Cleo. What belongs to our nature, all men may justly be said to have

actually or virtually in them at their birth; and whatever is not born

with us, either the thing itself, or that which afterwards produces

it, cannot be said to belong to our nature: but as we differ in our

faces and stature, so we do in other things, that are more remote from

sight: but all these depend only upon the different frame, the inward

formation of either the solids or the fluids; and there are vices

of complexion, that are peculiar, some to the pale and phlegmatic,

others to the sanguine and choleric: some are more lustful, others more

fearful in their nature, than the generality are: but I believe of man,

generally speaking, what my friend has observed of other creatures,

that the best of the kind, I mean the best formed within, such as

have the finest natural parts, are born with the greatest aptitude

to be proud; but I am convinced, that the difference there is in men,

as to the degrees of their pride, is more owing to circumstances and

education, than any thing in their formation. Where passions are most

gratified and least controlled, the indulgence makes them stronger;

whereas those persons, that have been kept under, and whose thoughts

have never been at liberty to rove beyond the first necessaries of

life; such as have not been suffered, or had no opportunity to gratify

this passion, have commonly the least share of it. But whatever portion

of pride a man may feel in his heart, the quicker his parts are,

the better his understanding is; and the more experience he has, the

more plainly he will perceive the aversion which all men have to those

that discover their pride: and the sooner persons are imbued with good

manners, the sooner they grow perfect in concealing that passion. Men

of mean birth and education, that have been kept in great subjection,

and consequently had no great opportunities to exert their pride,

if ever they come to command others, have a sort of revenge mixed

with that passion, which makes it often very mischievous, especially

in places where they have no superiors or equals, before whom they

are obliged to conceal the odious passion.

Hor. Do you think women have more pride from nature than men?

Cleo. I believe not: but they have a great deal more from education.

Hor. I do not see the reason: for among the better sort, the sons,

especially the eldest, have as many ornaments and fine things given

them from their infancy, to stir up their pride, as the daughters.

Cleo. But among people equally well-educated, the ladies have more

flattery bestowed upon them, than the gentlemen, and it begins sooner.

Hor. But why should pride be more encouraged in women than in men?

Cleo. For the same reason, that it is encouraged in soldiers, more

than it is in other people; to increase their fear of shame, which

makes them always mindful of their honour.

Hor. But to keep both to their respective duties, why must a lady

have more pride than a gentleman?

Cleo. Because the lady is in the greatest danger of straying from it;

she has a passion within, that may begin to affect her at twelve, or

thirteen, and perhaps sooner, and she has all the temptations of the

men to withstand besides: she has all the artillery of our sex to fear;

a seducer of uncommon address and resistless charms, may court her to

what nature prompts and solicits her to do; he may add great promises,

actual bribes; this may be done in the dark, and when nobody is by

dissuade her. Gentlemen very seldom have occasion to show their courage

before they are sixteen or seventeen years of age, and rarely so soon:

they are not put to the trial, till, by conversing with men of honour,

they are confirmed in their pride: in the affair of a quarrel they

have their friends to consult, and these are so many witnesses of their

behaviour, that awe them to their duty, and in a manner oblige them to

obey the laws of honour: all these things conspire to increase their

fear of shame; and if they can but render that superior to the fear of

death, their business is done; they have no pleasure to expect from

breaking the rules of honour, nor any crafty tempter that solicits

them to be cowards. That pride which is the cause of honour in men,

only regards their courage; and if they can but appear to be brave,

and will but follow the fashionable rules of manly honour, they may

indulge all other appetites, and brag of incontinence without reproach:

the pride likewise that produces honour in women, has no other object

than their chastity; and whilst they keep that jewel entire, they can

apprehend no shame: tenderness and delicacy are a compliment to them;

and there is no fear of danger so ridiculous, but they may own it

with ostentation. But notwithstanding the weakness of their frame,

and the softness in which women are generally educated, if overcome

by chance they have sinned in private, what real hazards will they

not run, what torments will they not stifle, and what crimes will

they not commit, to hide from the world that frailty, which they were

taught to be most ashamed of!

Hor. It is certain, that we seldom hear of public prostitutes,

and such as have lost their shame, that they murder their infants,

though they are otherwise the most abandoned wretches: I took notice

of this in the Fable of the Bees, and it is very remarkable.

Cleo. It contains a plain demonstration, that the same passion may

produce either a palpable good or a palpable evil in the same person,

according as self-love and his present circumstances shall direct; and

that the same fear of shame, that makes men sometimes appear so highly

virtuous, may at others oblige them to commit the most heinous crimes:

that, therefore, honour is not founded upon any principle, either of

real virtue or true religion, must be obvious to all that will but mind

what sort of people they are, that are the greatest votaries of that

idol, and the different duties it requires in the two sexes: in the

first place, the worshippers of honour are the vain and voluptuous,

the strict observers of modes and fashions, that take delight in pomp

and luxury, and enjoy as much of the world as they are able: in the

second, the word itself, I mean the sense of it, is so whimsical,

and there is such a prodigious difference in the signification of

it, according as the attribute is differently applied, either to a

man or to a woman, that neither of them shall forfeit their honour,

though each should be guilty, and openly boast of what would be the

others greatest shame.

Hor. I am sorry that I cannot charge you with injustice: but it is

very strange; that to encourage and industriously increase pride

in a refined education, should be the most proper means to make men

solicitous in concealing the outward appearances of it.

Cleo. Yet nothing is more true; but where pride is so much indulged,

and yet to be so carefully kept from all human view, as it is in

persons of honour of both sexes, it would be impossible for mortal

strength to endure the restraint, if men could not be taught to play

the passion against itself, and were not allowed to change the natural

home-bred symptoms of it, for artificial foreign ones.

Hor. By playing the passion against itself, I know you mean placing

a secret pride in concealing the barefaced signs of it: but I do not

rightly understand what you mean by changing the symptoms of it.

Cleo. When a man exults in his pride, and gives a loose to that

passion, the marks of it are as visible in his countenance, his mien,

his gait and behaviour, as they are in a prancing horse, or a strutting

turkey-cock. These are all very odious; every one feeling the same

principle within, which is the cause of those symptoms; and man being

endued with speech, all the open expressions the same passion can

suggest to him, must for the same reason be equally displeasing: these,

therefore, have in all societies been strictly prohibited by common

consent, in the very infancy of good manners; and men have been taught,

in the room of them, to substitute other symptoms, equally evident

with the first, but less offensive, and more beneficial to others.

Hor. Which are they?

Cleo. Fine clothes, and other ornaments about them, the cleanliness

observed about their persons, the submissions that is required of

servants, costly equipages, furniture, buildings, titles of honour,

and every thing that men can acquire to make themselves esteemed

by others, without discovering any of the symptoms that are forbid:

upon a satiety of enjoying these, they are allowed likewise to have

the vapours, and be whimsical, though otherwise they are known to be

in health and of good sense.

Hor. But since the pride of others is displeasing to us in every shape,

and these latter symptoms, you say, are equally evident with the first,

what is got by the change?

Cleo. A great deal: when pride is designedly expressed in looks and

gestures, either in a wild or tame man, it is known by all human

creatures that see it; it is the same, when vented in words, by every

body that understands the language they are spoken in. These are marks

and tokens that are all the world over the same: nobody shows them,

but to have them seen and understood, and few persons ever display

them without designing that offence to others, which they never fail

to give: whereas, the other symptoms may be denied to be what they

are; and many pretences, that they are derived from other motives,

may be made for them, which the same good manners teach us never to

refute, nor easily to disbelieve: in the very excuses that are made,

there is a condescension that satisfies and pleases us. In those that

are altogether destitute of the opportunities to display the symptoms

of pride that are allowed of, the least portion of that passion

is a troublesome, though often an unknown guest; for in them it is

easily turned into envy and malice, and on the least provocation,

it sallies out in those disguises, and is often the cause of cruelty;

and there never was a mischief committed by mobs or multitudes, which

this passion had not a hand in: whereas, the more room men have to

vent and gratify the passion in the warrantable ways, the more easy

it is for them to stifle the odious part of pride, and seem to be

wholly free from it.

Hor. I see very well, that real virtues requires a conquest over

untaught nature, and that the Christian religion demands a still

stricter self-denial: it likewise is evident, that to make ourselves

acceptable to an omniscient Power, nothing is more necessary than

sincerity, and that the heart should be pure. But setting aside sacred

matters, and a future state, do not you think that this complaisance

and easy construction of one another's actions, do a great deal of good

upon earth; and do not you believe that good manners and politeness

make men more happy, and their lives more comfortable in this world,

than any thing else could make them without those arts?

Cleo. If you will set aside what ought to employ our first care,

and be our greatest concern; and men will have no value for that

felicity and peace of mind, which can only arise from a consciousness

of being good, it is certain, that in a great nation, and among a

flourishing people, whose highest wishes seem to be ease and luxury,

the upper part could not, without those arts, enjoy so much of the

world as that can afford; and that none stand more in need of them

than the voluptuous men of parts, that will join worldly prudence to

sensuality, and make it their chief study to refine upon pleasure.

Hor. When I had the honour of your company at my house, you said that

nobody knew when or where, nor in what king's or emperor's reign the

laws of honour were enacted; pray, can you inform me when or which way,

what we call good manners or politeness came into the world? what

moralist or politician was it, that could teach men to be proud of

hiding their pride?

Cleo. The resistless industry of man to supply his wants; and his

constant endeavours to meliorate his condition upon earth, have

produced and brought to perfection many useful arts and sciences,

of which the beginnings are of uncertain eras, and to which we can

align no other causes, than human sagacity in general, and the joint

labour of many ages, in which men have always employed themselves

in studying and contriving ways and means to sooth their various

appetites, and make the best of their infirmities. Whence had we the

first rudiments of architecture; how came sculpture and painting to

be what they have been these many hundred years; and who taught every

nation the respective languages they speak now. When I have a mind

to dive into the origin of any maxim or political invention, for the

use of society in general, I do not trouble my head with inquiring

after the time or country in which it was first heard of, nor what

others have wrote or said about it; but I go directly to the fountain

head, human nature itself, and look for the frailty or defect in man,

that is remedied or supplied by that invention: when things are very

obscure, I sometimes make use of conjectures to find my way.

