No More Learning

So when Cadenus could not hide,
He chose to justify his pride;
Construing the passion she had shown,
Much to her praise, more to his own.
Nature in him had merit placed,
In her, a most judicious taste.
Love, hitherto a transient guest,
Ne'er held possession in his breast;
So long attending at the gate,
Disdain'd to enter in so late.
Love, why do we one passion call?
When 'tis a compound of them all;
Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet,
In all their equipages meet;
Where pleasures mixed with pains appear,
Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear.
Wherein his dignity and age
Forbid Cadenus to engage.
But friendship in its greatest height,
A constant, rational delight,
On virtue's basis fixed to last,
When love's allurements long are past;
Which gently warms, but cannot burn;
He gladly offers in return;
His want of passion will redeem,
With gratitude, respect, esteem;
With that devotion we bestow,
When goddesses appear below.

While thus Cadenus entertains
Vanessa in exalted strains,
The nymph in sober words intreats
A truce with all sublime conceits.
For why such raptures, flights, and fancies,
To her who durst not read romances;
In lofty style to make replies,
Which he had taught her to despise?
But when her tutor will affect
Devotion, duty, and respect,
He fairly abdicates his throne,
The government is now her own;
He has a forfeiture incurred,
She vows to take him at his word,
And hopes he will not take it strange
If both should now their stations change
The nymph will have her turn, to be
The tutor; and the pupil he:
Though she already can discern
Her scholar is not apt to learn;
Or wants capacity to reach
The science she designs to teach;
Wherein his genius was below
The skill of every common beau;
Who, though he cannot spell, is wise
Enough to read a lady's eyes?
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance.

But what success Vanessa met
Is to the world a secret yet;
Whether the nymph, to please her swain,
Talks in a high romantic strain;
Or whether he at last descends
To like with less seraphic ends;
Or to compound the bus'ness, whether
They temper love and books together;
Must never to mankind be told,
Nor shall the conscious muse unfold.

Meantime the mournful queen of love
Led but a weary life above.
She ventures now to leave the skies,
Grown by Vanessa's conduct wise.
For though by one perverse event
Pallas had crossed her first intent,
Though her design was not obtained,
Yet had she much experience gained;
And, by the project vainly tried,
Could better now the cause decide.
She gave due notice that both parties,
_Coram Regina prox' die Martis_,
Should at their peril without fail
Come and appear, and save their bail.
All met, and silence thrice proclaimed,
One lawyer to each side was named.
The judge discovered in her face
Resentments for her late disgrace;
And, full of anger, shame, and grief,
Directed them to mind their brief;
Nor spend their time to show their reading,
She'd have a summary proceeding.
She gathered under every head,
The sum of what each lawyer said;
Gave her own reasons last; and then
Decreed the cause against the men.

But, in a weighty case like this,
To show she did not judge amiss,
Which evil tongues might else report,
She made a speech in open court;
Wherein she grievously complains,
"How she was cheated by the swains. "
On whose petition (humbly showing
That women were not worth the wooing,
And that unless the sex would mend,
The race of lovers soon must end);
"She was at Lord knows what expense,
To form a nymph of wit and sense;
A model for her sex designed,
Who never could one lover find,
She saw her favour was misplaced;
The follows had a wretched taste;
She needs must tell them to their face,
They were a senseless, stupid race;
And were she to begin again,
She'd study to reform the men;
Or add some grains of folly more
To women than they had before.
To put them on an equal foot;
And this, or nothing else, would do't.
This might their mutual fancy strike,
Since every being loves its like.

But now, repenting what was done,
She left all business to her son;
She puts the world in his possession,
And let him use it at discretion. "

The crier was ordered to dismiss
The court, so made his last O yes!
The goddess would no longer wait,
But rising from her chair of state,
Left all below at six and seven,
Harnessed her doves, and flew to Heaven.




STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1718.


Stella this day is thirty-four
(We shan't dispute a year or more)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green.
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit,
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair:
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle fate,
(That either nymph might lack her swain),
To split my worship too in twain.




STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1720.


All travellers at first incline
Where'er they see the fairest sign;
And if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again and recommend
The Angel Inn to every friend
What though the painting grows decayed,
The house will never lose its trade:
Nay, though the treach'rous tapster Thomas
Hangs a new angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,
We think it both a shame and sin,
To quit the true old Angel Inn.

Now, this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face, a little cracked
(Could poets, or could painters fix
How angels look at, thirty-six):
This drew us in at first, to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See, at her levee, crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains,
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;
And puts them but to small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives!
And had her stock been less, no doubt,
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face;
Or stop and light at Cloe's Head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed.

