauch the nation.

Cleo. Have you found any such thing in it?

Hor. To speak my conscience, I must confess, I have not: vice is

exposed in it, and laughed at; but it ridicules war and martial

courage, as well as honour and every thing else.

Cleo. Pardon me, religion is ridiculed in no part of it.

Hor. But if it is a good book, why then are so many of the clergy so

much against it as they are?

Cleo. For the reason I have given you: my friend has exposed their

lives, but he has done it in such a manner, that nobody can say he

has wronged them, or treated them harshly. People are never more

vexed, than when the thing that offends them, is what they must not

complain of: they give the book an ill name because they are angry;

but it is not their interest, to tell you the the true reason why

they are so. I could draw you a parallel case that would clear up

this matter, if you would have patience to hear me, which, as you

are a great admirer of operas, I can hardly expect.

Hor. Any thing to be informed.

Cleo. I always had such an aversion to eunuchs, as no fine singing

or acting of any of them has yet been able to conquer; when I hear a

feminine voice, I look for a petticoat; and I perfectly loath the sight

of those sexless animals. Suppose that a man with the same dislike

to them had wit at will, and a mind to lash that abominable piece

of luxury, by which men are taught in cold blood to spoil males for

diversion, and out of wantonness to make waste of their own species. In

order to this, we will say, he takes a handle from the operation

itself; he describes and treats it in the most inoffensive manner; then

shows the narrow bounds of human knowledge, and the small assistance

we can have, either from dissection or philosophy, or any part of

the mathematics, to trace and penetrate into the cause à priori, why

this destroying of manhood should have that surprising effect upon the

voice; and afterwards demonstrates, how sure we are à posteriori, that

it has a considerable influence, not only on the pharinx, the glands

and muscles of the throat, but likewise the windpipe, and the lungs

themselves, and in short on the whole mass of blood, consequently all

the juices of the body, and every fibre in it. He might say likewise,

that no honey, no preparations of sugar, raisins, or spermaceti;

no emulsions, lozenges or other medicines, cooling or balsamic; no

bleeding, no temperance or choice in eatables; no abstinence from

women, from wine, and every thing that is hot, sharp or spirituous,

were of that efficacy to preserve, sweeten, and strengthen the voice;

he might insist upon it, that nothing could do this so effectually as

castration. For a blind to his main scope, and to amuse his readers,

he might speak of this practice, as made use of for other purposes;

that it had been inflicted as a solemn punishment for analogous crimes;

that others had voluntarily submitted to it, to preserve health and

prolong life; whilst the Romans, by Cæsar's testimony, thought it

more cruel than death, morte gravius. How it had been used sometimes

by way of revenge; and then say something in pity of poor Abelard;

at other times for precaution; and then relate the story of Combabus

and Stratonice: with scraps from Martial, Juvenal, and other poets, he

might interlard it, and from a thousand pleasant things that have been

said on the subject, he might pick out the most diverting to embellish

the whole. His design being satire, he would blame our fondness for

these castrati, and ridicule the age in which a brave English nobleman

and a general officer, serves his country at the hazard of his life,

a whole twelvemonth, for less pay than an Italian no-man of scoundrel

extraction receives, for now and then singing a song in great safety,

during only the winter-season. He would laugh at the caresses and

the court that are made to them by persons of the first quality,

who prostitute their familiarity with these most abject wretches,

and misplace the honour and civilities only due to their equals,

on things that are no part of the creation, and owe their being to

the surgeon; animals so contemptible, that they can curse their maker

without ingratitude. If he should call this book, the Eunuch is the

Man; as soon as I heard the title, before I saw the book, I should

understand by it, that eunuchs were now esteemed, that they were in

fashion and in the public favour, and considering that a eunuch is

in reality not a man, I should think it was a banter upon eunuchs,

or a satire against those, who had a greater value for them than they

deserved. But if the gentlemen of the academy of music, displeased at

the freedom they were treated with, should take it ill, that a paultry

scribbler should interfere and pretend to censure their diversion,

as well as they might; if they should be very angry, and study to do

him a mischief, and accordingly, not having much to say in behalf of

eunuchs, not touch upon any thing the author had said against their

pleasure, but represent him to the world as an advocate for castration,

and endeavour to draw the public odium upon him by quotations taken

from him proper for that purpose, it would not be difficult to raise

a clamour against the author, or find a grand jury to present his book.