Hor. Do you argue, or pretend to prove any thing from those

conjectures?

Cleo. No; I never reason but from the plain observations which every

body may make on man, the phenomena that appear in the lesser world.

Hor. You have, without doubt, thought on this subject before now;

would you communicate to me some of your guesses?

Cleo. With abundance of pleasure.

Hor. You will give me leave, now and then, when things are not clear

to me, to put in a word for information's sake.

Cleo. I desire you would: you will oblige me with it. That

self-love was given to all animals, at least, the most perfect,

for self-preservation, is not disputed; but as no creature can love

what it dislikes, it is necessary, moreover, that every one should

have a real liking to its own being, superior to what they have to

any other. I am of opinion, begging pardon for the novelty, that if

this liking was not always permanent, the love which all creatures

have for themselves, could not be so unalterable as we see it is.

Hor. What reason have you to suppose this liking, which creatures

have for themselves, to be distinct from self-love; since the one

plainly comprehends the other?

Cleo. I will endeavour to explain myself better. I fancy, that to

increase the care in creatures to preserve themselves, nature has given

them an instinct, by which every individual values itself above its

real worth; this in us, I mean in man, seems to be accompanied with a

diffidence, arising from a consciousness, or at least an apprehension,

that we do overvalue ourselves: it is that makes us so fond of the

approbation, liking, and assent of others; because they strengthen

and confirm us in the good opinion we have of ourselves. The reasons

why this self-liking, give me leave to call it so, is not plainly to

be seen in all animals that are of the same degree of perfection, are

many. Some want ornaments, and consequently the means to express it;

others are too stupid and listless: it is to be considered likewise,

that creatures, which are always in the same circumstances, and

meet with little variation in their way of living, have neither

opportunity nor temptation to show it; that the more mettle and

liveliness creatures have, the more visible this liking is; and that

in those of the same kind, the greater spirit they are of, and the more

they excel in the perfections of their species, the fonder they are of

showing it: in most birds it is evident, especially in those that have

extraordinary finery to display: in a horse it is more conspicuous than

in any other irrational creature: it is most apparent in the swiftest,

the strongest, the most healthy and vigorous; and may be increased

in that animal by additional ornaments, and the presence of man,

whom he knows, to clean, take care of, and delight in him. It is not

improbable, that this great liking which creatures have for their own

individuals, is the principle on which the love to their species is

built: cows and sheep, too dull and lifeless to make any demonstration

of this liking, yet herd and feed together, each with his own species;

because no others are so like themselves: by this they seem to know

likewise, that they have the same interest, and the same enemies;

cows have often been seen to join in a common defence against wolves:

birds of a feather flock together; and I dare say, that the screechowl

likes her own note better than that of the nightingale.

Hor. Montaigne seems to have been somewhat of your opinion, when he

fancied, that if brutes were to paint the Deity, they would all draw

him of their own species. But what you call self-liking is evidently

pride.

Cleo. I believe it is, or at least the cause of it. I believe,

moreover, that many creatures show this liking, when, for want of

understanding them, we do not perceive it: When a cat washes her face,

and a dog licks himself clean, they adorn themselves as much as it is

in their power. Man himself, in a savage state, feeding on nuts and

acorns, and destitute of all outward ornaments, would have infinitely

less temptation, as well as opportunity, of showing this liking of

himself, than he has when civilized; yet if a hundred males of the

first, all equally free, were together, within less than half an

hour, this liking in question, though their bellies were full, would

appear in the desire of superiority, that would be shown among them;

and the most vigorous, either in strength or understanding, or both,

would be the first that would display it: If, as supposed, they were

all untaught, this would breed contention, and there would certainly

be war before there could be any agreement among them; unless one of

them had some one or more visible excellencies above the rest. I said

males, and their bellies full; because, if they had women among them,

or wanted food, their quarrel might begin on another account.

Hor. This is thinking abstractly indeed: but do you think that two

or three hundred single savages, men and women, that never had been

under any subjection, and were above twenty years of age, could ever

establish a society, and be united into one body, if, without being

acquainted with one another, they should meet by chance!

Cleo. No more, I believe, than so many horses: but societies never were

made that way. It is possible that several families of savages might

unite, and the heads of them agree upon some sort of government or

other, for their common good: but among them it is certain likewise,

that, though superiority was tolerably well settled, and every male

had females enough, strength and prowess in this uncivilized state

would be infinitely more valued than understanding: I mean in the men;

for the women will always prize themselves for what they see the men

admire in them: Hence it would follow, that the women would value

themselves, and envy one another for being handsome; and that the

ugly and deformed, and all those that were least favoured by nature,

would be the first, that would fly to art and additional ornaments:

seeing that this made them more agreeable to the men, it would soon

be followed by the rest, and in a little time they would strive to

outdo one another, as much as their circumstances would allow of;

and it is possible, that a woman, with a very handsome nose, might

envy her neighbour with a much worse, for having a ring through it.

Hor. You take great delight in dwelling on the behaviour of savages;

what relation has this to politeness?

Cleo. The seeds of it are lodged in this self-love and

self-liking, which I have spoke of, as will soon appear, if we

would consider what would be the consequence of them in the affair

of self-preservation, and a creature endued with understanding,

speech, and risibility. Self-love would first make it scrape

together every thing it wanted for sustenance, provide against the

injuries of the air, and do every thing to make itself and young ones

secure. Self-liking would make it seek for opportunities, by gestures,

looks, and sounds, to display the value it has for itself, superior to

what it has for others; an untaught man would desire every body that

came near him, to agree with him in the opinion of his superior worth,

and be angry, as far as his fear would let him, with all that should

refuse it: he would be highly delighted with, and love every body

whom he thought to have a good opinion of him, especially those, that,

by words or gestures, should own it to his face: whenever he met with

any visible marks in others of inferiority to himself, he would laugh,

and do the same at their misfortunes, as far as his own pity would

give him leave, and he would insult every body that would let him.

Hor. This self-liking, you say, was given to creatures for

self-preservation: I should think rather that it is hurtful to men,

because it must make them odious to one another; and I cannot see what

benefit they can receive from it, either in a savage or a civilized

state: is there any instance of its doing any good?

Cleo. I wonder to hear you ask that question. Have you forgot the

many virtues which I have demonstrated, may be counterfeited to gain

applause, and the good qualities a man of sense in great fortune may

acquire, by the sole help and instigation of his pride?

Hor. I beg your pardon: yet what you say only regards man in the

society, and after he has been perfectly well educated: what advantage

is it to him as a single creature? Self-love I can plainly see,

induces him to labour for his maintenance and safety, and makes him

fond of every thing which he imagines to tend to his preservation;

but what good does the self-liking to him?

Cleo. If I should tell you, that the inward pleasure and satisfaction

a man receives from the gratification of that passion, is a cordial

that contributes to his health, you would laugh at me, and think it

far fetched.

Hor. Perhaps not; but I would set against it the many sharp vexations

and heart-breaking sorrows, that men suffer on the score of this

passion, from disgraces, disappointments, and other misfortunes, which,

I believe, have sent millions to their graves much sooner than they

would have gone, if their pride had less affected them.

Cleo. I have nothing against what you say: but this is no proof that

the passion itself was not given to man for self-preservation; and

it only lays open to us the precariousness of sublunary happiness,

and the wretched condition of mortals. There is nothing created that

is always a blessing; the rain and sunshine themselves, to which

all earthly comforts are owing, have been the causes of innumerable

calamities. All animals of prey, and thousand others, hunt after food

with the hazard of their lives, and the greater part of them perish in

their pursuits after sustenance. Plenty itself is not less fatal to

some, than want is to others; and of our own species, every opulent

nation has had great numbers, that in full safety from all other

dangers, have destroyed themselves by excesses of eating and drinking:

yet nothing is more certain, than that hunger and thirst were given to

creatures, to make them solicitous after, and crave those necessaries,

without which it would be impossible for them to subsist.

Hor. Still I can see no advantage accruing from their self-liking to

man, considered as a single creature, which can induce me to believe,

that nature should have given it us for self-preservation. What you

have alleged is obscure; can you name a benefit every individual

person receives from that principle within him, that is manifest,

and clearly to be understood?

Cleo. Since it has been in disgrace, and every body disowns the

passion, it seldom is seen in its proper colours, and disguises

itself in a thousand different shapes: we are often affected with it,

when we have not the least suspicion of it; but it seems to be that

which continually furnishes us with that relish we have for life, even

when it is not worth having. Whilst men are pleased, self-liking has

every moment a considerable share, though unknown, in procuring the

satisfaction they enjoy. It is so necessary to the well-being of those

that have been used to indulge it, that they can taste no pleasure

without it; and such is the deference, and the submissive veneration

they pay to it, that they are deaf to the loudest calls of nature,

and will rebuke the strongest appetites that should pretend to be

gratified at the expence of that passion. It doubles our happiness in

prosperity, and buoys us up against the frowns of adverse fortune. It

is the mother of hopes, and the end as well as the foundation of our

best wishes: it is the strongest armour against despair; and as long

as we can like any ways our situation, either in regard to present

circumstances, or the prospect before us, we take care of ourselves;

and no man can resolve upon suicide, whilst self-liking lasts: but as

soon as that is over, all our hopes are extinct, and we can form no

wishes but for the dissolution of our frame; till at last our being

becomes so intolerable to us, that self-love prompts us to make an

end of it, and seek refuge in death.

Hor. You mean self-hatred; for you have said yourself, that a creature

cannot love what it dislikes.

Cleo. If you turn the prospect, you are in the right: but this

only proves to us what I have often hinted at, that man is made up

of contrarieties; otherwise nothing seems to be more certain, than

that whoever kills himself by choice, must do it to avoid something,

which he dreads more than that death which he chooses. Therefore,

how absurd soever a person's reasoning may be, there is in all suicide

a palpable intention of kindness to one's self.

Hor. I must own that your observations are entertaining. I am very

well pleased with your discourse, and I see an agreeable glimmering

of probability that runs through it; but you have said nothing that

comes up to a half proof on the side of your conjecture, if it be

seriously considered.