Then Cloe, still go on to prate
Of thirty-six, and thirty-eight;
Pursue your trade of scandal picking,
Your hints that Stella is no chicken.
Your innuendoes when you tell us,
That Stella loves to talk with fellows;
And let me warn you to believe
A truth, for which your soul should grieve:
That should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks, must all be grey,
When age must print a furrowed trace
On every feature of her face;
Though you and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe
To make you look like beauty's queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen;
No bloom of youth can ever blind
The cracks and wrinkles of your mind;
All men of sense will pass your door,
And crowd to Stella's at fourscore.




STELLA'S BIRTHDAY.


_A great bottle of wine, long buried, being that day dug up_. _1722_.

Resolved my annual verse to pay,
By duty bound, on Stella's day;
Furnished with paper, pens, and ink,
I gravely sat me down to think:
I bit my nails, and scratched my head,
But found my wit and fancy fled;
Or, if with more than usual pain,
A thought came slowly from my brain,
It cost me Lord knows how much time
To shape it into sense and rhyme;
And, what was yet a greater curse,
Long-thinking made my fancy worse

Forsaken by th' inspiring nine,
I waited at Apollo's shrine;
I told him what the world would sa
If Stella were unsung to-day;
How I should hide my head for shame,
When both the Jacks and Robin came;
How Ford would frown, how Jim would leer,
How Sh---r the rogue would sneer,
And swear it does not always follow,
That _Semel'n anno ridet_ Apollo.
I have assured them twenty times,
That Phoebus helped me in my rhymes,
Phoebus inspired me from above,
And he and I were hand and glove.
But finding me so dull and dry since,
They'll call it all poetic licence.
And when I brag of aid divine,
Think Eusden's right as good as mine.

Nor do I ask for Stella's sake;
'Tis my own credit lies at stake.
And Stella will be sung, while I
Can only be a stander by.

Apollo having thought a little,
Returned this answer to a tittle.

Tho' you should live like old Methusalem,
I furnish hints, and you should use all 'em,
You yearly sing as she grows old,
You'd leave her virtues half untold.
But to say truth, such dulness reigns
Through the whole set of Irish Deans;
I'm daily stunned with such a medley,
Dean W---, Dean D---l, and Dean S---;
That let what Dean soever come,
My orders are, I'm not at home;
And if your voice had not been loud,
You must have passed among the crowd.

But, now your danger to prevent,
You must apply to Mrs. Brent, {2}
For she, as priestess, knows the rites
Wherein the God of Earth delights.
First, nine ways looking, let her stand
With an old poker in her hand;
Let her describe a circle round
In Saunder's {3} cellar on the ground
A spade let prudent Archy {4} hold,
And with discretion dig the mould;
Let Stella look with watchful eye,
Rebecea, Ford, and Grattons by.

Behold the bottle, where it lies
With neck elated tow'rds the skies!
The god of winds, and god of fire,
Did to its wondrous birth conspire;
And Bacchus for the poet's use
Poured in a strong inspiring juice:
See! as you raise it from its tomb,
It drags behind a spacious womb,
And in the spacious womb contains
A sovereign med'cine for the brains.

You'll find it soon, if fate consents;
If not, a thousand Mrs. Brents,
Ten thousand Archys arm'd with spades,
May dig in vain to Pluto's shades.

From thence a plenteous draught infuse,
And boldly then invoke the muse
(But first let Robert on his knees
With caution drain it from the lees);
The muse will at your call appear,
With Stella's praise to crown the year.




STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, 1724.


As when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say she's past her dancing days;
So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose;
Yet merry folks who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place, for want of better;
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth,
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit, and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one, and she fifteen;
No poet ever sweetly sung.
Unless he were like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless like Venus in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you;
Or at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu bright wit, and radiant eyes;
You must be grave, and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose,
But I'll be still your friend in prose;
Esteem and friendship to express,
Will not require poetic dress;
And if the muse deny her aid
To have them sung, they may be said.

But, Stella say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young?
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turned to grey;
I'll ne'er believe a word they say.
'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight,
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I'm ashamed to use a glass;
And till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit,
Thus you may still be young to me,
While I can better hear than see:
Oh, ne'er may fortune show her spite,
To make me deaf, and mend my sight.




STELLA'S BIRTHDAY, MARCH 13, 1726.


This day, whate'er the Fates decree,
Shall still be kept with joy by me;
This day, then, let us not be told
That you are sick, and I grown old,
Nor think on our approaching ills,
And talk of spectacles and pills;
To-morrow will be time enough
To hear such mortifying stuff.
Yet, since from reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing thought,
Which can, in spite of all decays,
Support a few remaining days:
From not the gravest of divines
Accept for once some serious lines.