Hor. The simile holds very well as to the injustice of the accusation,

and the insincerity of the complaint; but is it as true, that luxury

will render a nation flourishing, and that private vices are public

benefits, as that castration preserves and strengthens the voice?

Cleo. With the restrictions my friend requires, I believe it is, and

the cases are exactly alike. Nothing is more effectual to preserve,

mend, and strengthen a fine voice in youth than castration: the

question is not, whether this is true, but whether it is eligible;

whether a fine voice is an equivalent for the loss, and whether a man

would prefer the satisfaction of singing, and the advantages that

may accrue from it, to the comforts of marriage, and the pleasure

of posterity, of which enjoyments it destroys the possibility. In

like manner, my friend demonstrates, in the first place, that the

national happiness which the generality wish and pray for, is wealth

and power, glory and worldly greatness; to live in ease, in affluence

and splendour at home, and to be feared, courted, and esteemed abroad:

in the second, that such a felicity is not to be attained to without

avarice, profuseness, pride, envy, ambition, and other vices. The

latter being made evident beyond contradiction, the question is not,

whether it is true, but whether this happiness is worth having at

the rate it is only to be had at, and whether any thing ought to be

wished for, which a nation cannot enjoy, unless the generality of

them are vicious. This he offers to the consideration of Christians,

and men who pretend to have renounced the world, with all the pomp

and vanity of it.

Hor. How does it appear that the author addresses himself to such?

Cleo. From his writing it in English, and publishing it in London. But

have you read it through yet?

Hor. Twice: there are many things I like very well, but I am not

pleased with the whole.

Cleo. What objection have you against it?

Hor. It has diminished the pleasure I had in reading a much better

book. Lord Shaftsbury is my favourite author: I can take delight in

enthusiasm; but the charms of it cease as soon as I am told what it

is I enjoy. Since we are such odd creatures, why should we not make

the most of it?

Cleo. I thought you was resolved to be better acquainted with yourself,

and to search into your heart with care and boldness.

Hor. That is a cruel thing; I tried it three times since I saw you

last, till it put me into a sweat, and then I was forced to leave off.

Cleo. You should try again, and use yourself by degrees to think

abstractly, and then the book will be a great help to you.

Hor. To confound me it will: it makes a jest of all politeness and

good manners.

Cleo. Excuse me, Sir, it only tells us, what they are.

Hor. It tells us, that all good manners consist in flattering the

pride of others, and concealing our own. Is not that a horrid thing?

Cleo. But is it not true?

Hor. As soon as I had read that passage, it struck me: down I laid

the book, and tried in above fifty instances, sometimes of civility,

and sometimes of ill manners, whether it would answer or not, and I

profess that it held good in every one.

Cleo. And so it would if you tried till doomsday.

Hor. But is not that provoking? I would give a hundred guineas with

all my heart, that I did not know it. I cannot endure to see so much

of my own nakedness.

Cleo. I never met with such an open enmity to truth in a man of

honour before.

Hor. You shall be as severe upon me as you please; what I say is

fact. But since I am got in so far, I must go through with it now:

there are fifty things that I want to be informed about.

Cleo. Name them, pray; if I can be of any service to you, I shall

reckon it as a great honour; I am perfectly well acquainted with the

author's sentiments.

Hor. I have twenty questions to ask about pride, and I do not know

where to begin. There is another thing I do not understand; which is,

that there can be no virtue without self-denial.

Cleo. This was the opinion of all the ancients. Lord Shaftsbury was

the first that maintained the contrary.

Hor. But are there no persons in the world that are good by choice?