Cleo. I told you before that I would lay no stress upon, nor draw any

conclusions from it: but whatever nature's design was in bestowing

this self-liking on creatures, and whether it has been given to

other animals besides ourselves or not, it is certain, that in our

own species every individual person likes himself better than he does

any other.

Hor. It may be so, generally speaking: but that it is not universally

true, I can assure you, from my own experience; for I have often

wished my self to be Count Theodati, whom you knew at Rome.

Cleo. He was a very fine person indeed, and extremely well

accomplished; and therefore you wished to be such another, which is

all you could mean. Celia has a very handsome face, fine eyes, fine

teeth; but she has red hair, and is ill made: therefore she wishes

for Chloe's hair and Belinda's shape; but she would still remain Celia.

Hor. But I wished that I might have been that person, that very

Theodati.

Cleo. That is impossible.

Hor. What, is it impossible to wish it?

Cleo. Yes, to wish it; unless you wished for annihilation at the

same time. It is that self we wish well to; and therefore we cannot

wish for any change in ourselves, but with a proviso, that to self,

that part of us that wishes, should still remain: for take away that

consciousness you had of yourself whilst you was wishing, and tell

me, pray, what part of you it is that could be the better for the

alteration you wished for?

Hor. I believe you are in the right. No man can wish but to enjoy

something, which no part of that same man could do, if he was entirely

another.

Cleo. That he itself, the person wishing, must be destroyed before

the change could be entire.

Hor. But when shall we come to the origin of politeness?

Cleo. We are at it now, and we need not look for it any further than

in the self-liking, which I have demonstrated every individual man to

be possessed of. Do but consider these two things: First, that from

the nature of that passion, it must follow, that all untaught men

will ever be hateful to one another in conversation, where neither

interest nor superiority are considered: for, if of two equals, one

only values himself more by half, than he does the other, though that

other should value the first equally with himself, they would both

be dissatisfied, if their thoughts were known to each other; but if

both valued themselves more by half, than they did each other, the

difference between them would still be greater, and a declaration of

their sentiments would render them both insufferable to each other;

which, among uncivilized men, would happen every moment, because,

without a mixture of art and trouble, the outward symptoms of that

passion are not to be stifled. The second thing I would have you

consider, is, the effect which, in all human probability, this

inconveniency, arising from self-liking, would have upon creatures

endued with a great share of understanding, that are fond of their ease

to the last degree, and as industrious to procure it. These two things,

I say, do but duly weigh, and you shall find that the disturbance and

uneasiness that must be caused by self-liking, whatever strugglings

and unsuccessful trials to remedy them might precede, must necessarily

produce, at long run, what we call good manners and politeness.

Hor. I understand you, I believe. Every body in this undisciplined

state, being affected with the high value he has for himself, and

displaying the most natural symptoms which you have described, they

would all be offended at the barefaced pride of their neighbours:

and it is impossible that this should continue long among rational

creatures, but the repeated experience of the uneasiness they received

from such behaviour, would make some of them reflect on the cause of

it; which, in tract of time, would make them find out, that their own

barefaced pride, must be as offensive to others, as that of others

is to themselves.

Cleo. What you say is certainly the philosophical reason of the

alterations that are made in the behaviour of men, by their being

civilized: but all this is done without reflection; and men by

degrees, and great length of time, fall as it were into these things

spontaneously.

Hor. How is that possible, when it must cost them trouble, and there

is a palpable self-denial to be seen in the restraint they put upon

themselves?

Cleo. In the pursuit of self-preservation, men discover a restless

endeavour to make themselves easy, which insensibly teaches them to

avoid mischief on all emergencies: and when human creatures once

submit to government, and are used to live under the restraint

of laws, it is incredible how many useful cautions, shifts, and

stratagems they will learn to practise by experience and imitation,

from conversing together, without being aware of the natural causes

that oblige them to act as they do, viz. the passions within, that,

unknown to themselves, govern their will and direct their behaviour.

Hor. You will make men as mere machines as Cartes does brutes.

Cleo. I have no such design: but I am of opinion, that men find out

the use of their limbs by instinct, as much as brutes do the use of

theirs; and that, without knowing any thing of geometry or arithmetic,

even children may learn to perform actions that seem to bespeak great

skill in mechanics, and a considerable depth of thought and ingenuity

in the contrivance besides.

Hor. What actions are they which you judge this from?

Cleo. The advantageous postures which they will choose in resisting

force, in pulling, pushing, or otherwise removing weight; from their

sleight and dexterity in throwing stones, and other projectiles;

and the stupendous cunning made use of in leaping.

Hor. What stupendous cunning, I pray?

Cleo. When men would leap or jump a great way, you know, they take

a run before they throw themselves off the ground. It is certain,

that, by this means, they jump farther, and with greater force than

they could do otherwise: the reason likewise is very plain. The body

partakes of, and is moved by two motions; and the velocity, impressed

upon it by leaping, must be added to so much, as it retained of the

velocity it was put into by running: Whereas, the body of a person

who takes this leap, as he is standing still, has no other motion,

than what is received from the muscular strength exerted in the act of

leaping. See a thousand boys, as well as men, jump, and they will make

use of this stratagem; but you will not find one of them that does it

knowingly for that reason. What I have said of that stratagem made

use of in leaping, I desire you would apply to the doctrine of good

manners, which is taught and practised by millions, who never thought

on the origin of politeness, or so much as knew the real benefit it is

of to society. The most crafty and designing will every where be the

first; that, for interest-sake, will learn to conceal this passion

of pride, and, in a little time, nobody will show the least symptom

of it, whilst he is asking favours, or stands in need of help.

Hor. That rational creatures should do all this, without thinking or

knowing what they are about, is inconceivable. Bodily motion is one

thing, and the exercise of the understanding is another; and therefore

agreeable postures, a graceful mien, an easy carriage, and a genteel

outward behaviour, in general, may be learned and contracted perhaps

without much thought; but good manners are to be observed every where,

in speaking, writing, and ordering actions to be performed by others.

Cleo. To men who never turned their thoughts that way, it certainly

is almost inconceivable to what prodigious height, from next to

nothing, some arts may be, and have been raised by human industry

and application, by the uninterrupted labour and joint experience of

many ages, though none but men of ordinary capacity should ever be

employed in them. What a noble, as well as beautiful, what a glorious

machine is a first rate man of war when she is under sail, well rigged,

and well manned! As in bulk and weight it is vastly superior to any

other moveable body of human invention, so there is no other that

has an equal variety of differently surprising contrivance to boast

of. There are many sets of hands in the nation, that, not wanting

proper materials, would be able in less than half a-year, to produce,

fit out, and navigate a first rate: yet it is certain, that this

task would be impracticable, if it was not divided and subdivided

into a great variety of different labours; and it is as certain,

that none of these labours require any other, than working men of

ordinary capacities.

Hor. What would you infer from this?

Cleo. That we often ascribe to the excellency of man's genius, and

the depth of his penetration, what is in reality owing to length

of time, and the experience of many generations, all of them very

little differing from one another in natural parts and sagacity. And

to know what it must have cost to bring that art of making ships for

different purposes, to the perfection in which it is now, we are only

to consider, in the first place, that many considerable improvements

have been made in it within these fifty years and less; and, in the

second, that the inhabitants of this island did build, and make use

of ships eighteen hundred years ago, and that, from that time to this,

they have never been without.

Hor. Which altogether make a strong proof of the slow progress that

art has made to be what it is.

Cleo. The Chevalier Reneau has wrote a book, in which he shows the

mechanism of sailing, and accounts mathematically for every thing

that belongs to the working and steering of a ship. I am persuaded,

that neither the first inventors of ships and sailing, or those who

have made improvements since in any part of them, ever dreamed of

those reasons, any more than now the rudest and most illiterate of the

vulgar do, when they are made sailors, which time and practice will

do in spite of their teeth. We have thousands of them that were first

hauled on board, and detained against their wills, and yet, in less

than three years time, knew every rope and every pully in the ship,

and without the least scrap of mathematics, had learned the management

as well as use of them, much better than the greatest mathematician

could have done in all his lifetime, if he had never been at sea. The

book I mentioned, among other curious things, demonstrates what angle

the rudder must make with the keel, to render its influence upon the

ship the most powerful. This has its merit; but a lad of fifteen, who

has served a year of his time on board of a hoy, knows every thing that

is useful in this demonstration, practically. Seeing the poop always

answering the motion of the helm, he only minds the latter, without

making the least reflection on the rudder, until in a year or two more

his knowledge in sailing, and capacity of steering his vessel, become

so habitual to him, that he guides her, as he does his own body, by

instinct, though he is half asleep, or thinking on quite another thing.

Hor. If, as you said, and which I now believe to be true, the people

who first invented, and afterwards improved upon ships and sailing,

never dreamed of those reasons of Monsieur Reneau, it is impossible

that they should have acted from them, as motives that induced them

à priori, to put their inventions and improvements in practice, with

knowledge and design, which, I suppose, is what you intended to prove.

Cleo. It is; and I verily believe, not only that the raw beginners,

who made the first essays in either art, good manners as well as

sailing, were ignorant of the true cause; the real foundation those

arts are built upon in nature; but likewise that, even now both arts

are brought to great perfection, the greatest part of those that are

most expert, and daily making improvements in them, know as little of

the rationale of them, as their predecessors did at first: though I

believe, at the same time, Monsieur Reneau's reasons to be very just,

and yours as good as his; that is, I believe, that there is as much

truth and solidity in your accounting for the origin of good manners,

as there is in his for the management of ships. They are very seldom

the same sort of people, those that invent arts and improvements in

them, and those that inquire into the reason of things: this latter

is most commonly practised by such as are idle and indolent, that are

fond of retirement, hate business, and take delight in speculation;

whereas, none succeed oftener in the first, than active, stirring,

and laborious men, such as will put their hand to the plough, try

experiments, and give all their attention to what they are about.

Hor. It is commonly imagined, that speculative men are best at

invention of all sorts.