Although we now can form no more
Long schemes of life, as heretofore;
Yet you, while time is running fast,
Can look with joy on what is past.

Were future happiness and pain
A mere contrivance of the brain,
As Atheists argue, to entice,
And fit their proselytes for vice
(The only comfort they propose,
To have companions in their woes).
Grant this the case, yet sure 'tis hard
That virtue, styled its own reward,
And by all sages understood
To be the chief of human good,
Should acting, die, or leave behind
Some lasting pleasure in the mind.
Which by remembrance will assuage
Grief, sickness, poverty, and age;
And strongly shoot a radiant dart,
To shine through life's declining part.

Say, Stella, feel you no content,
Reflecting on a life well spent;
Your skilful hand employed to save
Despairing wretches from the grave;
And then supporting with your store,
Those whom you dragged from death before?
So Providence on mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates,
You generous boldness to defend
An innocent and absent friend;
That courage which can make you just,
To merit humbled in the dust;
The detestation you express
For vice in all its glittering dress:
That patience under to torturing pain,
Where stubborn stoics would complain.

Must these like empty shadows pass,
Or forms reflected from a glass?
Or mere chimaeras in the mind,
That fly, and leave no marks behind?
Does not the body thrive and grow
By food of twenty years ago?
And, had it not been still supplied,
It must a thousand times have died.
Then, who with reason can maintain
That no effects of food remain?
And, is not virtue in mankind
The nutriment that feeds the mind?
Upheld by each good action past,
And still continued by the last:
Then, who with reason can pretend
That all effects of virtue end?

Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true contempt for things below,
Nor prize your life for other ends
Than merely to oblige your friends,
Your former actions claim their part,
And join to fortify your heart.
For virtue in her daily race,
Like Janus, bears a double face.
Look back with joy where she has gone,
And therefore goes with courage on.
She at your sickly couch will wait,
And guide you to a better state.

O then, whatever heav'n intends,
Take pity on your pitying friends;
Nor let your ills affect your mind,
To fancy they can be unkind;
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly would your sufferings share;
Or give my scrap of life to you,
And think it far beneath your due;
You to whose care so oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell you so.




TO STELLA,


_Visiting me in my sickness_, _October_, 1727.

Pallas, observing Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was fit;
And that her beauty, soon or late,
Might breed confusion in the state;
In high concern for human kind,
Fixed honour in her infant mind.

But (not in wranglings to engage
With such a stupid vicious age),
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,
And, scholars teach, the soul informs;
So honour animates the whole,
And is the spirit of the soul.

Those numerous virtues which the tribe
Of tedious moralists describe,
And by such various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm.
It makes no difference in the case.
Nor is complexion honour's place.

But, lest we should for honour take
The drunken quarrels of a rake,
Or think it seated in a scar,
Or on a proud triumphal car,
Or in the payment of a debt,
We lose with sharpers at piquet;
Or, when a whore in her vocation,
Keeps punctual to an assignation;
Or that on which his lordship swears,
When vulgar knaves would lose their ears:
Let Stella's fair example preach
A lesson she alone can teach.

In points of honour to be tried,
All passions must be laid aside;
Ask no advice, but think alone,
Suppose the question not your own;
How shall I act? is not the case,
But how would Brutus in my place;
In such a cause would Cato bleed;
And how would Socrates proceed?

Drive all objections from your mind,
Else you relapse to human kind;
Ambition, avarice, and lust,
And factious rage, and breach of trust,
And flattery tipped with nauseous fleer,
And guilt and shame, and servile fear,
Envy, and cruelty, and pride,
Will in your tainted heart preside.

Heroes and heroines of old,
By honour only were enrolled
Among their brethren in the skies,
To which (though late) shall Stella rise.
Ten thousand oaths upon record
Are not so sacred as her word;
The world shall in its atoms end
Ere Stella can deceive a friend.
By honour seated in her breast,
She still determines what is best;
What indignation in her mind,
Against enslavers of mankind!
Base kings and ministers of state,
Eternal objects of her hate.

She thinks that Nature ne'er designed,
Courage to man alone confined;
Can cowardice her sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to scorn;
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel's affected fears;
For Stella never learned the art
At proper times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And swears she saw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because she heard a sudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.

Her hearers are amazed from whence
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense;
Which, though her modesty would shroud,
Breaks like the sun behind a cloud,
While gracefulness its art conceals,
And yet through every motion steals.

Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And forming you, mistook your kind?
No; 'twas for you alone he stole
The fire that forms a manly soul;
Then, to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay,
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this, the beauty of your frame.