Cleo. Yes; but then they are directed in that choice by reason and

experience, and not by nature, I mean, not by untaught nature: but

there is an ambiguity in the word good which I would avoid; let us

stick to that of virtuous, and then I affirm, that no action is such,

which does not suppose and point at some conquest or other, some

victory great or small over untaught nature; otherwise the epithet

is improper.

Hor. But if by the help of a careful education, this victory is

obtained, when we are young, may we not be virtuous afterwards

voluntarily and with pleasure?

Cleo. Yes, if it really was obtained: but how shall we be sure of

this, and what reason have we to believe that it ever was? when it is

evident, that from our infancy, instead of endeavouring to conquer

our appetites, we have always been taught, and have taken pains

ourselves to conceal them; and we are conscious within, that whatever

alterations have been made in our manners and our circumstances,

the passions themselves always remained? The system that virtue

requires to self-denial, is, as my friend has justly observed, a

vast inlet to hypocrisy: it will, on all accounts, furnish men with

a more obvious handle, and a greater opportunity of counterfeiting

the love of society, and regard to the public, than ever they could

have received from the contrary doctrine, viz. that there is no merit

but in the conquest of the passions, nor any virtue without apparent

self-denial. Let us ask those that have had long experience, and are

well skilled in human affairs, whether they have found the generality

of men such impartial judges of themselves, as never to think better of

their own worth than it deserved, or so candid in the acknowledgment

of their hidden faults and slips, they could never be convinced of,

that there is no fear they should ever stifle or deny them. Where is

the man that has at no time covered his failings, and screened himself

with false appearances, or never pretended to act from principles of

social virtue, and his regard to others, when he knew in his heart

that his greatest care had been to oblige himself? The best of us

sometimes receive applause without undeceiving those who give it;

though, at the same time, we are conscious that the actions, for

which we suffer ourselves to be thought well of, are the result of

a powerful frailty in our nature, that has often been prejudicial to

us, and which we have wished a thousand times in vain, that we could

have conquered. The same motives may produce very different actions,

as men differ in temper and circumstances. Persons of an easy fortune

may appear virtuous, from the same turn of mind that would show their

frailty if they were poor. I£ we would know the world, we must look

into it. You take no delight in the occurrences of low life; but if

we always remain among persons of quality, and extend our inquiries no

farther, the transactions there will not furnish us with a sufficient

knowledge of every thing that belongs to our nature. There are,

among the middling people, men of low circumstances, tolerably well

educated, that set out with the same stock of virtues and vices,

and though equally qualified, meet with very different success;

visibly owing to the difference in their temper. Let us take a view

of two persons bred to the same business, that have nothing but their

parts and the world before them, launching out with the same helps and

disadvantages: let there be no difference between them, but in their

temper; the one active, and the other indolent. The latter will never

get an estate by his own industry, though his profession be gainful,

and himself master of it. Chance, or some uncommon accident, may be

the occasion of great alterations in him, but without that he will

hardly ever raise himself to mediocrity. Unless his pride affects him

in an extraordinary manner, he must always be poor, and nothing but

some share of vanity can hinder him from being despicably so. If he

be a man of sense, he will be strictly honest, and a middling stock

of covetousness will never divert him from it. In the active stirring

man, that is easily reconciled to the bustle of the world, we shall

discover quite different symptoms, under the same circumstances;

and a very little avarice will egg him on to pursue his aim with

eagerness and assiduity: small scruples are no opposition to him;

where sincerity will not serve, he uses artifice; and in compassing

his ends, the greatest use he will make of his good sense will be,

to preserve as much as is possible, the appearance of honesty; when

his interest obliges him to deviate from it. To get wealth, or even a

livelihood by arts and sciences, it is not sufficient to understand

them: it is a duty incumbent on all men, who have their maintenance

to seek, to make known and forward themselves in the world, as far as

decency allows of, without bragging of themselves, or doing prejudice

to others: here the indolent man is very deficient and wanting to

himself; but seldom will own his fault, and often blames the public for

not making use of him, and encouraging that merit, which they never

were acquainted with, and himself perhaps took pleasure to conceal;