Cleo. Yet it is a mistake. Soap-boiling, grain-drying, and other trades

and mysteries, are, from mean beginnings, brought to great perfection;

but the many improvements that can be remembered to have been made in

them, have, for the generality, been owing to persons, who either were

brought up to, or had long practised, and been conversant in those

trades, and not to great proficients in chemistry, or other parts of

philosophy, whom one would naturally expect those things from. In some

of these arts, especially grain or scarlet-dying, there are processes

really astonishing; and, by the mixture of various ingredients, by

fire and fermentation, several operations are performed, which the

most sagacious naturalist cannot account for by any system yet known;

a certain sign that they were not invented by reasoning à priori. When

once the generality begin to conceal the high value they have for

themselves, men must become more tolerable to one another. Now, new

improvements must be made every day, until some of them grow impudent

enough, not only to deny the high value they have for themselves,

but likewise to pretend that they have greater value for others, than

they have for themselves. This will bring in complaisance; and now

flattery will rush in upon them like a torrent. As soon as they are

arrived at this pitch of insincerity, they will find the benefit of

it, and teach it their children. The passion of shame is so general,

and so early discovered in all human creatures, that no nation can

be so stupid, as to be long without observing and making use of it

accordingly. The same may be said of the credulity of infants, which

is very inviting to many good purposes. The knowledge of parents is

communicated to their offspring, and every one's experience in life

being added to what he learned in his youth, every generation after

this must be better taught than the preceding; by which means, in two

or three centuries, good manners must be brought to great perfection.

Hor. When they are thus far advanced, it is easy to conceive the rest:

For improvements, I suppose, are made in good manners, as they are

in all other arts and sciences. But to commence from savages, men,

I believe, would make but a small progress in good manners the first

three hundred years. The Romans, who had a much better beginning,

had been a nation above six centuries, and were almost masters of

the world, before they could be said to be a polite people. What I

am most astonished at, and which I am now convinced of, is, that the

basis of all this machinery is pride. Another thing I wonder at, is,

that you chose to speak of a nation that entered upon good manners

before they had any notions of virtue or religion, which, I believe,

there never was in the world.

Cleo. Pardon me, Horatio; I have nowhere insinuated that they had none,

but I had no reason to mention them. In the first place, you asked

my opinion concerning the use of politeness in this world, abstract

from the considerations of a future state: Secondly, the art of good

manners has nothing to do with virtue or religion, though it seldom

clashes with either. It is a science that is ever built on the same

steady principle in our nature, whatever the age or the climate may

be in which it is practised.

Hor. How can any thing be said not to clash with virtue or religion,

that has nothing to do with either, and consequently disclaims both?

Cleo. This, I confess, seems to be a paradox; yet it is true. The

doctrine of good manners teaches men to speak well of all virtues,

but requires no more of them in any age or country, than the outward

appearance of those in fashion. And as to sacred matters, it is every

where satisfied with seeming conformity in outward worship; for all

the religions in the universe are equally agreeable to good manners,

where they are national; and pray what opinion must we say a teacher

to be of, to whom all opinions are probably alike? All the precepts

of good manners throughout the world have the same tendency, and

are no more than the various methods of making ourselves acceptable

to others, with as little prejudice to ourselves as is possible: by

which artifice we assist one another in the enjoyments of life, and

refining upon pleasure; and every individual person is rendered more

happy by it in the fruition of all the good things he can purchase,

than he could have been without such behaviour. I mean happy, in the

sense of the voluptuous. Let us look back on old Greece, the Roman

empire, or the great eastern nations that flourished before them,

and we shall find, that luxury and politeness ever grew up together,

and were never enjoyed asunder; that comfort and delight upon earth

have always employed the wishes of the beau monde; and that, as

their chief study and greatest solicitude, to outward appearance,

have ever been directed to obtain happiness in this world, so what

would become of them in the next, seems, to the naked eye, always to

have been the least of their concern.

Hor. I thank you for your lecture: you have satisfied me in several

things, which I had intended to ask: But you have said some others,

that I must have time to consider; after which I am resolved to wait

upon you again; for I begin to believe, that, concerning the knowledge

of ourselves, most books are either very defective or very deceitful.

Cleo. There is not a more copious, nor a more faithful volume

than human nature, to those who will diligently peruse it; and I

sincerely believe, that I have discovered nothing to you, which, if

you had thought of it with attention, you would not have found out

yourself. But I shall never be better pleased with myself, than when

I can contribute to any entertainment you shall think diverting.

THE FOURTH

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

HORATIO AND CLEOMENES.

CLEOMENES.

Your servant.

Hor. What say you now, Cleomenes; is it not this without ceremony?

Cleo. You are very obliging.

Hor. When they told me where you was, I would suffer nobody to tell

you who it was that wanted you, or to come up with me.

Cleo. This is friendly, indeed!

Hor. You see what a proficient I am: In a little time you will teach

me to lay aside all good manners.

Cleo. You make a fine tutor of me.

Hor. You will pardon me, I know: this study of yours is a very

pretty place.

Cleo. I like it, because the sun never enters it.

Hor. A very pretty room!

Cleo. Shall we sit down in it? It is the coolest room in the house.

Hor. With all my heart.

Cleo. I was in hopes to have seen you before now: you have taken a

long time to consider.

Hor. Just eight days?

Cleo. Have you thought on the novelty I started?

Hor. I have, and think it not void of probability; for that there are

no innate ideas, and men come into the world without any knowledge

at all, I am convinced of, and therefore it is evident to me, that

all arts and sciences must once have had a beginning in somebody's

brain, whatever oblivion that may now be lost in. I have thought

twenty times since I saw you last, on the origin of good manners,

and what a pleasant scene it would be to a man who is tolerably well

versed in the world, to see among a rude nation those first essays

they made of concealing their pride from one another.

Cleo. You see by this, that it is chiefly the novelty of things

that strikes, as well in begetting our aversion, as in gaining our

approbation; and that we may look upon many indifferently, when they

come to be familiar to us, though they were shocking when they were

new. You are now diverting yourself with a truth, which eight days

ago you would have given an hundred guineas not to have known.

Hor. I begin to believe there is nothing so absurd, that it would

appear to us to be such, is we had been accustomed to it very young.

Cleo. In a tolerable education, we are so industriously and so

assiduously instructed, from our most early infancy, in the ceremonies

of bowing, and pulling off hats, and other rules of behaviour, that

even before we are men we hardly look upon a mannerly deportment as

a thing acquired, or think conversation to be a science. Thousand

things are called easy and natural in postures and motions, as well

as speaking and writing, that have caused infinite pains to others as

well as ourselves, and which we know to be the product of art. What

awkward lumps have I known, which the dancing-master has put limbs to!

Hor. Yesterday morning as I sat musing by myself, an expression of

yours which I did not so much reflect upon at first, when I heard it,

came into my head, and made me smile. Speaking of the rudiments of good

manners in an infant nation, when they once entered upon concealing

their pride, you said, that improvements would be made every day,

"till some of them grew impudent enough, not only to deny the high

value they had for themselves, but likewise to pretend that they had

greater value for others than they had for themselves."

Cleo. It is certain, that this every where must have been the

forerunner of flattery.

Hor. When you talk of flattery and impudence, what do you think of

the first man that had the face to tell his equal, that he was his

humble servant?

Cleo. If that had been a new compliment, I should have wondered much

more at the simplicity of the proud man that swallowed, than I would

have done at the impudence of the knave that made it.

Hor. It certainly once was new: which pray do you believe more ancient,

pulling off the hat, or saying, your humble servant?

Cleo. They are both of them Gothic and modern.

Hor. I believe pulling off the hat was first, it being the emblem

of liberty.

Cleo. I do not think so: for he who pulled of his hat the first time,

could not have been understood, if saying your servant had not been

practised: and to show respect, a man as well might have pulled off

one of his shoes, as his hat; if saying, your servant, had not been

an established and well-known compliment.

Hor. So he might, as you say, and had a better authority for the first,

than he could have for the latter.

Cleo. And to this day, taking of the hat is a dumb show of a

known civility in words: Mind now the power of custom, and imbibed

notions. We both laugh at this Gothic absurdity, and are well assured,

that it must have had its origin from the basest flattery; yet neither

of us, walking with our hats on, could meet an acquaintance with whom

we are not very familiar, without showing this piece of civility;

nay, it it would be a pain to us not to do it. But we have no reason

to think, that the compliment of saying, your servant, began among

equals; but rather that, flatterers having given it to princes, it grew

afterwards more common: for all those postures and flexions of body

and limbs, had in all probability their rise from the adulation that

was paid to conquerors and tyrants; who, having every body to fear,

were always alarmed at the least shadow of opposition, and never better

pleased than with submissive and defenceless postures: and you see,

that they have all a tendency that way; they promise security, and

are silent endeavours to ease and rid them, not only of their fears,

but likewise every suspicion of harm approaching them: such as lying

prostrate on our faces, touching the ground with our heads, kneeling,

bowing low, laying our hands upon our breasts, or holding them behind

us, folding our arms together, and all the cringes that can be made

to demonstrate that we neither indulge our ease, nor stand upon our

guard. These are evident signs and convincing proofs to a superior,

that we have a mean opinion of ourselves in respect to him, that we

are at his mercy, and have no thought to resist, much less to attack

him; and therefore it is highly probable, that saying, your servant,

and pulling off the hat, were at first demonstrations of obedience

to those that claimed it.

Hor. Which in tract of time became more familiar, and were made use

of reciprocally in the way of civility.

Cleo. I believe so; for as good manners increase, we see, that the

highest compliments are made common, and new ones to superiors invented

instead of them.

Hor. So the word grace, which not long ago was a title, that none but

our kings and queens were honoured with, is devolved upon archbishops

and dukes.

Cleo. It was the same with highness, which is now given to the

children, and even the grandchildren of kings.

Hor. The dignity that is annexed to the signification of the word lord,

has been better preserved with us, than in most countries: in Spanish,

Italian, high and low Dutch, it is prostituted to almost every body.

Cleo. It has had better fate in France; where likewise the word sire

has lost nothing of its majesty, and is only used to the monarch:

whereas, with us, it is a compliment of address, that may be made to

a cobbler, as well as to a king.