How would ingratitude delight?
And how would censure glut her spite?
If I should Stella's kindness hide
In silence, or forget with pride,
When on my sickly couch I lay,
Impatient both of night and day,
Lamenting in unmanly strains,
Called every power to ease my pains,
Then Stella ran to my relief
With cheerful face and inward grief;
And though by Heaven's severe decree
She suffers hourly more than me,
No cruel master could require,
From slaves employed for daily hire,
What Stella by her friendship warmed,
With vigour and delight performed.
My sinking spirits now supplies
With cordials in her hands and eyes,
Now with a soft and silent tread,
Unheard she moves about my bed.
I see her taste each nauseous draught,
And so obligingly am caught:
I bless the hand from whence they came,
Nor dare distort my face for shame.

Best pattern of true friends beware,
You pay too dearly for your care;
If while your tenderness secures
My life, it must endanger yours.
For such a fool was never found,
Who pulled a palace to the ground,
Only to have the ruins made
Materials for a house decayed.

_While Dr. Swift was at Sir William Temple's_, _after he left the
University of Dublin_, _he contracted a friendship with two of Sir
William's relations_, _Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Dingley_, _which continued
to their deaths_. _The former of these was the amiable Stella_, _so much
celebrated in his works_. _In the year 1727_, _being in England_, _he
received the melancholy news of her last sickness_, _Mrs. Dingley having
been dead before_. _He hastened into Ireland_, _where he visited her_,
_not only as a friend_, _but a clergyman_. _No set form of prayer could
express the sense of his heart on that occasion_. _He drew up the
following_, _here printed from his own handwriting_. _She died Jan. 28_,
_1727_.




THE FIRST HE WROTE OCT. 17, 1727.


Most merciful Father, accept our humblest prayers in behalf of this Thy
languishing servant; forgive the sins, the frailties, and infirmities of
her life past. Accept the good deeds she hath done in such a manner
that, at whatever time Thou shalt please to call her, she may be received
into everlasting habitations. Give her grace to continue sincerely
thankful to Thee for the many favours Thou hast bestowed upon her, the
ability and inclination and practice to do good, and those virtues which
have procured the esteem and love of her friends, and a most unspotted
name in the world. O God, Thou dispensest Thy blessings and Thy
punishments, as it becometh infinite justice and mercy; and since it was
Thy pleasure to afflict her with a long, constant, weakly state of
health, make her truly sensible that it was for very wise ends, and was
largely made up to her in other blessings, more valuable and less common.
Continue to her, O Lord, that firmness and constancy of mind wherewith
Thou hast most graciously endowed her, together with that contempt of
worldly things and vanities that she hath shown in the whole conduct of
her life. O All-powerful Being, the least motion of whose Will can
create or destroy a world, pity us, the mournful friends of Thy
distressed servant, who sink under the weight of her present condition,
and the fear of losing the most valuable of our friends; restore her to
us, O Lord, if it be Thy gracious Will, or inspire us with constancy and
resignation to support ourselves under so heavy an affliction. Restore
her, O Lord, for the sake of those poor, who by losing her will be
desolate, and those sick, who will not only want her bounty, but her care
and tending; or else, in Thy mercy, raise up some other in her place with
equal disposition and better abilities. Lessen, O Lord, we beseech thee,
her bodily pains, or give her a double strength of mind to support them.
And if Thou wilt soon take her to Thyself, turn our thoughts rather upon
that felicity which we hope she shall enjoy, than upon that unspeakable
loss we shall endure. Let her memory be ever dear unto us, and the
example of her many virtues, as far as human infirmity will admit, our
constant imitation. Accept, O Lord, these prayers poured from the very
bottom of our hearts, in Thy mercy, and for the merits of our blessed
Saviour. _Amen_.




THE SECOND PRAYER WAS WRITTEN NOV. 6, 1727.