and though you convince him of his error, and that he has neglected

even the most warrantable methods of soliciting employment, he will

endeavour to colour over his frailty with the appearance of virtue;

and what is altogether owing to his too easy temper, and an excessive

fondness for the calmness of his mind, he will ascribe to his modesty

and the great aversion he has to impudence and boasting. The man of a

contrary temper trusts not to his merit only, or the setting it off

to the best advantage; he takes pains to heighten it in the opinion

of others, and make his abilities seem greater than he knows them to

be. As it is counted folly for a man to proclaim his own excellencies,

and speak magnificently of himself, so his chief business is to seek

acquaintance, and make friends on purpose to do it for him: all other

passions he sacrifices to his ambition; he laughs at disappointments,

is inured to refusals, and no repulse dismays him: this renders the

whole man always flexible to his interest; he can defraud his body of

necessaries, and allow no tranquillity to his mind; and counterfeit,

if it will serve his turn, temperance, chastity, compassion, and piety

itself, without one grain of virtue or religion: his endeavours to

advance his fortune per fas et nefas are always restless, and have

no bounds, but where he is obliged to act openly, and has reason to

fear the censure of the world. It is very diverting to see how, in the

different persons I speak of, natural temper will warp and model the

very passions to its own bias: pride, for example, has not the same,

but almost a quite contrary effect on the one to what it has on the

other: the stirring active man it makes in love with finery, clothes,

furniture, equipages, building, and every thing his superiors enjoy:

the other it renders sullen, and perhaps morose; and if he has wit,

prone to satire, though he be otherwise a good-natured man. Self-love,

in every individual, ever bestirs itself in soothing and flattering

the darling inclination; always turning from us the dismal side of

the prospect; and the indolent man in such circumstances, finding

nothing pleasing without, turns his view inward upon himself; and

there, looking on every thing with great indulgence, admires and

takes delight in his own parts, whether natural or acquired: hence

he is easily induced to despise all others who have not the same

good qualifications, especially the powerful, and wealthy, whom yet

he never hates or envies with any violence; because that would ruffle

his temper. All things that are difficult he looks upon as impossible,

which makes him despair of meliorating his condition; and as he has

no possessions, and his gettings will but just maintain him in a low

station of life, so his good sense, if he would enjoy so much as the

appearance of happiness, must necessarily put him upon two things; to

be frugal, and pretend to have no value for riches; for, by neglecting

either, he must be blown up, and his frailty unavoidably discovered.

Hor. I am pleased with your observations, and the knowledge you display

of mankind; but pray, is not the frugality you now speak of a virtue?

Cleo. I think not.

Hor. Where there is but a small income, frugality is built upon reason;

and in this case there is an apparent self-denial, without which an

indolent man that has no value for money cannot be frugal; and we

see indolent men, that have no regard for wealth, reduced to beggary,

as it often happens, it is most commonly for want of this virtue.

Cleo. I told you before, that the indolent man, setting out as he did,

would be poor; and that nothing but some share of vanity could hinder

him from being despicably so. A strong fear of shame may gain so much

upon the indolence of a man of sense, that he will bestir himself

sufficiently to escape contempt; but it will hardly make him do any

more; therefore he embraces frugality, as being instrumental and

assisting to him in procuring his summum bonum, the darling quiet

of his easy mind; whereas, the active man, with the same share of

vanity, would do any thing rather than submit to the same frugality,

unless his avarice forced him to it. Frugality is no virtue, when it

is imposed upon us by any of the passions, and the contempt of riches

is seldom sincere. I have known men of plentiful estates, that, on

account of posterity, or other warrantable views of employing their

money, were saving, and more penurious, than they would have been,

if their wealth had been greater: but I never yet found a frugal

man, without avarice or necessity. And again, there are innumerable

spendthrifts, lavish and extravagant to a high degree, who seem not to

have the least regard to money, whilst they have any to fling away:

but these wretches are the least capable of bearing poverty of any,

and the money once gone, hourly discover how uneasy, impatient, and

miserable they are without it. But what several in all ages have made

pretence to, the contempt of riches, is more scarce than is commonly

imagined. To see a man of a very good estate, in health and strength

of body and mind, one that has no reason to complain of the world or

fortune, actually despise both, and embrace a voluntary poverty, for a

laudable purpose, is a great rarity. I know but one in all antiquity,

to whom all this may be applied with strictness of truth.

Hor. Who is that, pray?

Cleo. Anaxagoras of Clazomene in Ionia: He was very rich, of noble

extraction, and admired for his great capacity: he divided and gave

away his estate among his relations, and refused to meddle with the

administration of public affairs that was offered him, for no other

reason, than that he might have leisure for contemplation of the

works of nature, and the study of philosophy.

Hor. To me it seems to be more difficult to be virtuous without money,

than with: it is senseless for a man to be poor, when he can help it,

and if I saw any body choose it, when he might as lawfully be rich,

I would think him to be distracted.

Cleo. But you would not think him so, if you saw him sell his estate,

and give the money to the poor: you know where that was required.

Hor. It is not required of us.

Cleo. Perhaps not: but what say you to renouncing the world, and the

solemn promise we have made of it?

Hor. In a literal sense that is impossible, unless we go out of it;

and therefore I do not think, that to renounce the world signifies

any more, than not to comply with the vicious, wicked part of it.

Cleo. I did not expect a more rigid construction from you, though it is

certain, that wealth and power are great snares, and strong impediments

to all Christian virtue: but the generality of mankind, that have any

thing to lose, are of your opinion; and let us bar saints and madmen,

we shall find every where, that those who pretend to undervalue,

and are always haranguing against wealth, are generally poor and

indolent. But who can blame them? They act in their own defence;

nobody that could help it would ever be laughed at; for it must be

owned, that of all the hardships of poverty, it is that which is the

most intolerable.

Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se,

Quam quod ridiculos homines faciat.----

In the very satisfaction that is enjoyed by those who excel in,

or are possessed of things valuable, there is interwoven a spice of

contempt for others, that are destitute of them, which nothing keeps

from public view, but a mixture of pity and good manners. Whoever

denies this, let them consult within, and examine whether it is not

the same with happiness, as what Seneca says of the reverse, nemo

est miser nisi comparatus. The contempt and ridicule I speak of,

is, without doubt, what all men of sense and education endeavour to

avoid or disappoint. Now, look upon the behaviour of the two contrary

tempers before us, and mind how differently they set about this talk,

every one suitably to his own inclination. The man of action, you see,

leaves no stone unturned to acquire quod oportet habere: but this is

impossible for the indolent; he cannot stir; his idol ties him down

hand and foot; and, therefore, the easiest, and, indeed the only thing

he has left, is to quarrel with the world, and find out arguments to

depreciate what others value themselves upon.

Hor. I now plainly see, how pride and good sense must put an indolent

man, that is poor, upon frugality; and likewise the reason, why they

will make him affect to be content, and seem pleased with his low

condition: for, if he will not be frugal, want and misery are at the

door: and if he shows any fondness for riches, or a more ample way

of living, he loses the only plea he has for his darling frailty,

and immediately he will be asked, why he does not exert himself in a

better manner? and he will be continually told of the opportunities

he neglects.

Cleo. It is evident, then, that the true reasons, why men speak

against things, are not always writ upon their foreheads.

Hor. But after all this quiet easy temper, this indolence you talk of,

is it not what, in plain English, we call laziness?