Hor. Whatever alterations may be made in the sense of words, by

time; yet, as the world grows more polished, flattery becomes less

barefaced, and the design of it upon man's pride is better disguised

than it was formerly. To praise a man to his face, was very common

among the ancients: considering humility to be a virtue particularly

required of Christians, I have often wondered how the fathers of the

church could suffer those acclamations and applauses, that were made

to them whilst they were preaching; and which, though some of them

spoke against them, many of them appear to have been extremely fond of.

Cleo. Human nature is always the same; where men exert themselves to

the utmost, and take uncommon pains, that spend and waste the spirits,

those applauses are very reviving the fathers who spoke against them,

spoke chiefly against the abuse of them.

Hor. It must have been very odd to hear people bawling out, as often

the greatest part of an audience did, Sophos, divinitus, non potest

melius, mirabiliter, acriter, ingeniose: they told the preachers

likewise that they were orthodox, and sometimes called them, apostolus

decimus tertius.

Cleo. These words at the end of a period might have passed, but the

repetitions of them were often so loud and so general, and the noise

they made with their hands and feet, so disturbing in and out of

season, that they could not hear a quarter of the the sermon; yet

several fathers owned that it was highly delightful, and soothing

human frailty.

Hor. The behaviour at churches is more decent, as it is now.

Cleo. Since paganism has been quite extinct in the old western world,

the zeal of Christians is much diminished from what it was, when they

had many opposers: the want of fervency had a great hand in abolishing

that fashion.

Hor. But whether it was the fashion or not, it must always have

been shocking.

Cleo. Do you think, that the repeated acclamations, the clapping,

stamping, and the most extravagant tokens of applause, that are now

used at our several theatres, were ever shocking to a favourite actor;

or that the huzzas of the mob, or the hideous shouts of soldiers,

were ever shocking to persons of the highest distinction, to whose

honour they were made?

Hor. I have known princes that were very much tired with them.

Cleo. When they had too much of them; but never at first. In working a

machine, we ought to have regard to the strength of its frame: limited

creatures are not susceptible of infinite delight; therefore we see,

that a pleasure protracted beyond its due bounds becomes a pain: but

where the custom of the country is not broken in upon, no noise, that

is palpably made in our praise, and which we may hear with decency,

can ever be ungrateful, if it do not outlast a reasonable time; but

there is no cordial so sovereign, that it may not become offensive,

by being taken to excess.

Hor. And the sweeter and more delicious liquors are, the sooner they

become fulsome, and the less fit they are to sit by.

Cleo. Your simile is not amiss; and the same acclamations that

are ravishing to a man at first, and perhaps continue to give him

an unspeakable delight for eight or nine minutes, may become more

moderately pleasing, indifferent, cloying, troublesome, and even so

offensive as to create pain, all in less than three hours, if they

were to continue so long without intermission.

Hor. There must be great witchcraft in sounds, that they should have

such different effects upon us, as we often see they have.

Cleo. The pleasure we receive from acclamations, is not in the hearing;

but proceeds from the opinion we form of the cause that produces

those sounds, the approbation of others. At the theatres all over

Italy you have heard, that, when the whole audience demands silence

and attention, which there is an established mark of benevolence and

applause, the noise they make comes very near, and is hardly to be

distinguished from our hissing, which with us is the plainest token

of dislike and contempt: and without doubt the cat-calls to affront

Faustina were far more agreeable to Cozzoni, than the most artful

sounds she ever heard from her triumphant rival.

Hor. That was abominable!

Cleo. The Turks show their respects to their sovereigns by a profound

silence, which is strictly kept throughout the seraglio, and still more

religiously observed the nearer you come to the Sultan's apartment.

Hor. This latter is certainly the politer way of gratifying one's

pride.

Cleo. All that depends upon mode and custom.

Hor. But the offerings that are made to a man's pride in silence,

may be enjoyed without the loss of his hearing, which the other cannot.

Cleo. That is a trifle, in the gratification of that passion: we

never enjoy higher pleasure, from the appetite we would indulge,

than when we feel nothing from any other.

Hor. But silence expresses greater homage, and deeper veneration,

than noise.

Cleo. It is good to sooth the pride of a drone; but an active man

loves to have that passion roused, and as it were kept awake, whilst

it is gratified; and approbation from noise is more unquestionable

than the other: however, I will not determine between them; much

may be said on both sides. The Greeks and Romans used sounds, to

stir up men to noble actions, with great success; and the silence

observed among the Ottomans has kept them very well in the slavish

submission which their sovereigns require of them: perhaps the one

does better where absolute power is lodged in one person, and the

other where there is some show of liberty. Both are proper tools to

flatter the pride of man, when they are understood and made use of as

such. I have known a very brave man used to the shouts of war, and

highly delighted with loud applause, be very angry with his butler,

for making a little rattling with his plates.

Hor. An old aunt of mine the other day turned away a very clever

fellow, for not walking upon his toes; and I must own myself, that the

stamping of footmen, and all unmannerly loudness of servants, are very

offensive to me; though I never entered into the reason of it before

now. In our last conversation, when you described the symptoms of

self-liking, and what the behaviour would be of an uncivilized man,

you named laughing: I know it is one of the characteristics of our

species; pray do you take that to be likewise the result of pride?

Cleo. Hobbes is of that opinion, and in most instances it might be

derived from thence; but there are some phenomena not to be explained

by that hypothesis; therefore I would choose to say, that laughter is

a mechanical motion, which we are naturally thrown into when we are

unaccountably pleased. When our pride is feelingly gratified; when we

hear or see any thing which we admire or approve of; or when we are

indulging any other passion or appetite, and the reason why we are

pleased seems to be just and worthy, we are then far from laughing:

but when things or actions are odd and out of the way, and happen

to please us when we can give no just reason why they should do so,

it is then, generally speaking, that they make us laugh.

Hor. I would rather side with what you said was Hobbes's opinion:

for the things we commonly laugh at are such as are some way or other

mortifying, unbecoming, or prejudicial to others.

Cleo. But what will you say to tickling, which will make an infant

laugh that is deaf and blind?

Hor. Can you account for that by your system?

Cleo. Not to my satisfaction; but I will tell you what might be said

for it. We know by experience, that the smoother, the softer, and the

more sensible the skin is, the more ticklish persons are, generally

speaking: we know likewise, that things rough, sharp, and hard, when

they touch the skin, are displeasing to us, even before they give

pain and that, on the contrary, every thing applied to the skin that

is soft and smooth, and not otherwise offensive, is delightful. It

is possible that gentle touches being impressed on several nervous

filaments at once, every one of them producing a pleasing sensation,

may create that confused pleasure which is the occasion of laughter.

Hor. But how came you to think of mechanic motion, in the pleasure

of a free agent?

Cleo. Whatever free agency we may pretend to in the forming of ideas,

the effect of them upon the body is independent of the will. Nothing

is more directly opposite to laughing than frowning: the one draws

wrinkles on the fore-head, knits the brows, and keeps the mouth shut:

the other does quite the reverse; exporrigere frontem, you know,

is a Latin phrase for being merry. In sighing, the muscles of the

belly and breast are pulled inward, and the diaphragm is pulled

upward more than ordinary; and we seem to endeavour, though in vain,

to squeeze and compress the heart, whilst we draw in our breath in a

forcible manner; and when, in that squeezing posture, we have taken in

as much air as we can contain, we throw it out with the same violence

we sucked it in with, and at the same time give a sudden relaxation to

all the muscles we employed before. Nature certainly designed this for

something in the labour for self-preservation which she forces upon

us. How mechanically do all creatures that can make any sound, cry

out, and complain in great afflictions, as well as pain and imminent

danger! In great torments, the efforts of nature are so violent that

way, that, to disappoint her, and prevent the discovery of what we

feel by sounds, and which she bids us make, we are forced to draw

our mouth into a purse, or else suck in our breath, bite our lips,

or squeeze them close together, and use the most effectual means to

hinder the air from coming out. In grief we sigh, in mirth we laugh:

in the latter little stress is laid upon the respiration, and this is

performed with less regularity than it is at any other time; all the

muscles without, and every thing within feel loose, and seem to have

no other motion than what is communicated to them by the convulsive

shakes of laughter.

Hor. I have seen people laugh till they lost all their strength.

Cleo. How much is all this the reverse of what we observe in

sighing! When pain or depth of woe make us cry out, the mouth is

drawn round, or at least into an oval; the lips are thrusted forward

without touching each other, and the tongue is pulled in, which is

the reason that all nations, when they exclaim, cry, Oh!

Hor. Why pray!

Cleo. Because whilst the mouth, lips, and tongue, remain in those

postures, they can sound no other vowel, and no consonant at all. In

laughing, the lips are pulled back, and strained to draw the mouth

in its fullest length.

Hor. I would not have you lay a great stress upon that, for it is

the same in weeping, which is an undoubted sign of sorrow.

Cleo. In great afflictions, where the heart is oppressed, and anxieties

which we endeavour to resist, few people can weep; but when they

do, it removes the oppression, and sensibly relieves them: for then

their resistance is gone; and weeping in distress is not so much a

sign of sorrow as it is an indication that we can bear our sorrow no

longer; and therefore it is counted unmanly to weep, because it seems

to give up our strength, and is a kind of yielding to our grief. But

the action of weeping itself is not more peculiar to grief than it is

to joy in adult people; and there are men who show great fortitude in

afflictions, and bear the greatest misfortunes with dry eyes, that will

cry heartily at a moving scene in a play. Some are easily wrought upon

by one thing, others are sooner affected with another; but whatever

touches us so forcibly, as to overwhelm the mind, prompts us to weep,

and is the mechanical cause of tears; and therefore, besides grief,

joy, and pity, there are other things no way relating to ourselves,

that may have this effect upon us; such as the relations of surprising

events and sudden turns of Providence in behalf of merit; instances

of heroism, of generosity; in love, in friendship in an enemy; or

the hearing or reading of noble thoughts and sentiments of humanity;

more especially if these things are conveyed to us suddenly, in an

agreeable manner, and unlooked for, as well as lively expressions. We

shall observe, likewise, that none are more subject to this frailty

of shedding tears on such foreign accounts, than persons of ingenuity

and quick apprehension; and those among them that are most benevolent,

generous, and open-hearted; whereas, the dull and stupid, the cruel,

selfish, and designing, are very seldom troubled with it. Weeping,

therefore, in earnest, is always a sure and involuntary demonstration

that something strikes and overcomes the mind, whatever that be

which affects it. We find likewise, that outward violence, as sharp

winds and smoke, the effluvia of onions, and other volatile salts,

&c. have the same effect upon the external fibres of the lachrymal

ducts and glands that are exposed, which the sudden swelling and

pressure of the spirits has upon those within. The Divine Wisdom

is in nothing more conspicuous than in the infinite variety of

living creatures of different construction; every part of them being

contrived with stupendous skill, and fitted with the utmost accuracy

for the different purposes they were designed for. The human body,

above all, is a most astonishing master piece of art: the anatomist

may have a perfect knowledge of all the bones and their ligaments,

the muscles and their tendons, and be able to dissect every nerve and

every membrane with great exactness; the naturalist, likewise, may

dive a great way into the inward economy, and different symptoms of

health and sickness: they may all approve of, and admire the curious

machine; but no man can have a tolerable idea of the contrivance, the

art, and the beauty of the workmanship itself, even in those things

he can see, without being likewise versed in geometry and mechanics.