O Merciful Father, who never afflictest Thy children but for their own
good, and with justice, over which Thy mercy always prevaileth, either to
turn them to repentance, or to punish them in the present life, in order
to reward them in a better; take pity, we beseech Thee, upon this Thy
poor afflicted servant, languishing so long and so grievously under the
weight of Thy Hand. Give her strength, O Lord, to support her weakness,
and patience to endure her pains, without repining at Thy correction.
Forgive every rash and inconsiderate expression which her anguish may at
any time force from her tongue, while her heart continueth in an entire
submission to Thy Will. Suppress in her, O Lord, all eager desires of
life, and lesson her fears of death, by inspiring into her an humble yet
assured hope of Thy mercy. Give her a sincere repentance for all her
transgressions and omissions, and a firm resolution to pass the remainder
of her life in endeavouring to her utmost to observe all thy precepts. We
beseech Thee likewise to compose her thoughts, and preserve to her the
use of her memory and reason during the course of her sickness. Give her
a true conception of the vanity, folly, and insignificancy of all human
things; and strengthen her so as to beget in her a sincere love of Thee
in the midst of her sufferings. Accept and impute all her good deeds,
and forgive her all those offences against Thee, which she hath sincerely
repented of, or through the frailty of memory hath forgot. And now, O
Lord, we turn to Thee in behalf of ourselves, and the rest of her
sorrowful friends. Let not our grief afflict her mind, and thereby have
an ill effect on her present distemper. Forgive the sorrow and weakness
of those among us who sink under the grief and terror of losing so dear
and useful a friend. Accept and pardon our most earnest prayers and
wishes for her longer continuance in this evil world, to do what Thou art
pleased to call Thy service, and is only her bounden duty; that she may
be still a comfort to us, and to all others, who will want the benefit of
her conversation, her advice, her good offices, or her charity. And
since Thou hast promised that where two or three are gathered together in
Thy Name, Thou wilt be in the midst of them to grant their request, O
Gracious Lord, grant to us who are here met in Thy Name, that those
requests, which in the utmost sincerity and earnestness of our hearts we
have now made in behalf of this Thy distressed servant, and of ourselves,
may effectually be answered; through the merits of Jesus Christ our Lord.
_Amen_.




THE BEASTS' CONFESSION (1732).


When beasts could speak (the learned say
They still can do so every day),
It seems, they had religion then,
As much as now we find in men.
It happened when a plague broke out
(Which therefore made them more devout)
The king of brutes (to make it plain,
Of quadrupeds I only mean),
By proclamation gave command,
That every subject in the land
Should to the priest confess their sins;
And thus the pious wolf begins:

Good father, I must own with shame,
That, often I have been to blame:
I must confess, on Friday last,
Wretch that I was, I broke my fast:
But I defy the basest tongue
To prove I did my neighbour wrong;
Or ever went to seek my food
By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The ass approaching next, confessed,
That in his heart he loved a jest:
A wag he was, he needs must own,
And could not let a dunce alone:
Sometimes his friend he would not spare,
And might perhaps be too severe:
But yet, the worst that could be said,
He was a wit both born and bred;
And, if it be a sin or shame,
Nature alone must bear the blame:
One fault he hath, is sorry for't,
His ears are half a foot too short;
Which could he to the standard bring,
He'd show his face before the king:
Then, for his voice, there's none disputes
That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The swine with contrite heart allowed,
His shape and beauty made him proud:
In diet was perhaps too nice,
But gluttony was ne'er his vice:
In every turn of life content,
And meekly took what fortune sent:
Enquire through all the parish round,
A better neighbour ne'er was found:
His vigilance might seine displease;
'Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic ape began his chatter,
How evil tongues his life bespatter:
Much of the cens'ring world complained,
Who said his gravity was feigned:
Indeed, the strictness of his morals
Engaged him in a hundred quarrels:
He saw, and he was grieved to see't,
His zeal was sometimes indiscreet:
He found his virtues too severe
For our corrupted times to bear:
Yet, such a lewd licentious age
Might well excuse a stoic's rage.

The goat advanced with decent pace:
And first excused his youthful face;
Forgiveness begged, that he appeared
('Twas nature's fault) without a beard.
'Tis true, he was not much inclined
To fondness for the female kind;
Not, as his enemies object,
From chance or natural defect;
Not by his frigid constitution,
But through a pious resolution;
For he had made a holy vow
Of chastity, as monks do now;
Which he resolved to keep for ever hence,
As strictly, too, as doth his reverence. {5}

Apply the tale, and you shall find
How just it suits with human kind.
Some faults we own: but, can you guess?
Why? --virtue's carried to excess;
Wherewith our vanity endows us,
Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The lawyer swears, you may rely on't,
He never squeezed a needy client:
And this he makes his constant rule,
For which his brethren call him fool;
His conscience always was so nice,
He freely gave the poor advice;
By which he lost, he may affirm,
A hundred fees last Easter term.
While others of the learned robe
Would break the patience of a Job;
No pleader at the bar could match
His diligence and quick despatch;
Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast,
Above a term or two at most.

The cringing knave, who seeks a place
Without success, thus tells his case:
Why should he longer mince the matter?
He failed because he could not flatter:
He had not learned to turn his coat,
Nor for a party give his vote.
His crime he quickly understood;
Too zealous for the nation's good:
He found the ministers resent it,
Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The chaplain vows he cannot fawn,
Though it would raise him to the lawn:
He passed his hours among his books;
You find it in his meagre looks:
He might, if he were worldly-wise,
Preferment get, and spare his eyes:
But owned he had a stubborn spirit,
That made him trust alone in merit:
Would rise by merit to promotion;
Alas! a mere chimeric notion.