Cleo. Not at all; it implies no sloth, or aversion to labour: an

indolent man may be very diligent, though he cannot be industrious:

he will take up with things below him, if they come in his way; he

will work in a garret, or any where else, remote from public view,

with patience and assiduity, but he knows not how to solicit and teaze

others to employ him, or demand his due of a shuffling, designing

master, that is either difficult of access, or tenacious of his money:

if he be a man of letters, he will study hard for a livelihood, but

generally parts with his labours at a disadvantage, and will knowingly

sell them at an under-rate to an obscure man, who offers to purchase,

rather than bear the insults of haughty booksellers, and be plagued

with the sordid language of the trade. An indolent man may, by chance,

meet with a person of quality, that takes a fancy to him; but he will

never get a patron by his own address; neither will he ever be the

better for it, when he has one, further than the unasked-for bounty,

and downright generosity of his benefactor make him. As he speaks

for himself with reluctancy, and is always afraid of asking favours,

so, for benefits received, he shows no other gratitude, than what

the natural emotions of his heart suggest to him. The striving,

active man studies all the winning ways to ingratiate himself,

and hunts after patrons with design and sagacity: whilst they are

beneficial to him; he affects a perpetual sense of thankfulness;

but all his acknowledgments of past obligations, he turns into

solicitations for fresh favours: his complaisance may be engaging,

and his flattery ingenious, but the heart is untouched: he has

neither leisure, nor the power to love his benefactors: the eldest

he has, he will always sacrifice to a new one; and he has no other

esteem for the fortune, the greatness, or the credit of a patron,

than as he can make them subservient either to raise or maintain

his own. From all this, and a little attention on human affairs,

we may easily perceive, in the first place, that the man of action,

and an enterprising temper, in following the dictates of his nature,

must meet with more rubs and obstacles infinitely, than the indolent,

and a multitude of strong temptations, to deviate from the rules of

strict virtue, which hardly ever come in the other's way; that, in many

circumstances, he will be forced to commit such actions, for which,

all his skill and prudence notwithstanding, he will, by some body or

other, deservedly be thought to be an ill man; and that to end with

a tolerable reputation, after a long course of life, he must have had

a great deal of good fortune, as well as cunning. Secondly, that the

indolent man may indulge his inclinations, and be as sensual as his

circumstances may let him, with little offence or disturbance to his

neighbour; that the excessive value he sets upon the tranquillity of

his mind, and the grand aversion he has to part with it, must prove a

strong curb to every passion, that comes uppermost; none of which, by

this means, can ever affect him in any high degree, and consequently,

that the corruption of his heart remaining, he may, with little art and

no great trouble, acquire many valuable qualities, that shall have all

the appearances of social virtues, whilst nothing extraordinary befals

him. As to his contempt of the world, the indolent man perhaps will

scorn to make his court, and cringe to a haughty favourite, that will

browbeat him at first; but he will run with joy to a rich nobleman,

that he is sure will receive him with kindness and humanity: With

him he will partake, without reluctancy, of all the elegant comforts

of life that are offered, the most expensive not excepted. Would you

try him further, confer upon him honour and wealth in abundance. If

this change in his fortune stirs up no vice that lay dormant before,

as it may by rendering him either covetous or extravagant, he will

soon conform himself to the fashionable world: Perhaps he will be a

kind master, an indulgent father, a benevolent neighbour, munificent

to merit that pleases him, a patron to virtue, and a wellwisher to

his country; but for the rest, he will take all the pleasure he is

capable of enjoying; stifle no passion he can calmly gratify, and,

in the midst of a luxuriant plenty, laugh heartily at frugality,

and the contempt of riches and greatness he professed in his poverty;

and cheerfully own the futility of those pretences.

Hor. I am convinced, that, in the opinion of virtue's requiring

self-denial, there is greater certainty, and hypocrites have less

latitude than in the contrary system.