Hor. How long is it ago that mathematics were brought into physic? that

art, I have heard, is brought to great certainty by them.

Cleo. What you speak of is quite another thing. Mathematics never had,

nor ever can have, any thing to do with physic, if you mean by it

the art of curing the sick. The structure and motions of the body,

may perhaps be mechanically accounted for, and all fluids are under

the laws of hydrostatics; but we can have no help from any part of the

mechanics in the discovery of things, infinitely remote from sight,

and entirely unknown as to their shapes and bulks. Physicians, with

the rest of mankind, are wholly ignorant of the first principles and

constituent parts of things, in which all the virtues and properties

of them consist; and this, as well of the blood and other juices of

the body, as the simples, and consequently all the medicines they

make use of. There is no art that has less certainty than theirs,

and the most valuable knowledge in it arises from observation, and

is such, as a man of parts and application, who has fitted himself

for that study, can only be possessed of after a long and judicious

experience. But the pretence to mathematics, or the usefulness of it

in the cure of diseases, is a cheat, and as arrant a piece of quackery

as a stage and a Merry-Andrew.

Hor. But since there is so much skill displayed in the bones, muscles,

and grosser parts, is it not reasonable to think, that there is no

less art bestowed on those that are beyond the reach of our senses?

Cleo. I nowise doubt it: Microscopes have opened a new world to us,

and I am far from thinking, that nature should leave off her work

where we can trace her no further. I am persuaded that our thoughts,

and the affections of the mind, have a more certain and more mechanical

influence upon several parts of the body than has been hitherto or,

in all human probability, ever will be discovered. The visible effect

they have on the eyes and muscles of the face, must show the least

attentive the reason I have for this assertion. When in mens company

we are upon our guard, and would preserve our dignity, the lips are

shut and the jaws meet; the muscles of the mouth are gently braced,

and the rest all over the face are kept firmly in their places: turn

away from these into another room, where you meet with a fine young

lady that is affable and easy; immediately, before you think on it,

your countenance will be strangely altered; and without being conscious

of having done any thing to your face, you will have quite another

look; and every body that has observed you, will discover in it more

sweetness and less severity than you had the moment before. When we

suffer the lower jaw to sink down, the mouth opens a little: if in

this posture we look straight before us, without fixing our eyes on

any thing, we may imitate the countenance of a natural; by dropping,

as it were, our features, and laying no stress on any muscle of the

face. Infants, before they have learned to swallow their spittle,

generally keep their mouths open, and are always drivelling: in

them, before they show any understanding, and whilst it is yet

very confused, the muscles of the face are, as it were, relaxed,

the lower jaw falls down, and the fibres of the lips are unbraced;

at least, these phenomena we observe in them, during that time, more

often than we do afterwards. In extreme old age, when people begin

to doat, those symptoms return; and in most idiots they continue to

be observed, as long as they live: Hence it is that we say, that a

man wants a slabbering-bib, when he behaves very sillily or talks

like a natural fool. When we reflect on all this, on the one hand,

and consider on the other, that none are less prone to anger than

idiots, and no creatures are less affected with pride, I would ask,

whether there is not some degree of self-liking, that mechanically

influences, and seems to assist us in the decent wearing of our faces.

Hor. I cannot resolve you; what I know very well is, that by these

conjectures on the mechanism of man, I find my understanding very

little informed: I wonder how we came upon the subject.

Cleo. You inquired into the origin of risibility, which nobody can

give an account of, with any certainty; and in such cases every body

is at liberty to make guesses, so they draw no conclusions from them

to the prejudice of any thing better established. But the chief design

I had in giving you these indigested thoughts, was to hint to you,

how really mysterious the works of nature are; I mean, how replete

they are every where, with a power glaringly conspicuous, and yet

incomprehensible beyond all human reach; in order to demonstrate,

that more useful knowledge may be acquired from unwearied observation,

judicious experience, and arguing from facts à posteriori, than from

the haughty attempts of entering into first causes, and reasoning à

priori. I do not believe there is a man in the world of that sagacity,

if he was wholly unacquainted with the nature of a spring-watch, that

he would ever find out by dint of penetration the cause of its motion,

if he was never to see the inside: but every middling capacity may be

certain, by seeing only the outside, that its pointing at the hour, and

keeping to time, proceed from the exactness of some curious workmanship

that is hid; and that the motion of the hands, what number of resorts

soever it is communicated by, is originally owing to something else

that first moves within. In the same manner we are sure, that as

the effects of thought upon the body are palpable, several motions

are produced by it, by contact, and consequently mechanically: but

the parts, the instruments which that operation is performed with,

are so immensely far remote from our senses; and the swiftness of the

action is so prodigious, that it infinitely surpasses our capacity

to trace them.

Hor. But is not thinking the business of the soul? What has mechanism

to do with that?

Cleo. The soul, whilst in the body, cannot be said to think, otherwise

than an architect is said to build a house, where the carpenters,

bricklayers, &c. do the work, which he chalks out and superintends.

Hor. Which part of the brain do you think the soul to be more

immediately lodged in; or do you take it to be diffused through

the whole?

Cleo. I know nothing of it more than what I have told you already.

Hor. I plainly feel that this operation of thinking is a labour,

or at least something that is transacting in my head, and not in my

leg nor my arm: what insight or real knowledge have we from anatomy

concerning it?

Cleo. None at all à priori: the most consummate anatomist knows no

more of it than a butcher's apprentice. We may admire the curious

duplicate of coats, and close embroidery of veins and arteries

that environ the brain: but when dissecting it we have viewed the

several pairs of nerves, with their origin, and taken notice of some

glands of various shapes and sizes, which differing from the brain

in substance, could not but rush in view; when these, I say, have

been taken notice of, and distinguished by different names, some of

them not very pertinent, and less polite, the best naturalist must

acknowledge, that even of these large visible parts there are but

few, the nerves and blood-vessels excepted, at the use of which he

can give any tolerable guesses: but as to the mysterious structure

of the brain itself, and the more abstruse economy of it, that he

knows nothing; but that the whole seems to be a medullary substance,

compactly treasured up in infinite millions of imperceptible cells,

that, disposed in an unconceivable order, are cluttered together in a

perplexing variety of folds and windings. He will add, perhaps, that

it is reasonable to think this to be the capacious exchequer of human

knowledge, in which the faithful senses deposit the vast treasure of

images, constantly, as through their organs they receive them; that it

is the office in which the spirits are separated from the blood, and

afterwards sublimed and volatilized into particles hardly corporeal;

and that the most minute of these are always, either searching for,

or variously disposing the images retained, and shooting through the

infinite meanders of that wonderful substance, employ themselves,

without ceasing, in that inexplicable performance, the contemplation

of which fills the most exalted genius with amazement.

Hor. These are very airy conjectures; but nothing of all this can be

proved: The smallness of the parts, you will say, is the reason; but

if greater improvements were made in optic glasses, and microscopes

could be invented that magnified objects three or four millions of

times more than they do now, then certainly those minute particles,

so immensely remote from the senses you speak of, might be observed,

if that which does the work is corporeal at all.

Cleo. That such improvements are impossible, is demonstrable; but if

it was not, even then we could have little help from anatomy. The

brain of an animal cannot be looked and searched into whilst it is

alive. Should you take the main spring out of a watch, and leave

the barrel that contained it standing empty, it would be impossible

to find out what it had been that made it exert itself, whilst it

showed the time. We might examine all the wheels, and every other

part belonging either to the movement or the motion, and, perhaps,

find out the use of them, in relation to the turning of the hands;

but the first cause of this labour would remain a mystery for ever.

Hor. The main spring in us is the soul, which is immaterial and

immortal: but what is that to other creatures that have a brain like

ours, and no such immortal substance distinct from body? Do not you

believe that dogs and horses think?

Cleo. I believe they do, though in a degree of perfection far inferior

to us.

Hor. What is it that superintends thought in them? where must we look

for it? which is the main spring?

Cleo. I can answer you no otherwise, than life.

Hor. What is life?

Cleo. Every body understands the meaning of the word, though, perhaps,

nobody knows the principle of life, that part which gives motion to

all the rest.

Hor. Where men are certain that the truth of a thing is not to be

known, they will always differ, and endeavour to impose upon one

another.

Cleo. Whilst there are fools and knaves, they will; but I have not

imposed upon you: what I said of the labour of the brain, I told you,

was a conjecture, which I recommend no farther to you than you shall

think it probable. You ought to expect no demonstration of a thing,

that from its nature can admit of none. When the breath is gone, and

the circulation ceased, the inside of an animal is vastly different

from what it was whilst the lungs played, and the blood and juices were

in full motion through every part of it. You have seen those engines

that raise water by the help of fire; the steam you know, is that

which forces it up; it is as impossible to see the volatile particles

that perform the labour of the brain, when the creature is dead, as

in the engine it would be to see the steam (which yet does all the

work), when the fire is out and the water cold. Yet if this engine was

shown to a man when it was not at work, and it was explained to him,

which way it raised the water, it would be a strange incredulity,

or great dullness of apprehension, not to believe it; if he knew

perfectly well, that by heat, liquids may be rarified into vapour.