The doctor, if you will believe him,
Confessed a sin, and God forgive him:
Called up at midnight, ran to save
A blind old beggar from the grave:
But, see how Satan spreads his snares;
He quite forgot to say his prayers.
He cannot help it, for his heart,
Sometimes to act the parson's part,
Quotes from the Bible many a sentence
That moves his patients to repentance:
And, when his medicines do no good,
Supports their minds with heavenly food.
At which, however well intended,
He hears the clergy are offended;
And grown so bold behind his back,
To call him hypocrite and quack.
In his own church he keeps a seat;
Says grace before and after meat;
And calls, without affecting airs,
His household twice a day to prayers.
He shuns apothecaries' shops;
And hates to cram the sick with slops:
He scorns to make his art a trade,
Nor bribes my lady's favourite maid.
Old nurse-keepers would never hire
To recommend him to the Squire;
Which others, whom he will not name,
Have often practised to their shame.

The statesman tells you with a sneer,
His fault is to be too sincere;
And, having no sinister ends,
Is apt to disoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his Master's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the schemes he had in view;
Yet he was seconded by few:
Though some had spread a thousand lies,
'Twas he defeated the Excise.
'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion,
That standing troops were his aversion:
His practice was, in every station,
To serve the king, and please the nation.
Though hard to find in every case
The fittest man to fill a place:
His promises he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the spot:
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said he affected popularity:
'Tis true, the people understood,
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has tried;
No love is lost on either side.
He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out every year;
Must, at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone.
Oh! if his Majesty would please
To give him but a writ of ease,
Would grant him license to retire,
As it hath long been his desire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no sin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it base for men in stations
To crowd the court with their relations:
His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother:
Through modesty or awkward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wisest men he could,
Without respect to friends or blood;
Nor never acts on private views,
When he hath liberty to choose.

The sharper swore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And well he might; for to his cost,
By want of skill, he always lost.
He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contrived a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a dye,
And thus deceive the sharpest eye:
No wonder how his fortune sunk,
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.

I own the moral not exact;
Besides, the tale is false in fact;
And so absurd, that, could I raise up
From fields Elysian, fabling AEsop;
I would accuse him to his face,
For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural powers;
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents every day:
The ass was never known so stupid
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
There to be stroked, and fed with pap:
As AEsop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles;
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature _bipes et implumis_;
Wherein the moralist designed
A compliment on human-kind:
For, here he owns, that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.
AN ARGUMENT TO PROVE THAT THE ABOLISHING OF CHRISTIANITY IN ENGLAND MAY,
AS THINGS NOW STAND, BE ATTENDED WITH SOME INCONVENIENCES, AND PERHAPS
NOT PRODUCE THOSE MANY GOOD EFFECTS PROPOSED THEREBY.


_Written in the year 1708_.

I am very sensible what a weakness and presumption it is to reason
against the general humour and disposition of the world. I remember it
was with great justice, and a due regard to the freedom, both of the
public and the press, forbidden upon several penalties to write, or
discourse, or lay wagers against the --- even before it was confirmed by
Parliament; because that was looked upon as a design to oppose the
current of the people, which, besides the folly of it, is a manifest
breach of the fundamental law, that makes this majority of opinions the
voice of God. In like manner, and for the very same reasons, it may
perhaps be neither safe nor prudent to argue against the abolishing of
Christianity, at a juncture when all parties seem so unanimously
determined upon the point, as we cannot but allow from their actions,
their discourses, and their writings. However, I know not how, whether
from the affectation of singularity, or the perverseness of human nature,
but so it unhappily falls out, that I cannot be entirely of this opinion.
Nay, though I were sure an order were issued for my immediate prosecution
by the Attorney-General, I should still confess, that in the present
posture of our affairs at home or abroad, I do not yet see the absolute
necessity of extirpating the Christian religion from among us.

This perhaps may appear too great a paradox even for our wise and
paxodoxical age to endure; therefore I shall handle it with all
tenderness, and with the utmost deference to that great and profound
majority which is of another sentiment.

And yet the curious may please to observe, how much the genius of a
nation is liable to alter in half an age. I have heard it affirmed for
certain by some very odd people, that the contrary opinion was even in
their memories as much in vogue as the other is now; and that a project
for the abolishing of Christianity would then have appeared as singular,
and been thought as absurd, as it would be at this time to write or
discourse in its defence.

Therefore I freely own, that all appearances are against me. The system
of the Gospel, after the fate of other systems, is generally antiquated
and exploded, and the mass or body of the common people, among whom it
seems to have had its latest credit, are now grown as much ashamed of it
as their betters; opinions, like fashions, always descending from those
of quality to the middle sort, and thence to the vulgar, where at length
they are dropped and vanish.