Cleo. Whoever follows his own inclinations, be they never so kind,

beneficent, or human, never quarrel with any vice, but what is

clashing with his temperament and nature; whereas those who act

from a principle of virtue, take always reason for their guide,

and combat, without exception, every passion that hinders them from

their duty! The indolent man will never deny a just debt; but, if it

be large, he will not give himself the trouble which, poor as he is,

he might, and ought to take to discharge it, or, at least, satisfy

his creditors, unless he is often dunned, or threatened to be sued

for it. He will not be a litigious neighbour, nor make mischief among

his acquaintance; but he will never serve his friend or his country,

at the expence of his quiet. He will not be rapacious, oppress the

poor, or commit vile actions for lucre; but then he will never exert

himself, and be at the pains another would take on all opportunities,

to maintain a large family, make provision for children, and promote

his kindred and relations; and his darling frailty will incapacitate

him from doing a thousand things for the benefit of the society, which,

with the same parts and opportunities, he might, and would have done,

had he been of another temper.

Hor. Your observations are very curious, and, as far as I can judge

from what I have seen myself, very just and natural.

Cleo. Every body knows that there is no virtue so often counterfeited

as charity, and yet so little regard have the generality of men to

truth, that how gross and bare-faced soever the deceit is in pretences

of this nature, the world never fails of being angry with, and

hating those who detect or take notice of the fraud. It is possible,

that, with blind fortune on his side, a mean shopkeeper, by driving

a trade prejudicial to his country on the one hand, and grinding,

on all occasions, the face of the poor on the other, may accumulate

great wealth; which, in process of time, by continual scraping, and

sordid saving, may be raised into an exorbitant, an unheard-of estate

for a tradesman. Should such a one, when old and decrepit, lay out

the greatest part of his immense riches in the building, or largely

endowing an hospital, and I was thoroughly acquainted with his temper

and manners, I could have no opinion of his virtue, though he parted

with the money, whilst he was yet alive; more especially, if I was

assured, that, in his last will, he had been highly unjust, and had

not only left unrewarded several, whom he had great obligations to,

but likewise defrauded others, to whom, in his conscience, he knew

that he was, and would die actually indebted. I desire you to tell

me what name, knowing all I have said to be true, you would give to

this extraordinary gift, this mighty donation!

Hor. I am of opinion, than when an action of our neighbour may admit

of different constructions, it is our duty to side with, and embrace

the most favourable.

Cleo. The most favourable constructions with all my heart: But what is

that to the purpose, when all the straining in the world cannot make

it a good one? I do not mean the thing itself, but the principle it

came from, the inward motive of the mind that put him upon performing

it; for it is that which, in a free agent, I call the action: And,

therefore, call it what you please, and judge as charitably of it as

you can, what can you say of it?

Hor. He might have had several motives, which I do not pretend to

determine; but it is an admirable contrivance of being extremely

beneficial to all posterity in this land, a noble provision that will

perpetually relieve, and be an unspeakable comfort to a multitude

of miserable people; and it is not only a prodigious, but likewise a

well-concerted bounty that was wanting, and for which, in after ages,

thousands of poor wretches will have reason to bless his memory,

when every body else shall have neglected them.

Cleo. All that I have nothing against; and if you would add more,

I shall not dispute it with you, as long as you confine your praises

to the endowment itself, and the benefit the public is like to receive

from it. But to ascribe it to, or suggest that it was derived from a

public spirit in the man, a generous sense of humanity and benevolence

to his kind, a liberal heart, or any other virtue or good quality,

which it is manifest the donor was an utter stranger to, is the

utmost absurdity in an intelligent creature, and can proceed from no

other cause than either a wilful wronging of his own understanding,

or else ignorance and folly.

Hor. I am persuaded, that many actions are put off for virtuous,

that are not so; and that according as men differ in natural temper,

and turn of mind, so they are differently influenced by the same

passions: I believe likewise, that these last are born with us, and

belong to our nature; that some of them are in us, or at least the

seeds of them, before we perceive them: but since they are in every

individual, how comes it that pride is more predominant in some than

it is in others? For from what you have demonstrated already, it must

follow, that one person is more affected with the passion within

than another; I mean, that one man has actually a greater share of

pride than another, as well among the artful that are dexterous in

concealing it, as among the ill-bred that openly show it.