Hor. But do not you think there is a difference in souls; and are

they all equally good or equally bad?

Cleo. We have some tolerable ideas of matter and motion; or, at least,

of what we mean by them, and therefore we may form ideas of things

corporeal, though they are beyond the reach of our senses; and we

can conceive any portion of matter a thousand times less than our

eyes, even by the help of the best microscopes, are able to see it:

but the soul is altogether incomprehensible, and we can determine

but little about it, that is not revealed to us. I believe that the

difference of capacities in men, depends upon, and is entirely owing

to the difference there is between them, either in the fabric itself,

that is, the greater or lesser exactness in the composure of their

frame, or else in the use that is made of it. The brain of a child,

newly born, is carte blanche; and, as you have hinted very justly, we

have no ideas, which we are not obliged for to our senses. I make no

question, but that in this rummaging of the spirits through the brain,

in hunting after, joining, separating, changing, and compounding of

ideas with inconceivable swiftness, under the superintendency of the

soul, the action of thinking consists. The best thing, therefore,

we can do to infants after the first month, besides feeding and

keeping them from harm, is to make them take in ideas, beginning by

the two most useful senses, the sight and hearing; and dispose them

to set about this labour of the brain, and by our example encourage

them to imitate us in thinking; which, on their side, is very poorly

performed at first. Therefore the more an infant in health is talked to

and jumbled about, the better it is for it, at least, for the first

two years; and for its attendance in this early education, to the

wisest matron in the world, I would prefer an active young wench,

whose tongue never stands still, that should run about, and never

cease diverting and playing with it whilst it was awake; and where

people can afford it, two or three of them, to relieve one another

when they are tired, are better than one.

Hor. Then you think children reap great benefit from the nonsensical

chat of nurses?

Cleo. It is of inestimable use to them, and teaches them to think,

as well as speak, much sooner and better, than with equal aptitude

of parts they would do without. The business is to make them exert

those faculties, and keep infants continually employed about them;

for the time which is lost then, is never to be retrieved.

Hor. Yet we seldom remember any thing of what we saw or heard, before

we were two years old: then what would be lost, if children should

not hear all that impertinence?

Cleo. As iron is to be hammered whilst it is hot and ductile, so

children are to be taught when they are young: as the flesh and every

tube and membrane about them, are then tenderer, and will yield sooner

to slight impressions, than afterwards; so many of their bones are

but cartilages, and the brain itself is much softer, and in a manner

fluid. This is the reason, that it cannot so well retain the images

it receives, as it does afterwards, when the substance of it comes to

be of a better consistence. But as the first images are lost, so they

are continually succeeded by new ones; and the brain at first serves

as a slate to cypher, or a sampler to work upon. What infants should

chiefly learn, is the performance itself, the exercise of thinking,

and to contract a habit of disposing, and with ease and agility

managing the images retained, to the purpose intended; which is never

attained better than whilst the matter is yielding, and the organs are

most flexible and supple. So they but exercise themselves in thinking

and speaking, it is no matter what they think on, or what they say,

that is inoffensive. In sprightly infants, we soon see by their eyes

the efforts they are making to imitate us, before they are able;

and that they try at this exercise of the brain, and make essays to

think, as well as they do to hammer out words, we may know from the

incoherence of their actions, and the strange absurdities they utter:

but as there are more degrees of thinking well, than there are of

speaking plain, the first is of the greatest consequence.

Hor. I wonder you should talk of teaching, and lay so great a stress

on a thing that comes so naturally to us, as thinking: no action is

performed with greater velocity by every body: as quick as thought,

is a proverb, and in less than a moment a stupid peasant may remove

his ideas from London to Japan, as easily as the greatest wit.

Cleo. Yet there is nothing, in which men differ so immensely from one

another, as they do in the exercise of this faculty: the differences

between them in height, bulk, strength, and beauty, are trifling

in comparison to that which I speak of; and there is nothing in the

world more valuable, or more plainly perceptible in persons, than a

happy dexterity of thinking. Two men may have equal knowledge, and

yet the one shall speak as well off-hand, as the other can after two

hours study.

Hor. I take it for granted, that no man would study two hours for

a speech, if he knew how to make it in less; and therefore I cannot

see what reason you have to suppose two such persons to be of equal

knowledge.

Cleo. There is a double meaning in the word knowing, which you seem

not to attend to. There is a great difference between knowing a violin

when you see it, and knowing how to play upon it. The knowledge I

speak of is of the first sort; and if you consider it in that sense,

you must be of my opinion; for no study can fetch any thing out of

the brain that is not there. Suppose you conceive a short epistle

in three minutes, which another, who can make letters and join them

together as fast as yourself, is yet an hour about, though both of

you write the same thing, it is plain to me, that the slow person

knows as much as you do; at least it does not appear that he knows

less. He has received the same images, but he cannot come at them,

or at least not dispose them in that order, so soon as yourself. When

we see two exercises of equal goodness, either in prose or verse, if

the one is made ex tempore, and we are sure of it, and the other has

cost two days labour, the author of the first is a person of finer

natural parts than the other, though their knowledge, for ought we

know, is the same. You see, then, the difference between knowledge,

as it signifies the treasure of images received, and knowledge, or

rather skill, to find out those images when we want them, and work

them readily to our purpose.

Hor. When we know a thing, and cannot readily think of it, or bring

it to mind, I thought that was the fault of the memory.

Cleo. So it may be in part: but there are men of prodigious reading,

that have likewise great memories, who judge ill, and seldom say any

thing a propos, or say it when it is too late. Among the belluones

librorum, the cormorants of books, there are wretched reasoners,

that have canine appetites, and no digestion. What numbers of learned

fools do we not meet with in large libraries; from whose works it is

evident, that knowledge must have lain in their heads, as furniture

at an upholder's; and the treasure of the brain was a burden to them

instead of an ornament! All this proceeds from a defect in the faculty

of thinking; an unskilfulness, and want of aptitude in managing,

to the best advantage, the ideas we have received. We see others,

on the contrary, that have very fine sense, and no literature at

all. The generality of women are quicker of invention, and more ready

at repartee, than the men, with equal helps of education; and it is

surprising to see, what a considerable figure some of them make in

conversation, when we consider the small opportunities they have had

of acquiring knowledge.

Hor. But sound judgment is a great rarity among them.

Cleo. Only for want of practice, application, and assiduity. Thinking

on abstruse matters, is not their province in life; and as the stations

they are commonly placed in find them other employment; but there is

no labour of the brain which women are not as capable of performing,

at least as well as the men, with the same assistance, if they set

about, and persevere in it: sound judgment is no more than the result

of that labour: he that uses himself to take things to pieces, to

compare them together, to consider them abstractly and impartially;

that is, he who of two propositions he is to examine seems not to care

which is true; he that lays the whole stress of his mind on every part

alike, and puts the same thing in all the views it can be seen in:

he, I say, that employs himself most often in this exercise, is most

likely cæteris paribus to acquire what we call a sound judgment. The

workmanship in the make of women seems to be more elegant, and better

finished: the features are more delicate, the voice is sweeter, the

whole outside of them is more curiously wove, than they are in men;

and the difference in the skin between theirs and ours is the same,

as there is between fine cloth and coarse. There is no reason to

imagine, that nature should have been more neglectful of them out of

sight, than she has where we can trace her; and not have taken the

same care of them in the formation, of the brain, as to the nicety

of the structure, and superior accuracy in the fabric, which is so

visible in the rest of their frame.

Hor. Beauty is their attribute, as strength is ours.

Cleo. How minute soever those particles of the brain are, that contain

the several images, and are assisting in the operation of thinking,

there must be a difference in the justness, the symmetry, and exactness

of them between one person and another, as well as there is in the

grosser parts: what the women excel us in, then, is the goodness of

the instrument, either in the harmony or pliableness of the organs,

which must be very material in the art of thinking, and is the only

thing that deserves the name of natural parts, since the aptitude I

have spoke of, depending upon exercise, is notoriously acquired.

Hor. As the workmanship in the brain is rather more curious in women

than it is in men, so, in sheep and oxen, dogs and horses, I suppose

it is infinitely coarser.

Cleo. We have no reason to think otherwise,

Hor. But after all, that self, that part of us that wills and wishes,

that chooses one thing rather than another, must be incorporeal:

For if it is matter, it must either be one single particle, which I

can almost feel it is not, or a combination of many, which is more

than inconceivable.

Cleo. I do not deny what you say; and that the principle of thought

and action is inexplicable in all creatures I have hinted already: But

its being incorporeal does not mend the matter, as to the difficulty

of explaining or conceiving it. That there must be a mutual contact

between this principle, whatever it is, and the body itself, is what we

are certain of à posteriori; and a reciprocal action upon each other,

between an immaterial substance and matter, is as incomprehensible

to human capacity, as that thought should be the result of matter

and motion.

Hor. Though many other animals seem to be endued with thought, there

is no creature we are acquainted with, besides man, that shows or

seems to feel a consciousness of his thinking.

Cleo. It is not easy to determine what instincts, properties, or

capacities other creatures are either possessed or destitute of,

when those qualifications fall not under our senses: But it is highly

probable, that the principal and most necessary parts of the machine

are less elaborate in animals, that attain to all the perfection

they are capable of in three, four, five, or six years at furthest,

than they are in a creature that hardly comes to maturity, its full

growth and strength in five and twenty. The consciousness of a man

of fifty, that he is the same man that did such a thing at twenty,

and was once the boy that had such and such masters, depends wholly

upon the memory, and can never be traced to the bottom: I mean,

that no man remembers any thing of himself, or what was transacted

before he was two years old, when he was but a novice in the art of

thinking, and the brain was not yet of a due consistence to retain

long the images it received: But this remembrance, how far soever it

may reach, gives us no greater surety of ourselves, than we should

have of another that had been brought up with us, and never above a

week or a month out of sight. A mother, when her son is thirty years

old, has more reason to know that he is the same whom she brought

into the world than himself; and such a one, who daily minds her son,

and remembers the alterations of his features from time to time, is

more certain of him that he was not changed in the cradle, than she

can be of herself. So that all we can know of this consciousness, is,

that it consists in, or is the result of the running and rummaging

of the spirits through all the mazes of the brain, and their looking

there for facts concerning ourselves: He that has lost his memory,

though otherwise in perfect health, cannot think better than a fool,

and is no more conscious that he is the same he was a-year ago, than

he is of a man whom he has known but a fortnight. There are several

degrees of losing our memory; but he who has entirely lost it becomes,

ipso facto, an idiot.