But here I would not be mistaken, and must therefore be so bold as to
borrow a distinction from the writers on the other side, when they make a
difference betwixt nominal and real Trinitarians. I hope no reader
imagines me so weak to stand up in the defence of real Christianity, such
as used in primitive times (if we may believe the authors of those ages)
to have an influence upon men's belief and actions. To offer at the
restoring of that, would indeed be a wild project: it would be to dig up
foundations; to destroy at one blow all the wit, and half the learning of
the kingdom; to break the entire frame and constitution of things; to
ruin trade, extinguish arts and sciences, with the professors of them; in
short, to turn our courts, exchanges, and shops into deserts; and would
be full as absurd as the proposal of Horace, where he advises the Romans,
all in a body, to leave their city, and seek a new seat in some remote
part of the world, by way of a cure for the corruption of their manners.

Therefore I think this caution was in itself altogether unnecessary
(which I have inserted only to prevent all possibility of cavilling),
since every candid reader will easily understand my discourse to be
intended only in defence of nominal Christianity, the other having been
for some time wholly laid aside by general consent, as utterly
inconsistent with all our present schemes of wealth and power.

But why we should therefore cut off the name and title of Christians,
although the general opinion and resolution be so violent for it, I
confess I cannot (with submission) apprehend the consequence necessary.
However, since the undertakers propose such wonderful advantages to the
nation by this project, and advance many plausible objections against the
system of Christianity, I shall briefly consider the strength of both,
fairly allow them their greatest weight, and offer such answers as I
think most reasonable. After which I will beg leave to show what
inconveniences may possibly happen by such an innovation, in the present
posture of our affairs.

First, one great advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity is,
that it would very much enlarge and establish liberty of conscience, that
great bulwark of our nation, and of the Protestant religion, which is
still too much limited by priestcraft, notwithstanding all the good
intentions of the legislature, as we have lately found by a severe
instance. For it is confidently reported, that two young gentlemen of
real hopes, bright wit, and profound judgment, who, upon a thorough
examination of causes and effects, and by the mere force of natural
abilities, without the least tincture of learning, having made a
discovery that there was no God, and generously communicating their
thoughts for the good of the public, were some time ago, by an
unparalleled severity, and upon I know not what obsolete law, broke for
blasphemy. And as it has been wisely observed, if persecution once
begins, no man alive knows how far it may reach, or where it will end.

In answer to all which, with deference to wiser judgments, I think this
rather shows the necessity of a nominal religion among us. Great wits
love to be free with the highest objects; and if they cannot be allowed a
god to revile or renounce, they will speak evil of dignities, abuse the
government, and reflect upon the ministry, which I am sure few will deny
to be of much more pernicious consequence, according to the saying of
Tiberius, _deorum offensa diis curoe_. As to the particular fact
related, I think it is not fair to argue from one instance, perhaps
another cannot be produced: yet (to the comfort of all those who may be
apprehensive of persecution) blasphemy we know is freely spoke a million
of times in every coffee-house and tavern, or wherever else good company
meet. It must be allowed, indeed, that to break an English free-born
officer only for blasphemy was, to speak the gentlest of such an action,
a very high strain of absolute power. Little can be said in excuse for
the general; perhaps he was afraid it might give offence to the allies,
among whom, for aught we know, it may be the custom of the country to
believe a God. But if he argued, as some have done, upon a mistaken
principle, that an officer who is guilty of speaking blasphemy may, some
time or other, proceed so far as to raise a mutiny, the consequence is by
no means to be admitted: for surely the commander of an English army is
like to be but ill obeyed whose soldiers fear and reverence him as little
as they do a Deity.

It is further objected against the Gospel system that it obliges men to
the belief of things too difficult for Freethinkers, and such who have
shook off the prejudices that usually cling to a confined education. To
which I answer, that men should be cautious how they raise objections
which reflect upon the wisdom of the nation. Is not everybody freely
allowed to believe whatever he pleases, and to publish his belief to the
world whenever he thinks fit, especially if it serves to strengthen the
party which is in the right? Would any indifferent foreigner, who should
read the trumpery lately written by Asgil, Tindal, Toland, Coward, and
forty more, imagine the Gospel to be our rule of faith, and to be
confirmed by Parliaments? Does any man either believe, or say he
believes, or desire to have it thought that he says he believes, one
syllable of the matter? And is any man worse received upon that score,
or does he find his want of nominal faith a disadvantage to him in the
pursuit of any civil or military employment? What if there be an old
dormant statute or two against him, are they not now obsolete, to a
degree, that Empson and Dudley themselves, if they were now alive, would
find it impossible to put them in execution?