Hor. I am conscious of having been the occasion of our rambling a great

way from the subject we were upon, but I do not repent of it: What you

have said of the economy of the brain, and the mechanical influence

of thought upon the grosser parts, is a noble theme for contemplation

on the infinite unutterable wisdom with which the various instincts

are so visibly planted in all animals, to fit them for the respective

purposes they were designed for; and every appetite is so wonderfully

interwove with the very substance of their frame. Nothing could be

more seasonable, after you had showed me the origin of politeness,

and in the management of self-liking, set forth the excellency of our

species beyond all other animals so conspicuously in the superlative

docility and indefatigable industry, by which all multitudes are

capable of drawing innumerable benefits, as well for the ease and

comfort, as the welfare and safety of congregate bodies, from a

most stubborn and an unconquerable passion, which, in its nature,

seems to be destructive to sociableness and society, and never fails,

in untaught men, to render them insufferable to one another.

Cleo. By the same method of reasoning from facts à posteriori,

that has laid open to us the nature and usefulness of self-liking,

all the rest of the passions may easily be accounted for, and become

intelligible. It is evident, that the necessaries of life stand not

every where ready dished up before all creatures; therefore they

have instincts that prompt them to look out for those necessaries,

and teach them how to come at them. The zeal and alacrity to gratify

their appetites, is always proportioned to the strength, and the degree

of force with which those instincts work upon every creature: But,

considering the disposition of things upon earth, and the multiplicity

of animals that have all their own wants to supply, it must be obvious,

that these attempts of creatures, to obey the different calls of

nature, will be often opposed and frustrated, and that, in many

animals, they would seldom meet with success, if every individual

was not endued with a passion, that, summoning all his strength,

inspired him with a transporting eagerness to overcome the obstacles

that hinder him in his great work of self-preservation. The passion

I describe is called anger. How a creature possessed of this passion

and self-liking, when he sees others enjoy what he wants, should be

affected with envy, can likewise be no mystery. After labour, the most

savage, and the most industrious creature seeks rest: Hence we learn,

that all of them are furnished, more or less, with a love of ease:

Exerting their strength tires them; and the loss of spirits, experience

teaches us, is best repaired by food and sleep. We see that creatures,

who, in their way of living, must meet with the greatest opposition,

have the greatest share of anger, and are born with offensive arms. If

this anger was to employ a creature always, without consideration

of the danger he exposed himself to, he would soon be destroyed:

For this reason, they are all endued with fear; and the lion himself

turns tail, if the hunters are armed, and too numerous. From what

we observe in the behaviour of brutes, we have reason to think,

that among the more perfect animals, those of the same species have a

capacity, on many occasions, to make their wants known to one another;

and we are sure of several, not only that they understand one another,

but likewise that they may be made to understand us. In comparing our

species with that of other animals, when we consider the make of man,

and the qualifications that are obvious in him, his superior capacity

in the faculties of thinking and reflecting beyond other creatures,

his being capable of learning to speak, and the usefulness of his

hands and fingers, there is no room to doubt, that he is more fit

for society than any other animal we know.

Hor. Since you wholly reject my Lord Shaftsbury's system, I wish

you would give me your opinion at large concerning society, and the

sociableness of man; and I will hearken to you with great attention.

Cleo. The cause of sociableness in man, that is, his fitness for

society, is no such abstruse matter: A person of middling capacity,

that has some experience, and a tolerable knowledge of human nature,

may soon find it out, if his desire of knowing the truth be sincere,

and he will look for it without prepossession; but most people that

have treated on this subject, had a turn to serve, and a cause in

view, which they were resolved to maintain. It is very unworthy of a

philosopher to say, as Hobbes did, that man is born unfit for society,

and allege no better reason for it, than the incapacity that infants

come into the world with; but some of his adversaries have as far

overshot the mark, when they asserted, that every thing which man can

attain to, ought to be esteemed as a cause of his fitness for society.

Hor. But is there in the mind of man a natural affection, that prompts

him to love his species beyond what other animals have for theirs;

or, are we born with hatred and aversion, that makes us wolves and

bears to one another?

Cleo. I believe neither. From what appears to us in human affairs,

and the works of nature, we have more reason to imagine, that the

desire, as well as aptness of man to associate, do not proceed from

his love to others, than we have to believe that a mutual affection of

the planets to one another, superior to what they feel to stars more

remote, is not the true cause why they keep always moving together

in the same solar system.

Hor. You do not believe that the stars have any love for one another,

I am sure: Then why more reason?

Cleo. Because there are no phenomena plainly to contradict this love

of the planets; and we meet with thousands every day to convince us,

that man centres every thing in himself, and neither loves nor hates,

but for his own sake. Every individual is a little world by itself,

and all creatures, as far as their understanding and abilities will

let them, endeavour to make that self happy: This, in all of them, is

the continual labour, and seems to be the whole design of life. Hence

it follows, that in the choice of things, men must be determined

by the perception they have of happiness; and no person can commit,

or set about an action, which, at that then present time, seems not

to be the best to him.

Hor. What will you then say to, video meliora proboque, deteriora

sequor?

Cleo. That only shows the turpitude of our inclinations. But men

may say what they please: Every motion in a free agent, which

he does not approve of, is either convulsive, or it is not his;

I speak of those that are subject to the will. When two things are

left to a person's choice, it is a demonstration that he thinks that

most eligible which he chooses, how contradictory, impertinent, or

pernicious soever his reason for choosing it may be: Without this,

there could be no voluntary suicide; and it would be injustice to

punish men for their crimes.

Hor. I believe every body endeavours to be pleased; but it is

inconceivable that creatures of the same species should differ so much

from one another, as men do in their notions of pleasure; and that some

of them should take delight in what is the greatest aversion to others:

All aim at happiness; but the question is, Where is it to be found?

Cleo. It is with complete felicity in this world, as it is with the

philosopher's stone: Both have been sought after many different ways,

by wise men as well as fools, though neither of them has been obtained

hitherto: But in searching after either, diligent inquirers have

often stumbled by chance on useful discoveries of things they did not

look for, and which human sagacity, labouring with design à priori,

never would have detected. Multitudes of our species may, in any

habitable part of the globe, assist one another in a common defence,

and be raised into a politic body, in which men shall live comfortably

together for many centuries, without being acquainted with a thousand

things, that if known, would every one of them be instrumental to

render the happiness of the public more complete, according to the

common notions men have of happiness. In one part of the world, we have

found great and flourishing nations that knew nothing of ships; and

in others, traffic by sea had been in use above two thousand years,

and navigation had received innumerable improvements, before they

knew how to sail by the help of the loadstone: It would be ridiculous

to allege this piece of knowledge, either as a reason why man first

chose to go to sea, or as an argument to prove his natural capacity

for maritime affairs. To raise a garden, it is necessary that we

should have a soil and a climate fit for that purpose. When we have

these, we want nothing besides patience, but the seeds of vegetables

and proper culture. Fine walks and canals, statues, summer-houses,

fountains, and cascades, are great improvements on the delights of

nature; but they are not essential to the existence of a garden. All

nations must have had mean beginnings; and it is in those, the infancy

of them, that the sociableness of man is as conspicuous as it can be

ever after. Man is called a sociable creature chiefly for two reasons:

First, because it is commonly imagined that he is naturally more fond

and desirous of society, than any other creature. Secondly, because

it is manifest, that associating in men turns to better account than

it possibly could do in other animals, if they were to attempt it.

Hor. But why do you say of the first, that it is commonly imagined;

is it not true then?

Cleo. I have a very good reason for this caution. All men born in

society, are certainly more desirous of it than any other animal;

but whether man be naturally so, that is a question: But, if he was,

it is no excellency, nothing to brag of: The love man has for his ease

and security, and his perpetual desire of meliorating his condition,

must be sufficient motives to make him fond of society, concerning

the necessitous and helpless condition of his nature.

Hor. Do not you fall into the same error, which, you say, Hobbes

has been guilty of, when you talk of man's necessitous and helpless

condition?

Cleo. Not at all; I speak of men and women full grown; and the more

extensive their knowledge is, the higher their quality, and the greater

their possessions are, the more necessitous and helpless they are in

their nature. A nobleman of twenty-five or thirty thousand pounds

a-year, that has three or four coaches and six, and above fifty

people to serve him, is in his person considered singly, abstract

from what he possesses, more necessitous than an obscure man that

has but fifty pounds a-year, and is used to walk a-foot; so a lady,

who never stuck a pin in herself, and is dressed and undressed from

head to foot like a jointed baby by her woman, and the assistance

of another maid or two, is a more helpless creature than doll the

diary-maid, who, all the winter long, dresses herself in the dark in

less time than the other bestows in placing of her patches.

Hor. But is the desire of meliorating our condition which you named,

so general, that no man is without it?

Cleo. Not one that can be called a sociable creature; and I believe

this to be as much a characteristic of our species as any can be

named: For there is not a man in the world, educated in society, who,

if he could compass it by wishing, would not have something added to,

taken from, or altered in his person, possessions, circumstances,

or any part of the society he belongs to. This is what is not to be

perceived in any creature but man; whose great industry in supplying

what he calls his wants, could never have been known so well as it is,

if it had not been for the unreasonableness, as well as multiplicity of

his desires. From all which, it is manifest, that the most civilized

people stand most in need of society, and consequently, none less

than savages. The second reason for which I said man was called

sociable, is, that associating together turned to better account

in our species than it would do in any other, if they were to try

it. To find out the reason of this, we must search into human nature

for such qualifications as we excel all other animals in, and which

the generality of men are endued with, taught or untaught: But in

doing this, we should neglect nothing that is observable in them,

from their most early youth to their extreme old age.

Hor. I cannot see why you use this precaution, of taking in the whole

age of man; would it not be sufficient to mind those qualifications

which he is possessed of, when he is come to the height of maturity,

or his greatest perfection?