It is likewise urged, that there are, by computation, in this kingdom,
above ten thousand parsons, whose revenues, added to those of my lords
the bishops, would suffice to maintain at least two hundred young
gentlemen of wit and pleasure, and free-thinking, enemies to priestcraft,
narrow principles, pedantry, and prejudices, who might be an ornament to
the court and town: and then again, so a great number of able [bodied]
divines might be a recruit to our fleet and armies. This indeed appears
to be a consideration of some weight; but then, on the other side,
several things deserve to be considered likewise: as, first, whether it
may not be thought necessary that in certain tracts of country, like what
we call parishes, there should be one man at least of abilities to read
and write. Then it seems a wrong computation that the revenues of the
Church throughout this island would be large enough to maintain two
hundred young gentlemen, or even half that number, after the present
refined way of living, that is, to allow each of them such a rent as, in
the modern form of speech, would make them easy. But still there is in
this project a greater mischief behind; and we ought to beware of the
woman's folly, who killed the hen that every morning laid her a golden
egg. For, pray what would become of the race of men in the next age, if
we had nothing to trust to beside the scrofulous consumptive production
furnished by our men of wit and pleasure, when, having squandered away
their vigour, health, and estates, they are forced, by some disagreeable
marriage, to piece up their broken fortunes, and entail rottenness and
politeness on their posterity? Now, here are ten thousand persons
reduced, by the wise regulations of Henry VIII. , to the necessity of a
low diet, and moderate exercise, who are the only great restorers of our
breed, without which the nation would in an age or two become one great
hospital.

Another advantage proposed by the abolishing of Christianity is the clear
gain of one day in seven, which is now entirely lost, and consequently
the kingdom one seventh less considerable in trade, business, and
pleasure; besides the loss to the public of so many stately structures
now in the hands of the clergy, which might be converted into
play-houses, exchanges, market-houses, common dormitories, and other
public edifices.

I hope I shall be forgiven a hard word if I call this a perfect cavil. I
readily own there hath been an old custom, time out of mind, for people
to assemble in the churches every Sunday, and that shops are still
frequently shut, in order, as it is conceived, to preserve the memory of
that ancient practice; but how this can prove a hindrance to business or
pleasure is hard to imagine. What if the men of pleasure are forced, one
day in the week, to game at home instead of the chocolate-house? Are not
the taverns and coffee-houses open? Can there be a more convenient
season for taking a dose of physic? Is not that the chief day for
traders to sum up the accounts of the week, and for lawyers to prepare
their briefs? But I would fain know how it can be pretended that the
churches are misapplied? Where are more appointments and rendezvouses of
gallantry? Where more care to appear in the foremost box, with greater
advantage of dress? Where more meetings for business? Where more
bargains driven of all sorts? And where so many conveniences or
incitements to sleep?

There is one advantage greater than any of the foregoing, proposed by the
abolishing of Christianity, that it will utterly extinguish parties among
us, by removing those factious distinctions of high and low church, of
Whig and Tory, Presbyterian and Church of England, which are now so many
mutual clogs upon public proceedings, and are apt to prefer the
gratifying themselves or depressing their adversaries before the most
important interest of the State.

I confess, if it were certain that so great an advantage would redound to
the nation by this expedient, I would submit, and be silent; but will any
man say, that if the words, whoring, drinking, cheating, lying, stealing,
were, by Act of Parliament, ejected out of the English tongue and
dictionaries, we should all awake next morning chaste and temperate,
honest and just, and lovers of truth? Is this a fair consequence? Or if
the physicians would forbid us to pronounce the words pox, gout,
rheumatism, and stone, would that expedient serve like so many talismen
to destroy the diseases themselves? Are party and faction rooted in
men's hearts no deeper than phrases borrowed from religion, or founded
upon no firmer principles? And is our language so poor that we cannot
find other terms to express them? Are envy, pride, avarice, and ambition
such ill nomenclators, that they cannot furnish appellations for their
owners? Will not heydukes and mamalukes, mandarins and patshaws, or any
other words formed at pleasure, serve to distinguish those who are in the
ministry from others who would be in it if they could? What, for
instance, is easier than to vary the form of speech, and instead of the
word church, make it a question in politics, whether the monument be in
danger? Because religion was nearest at hand to furnish a few convenient
phrases, is our invention so barren we can find no other? Suppose, for
argument sake, that the Tories favoured Margarita, the Whigs, Mrs. Tofts,
and the Trimmers, Valentini, would not Margaritians, Toftians, and
Valentinians be very tolerable marks of distinction? The Prasini and
Veniti, two most virulent factions in Italy, began, if I remember right,
by a distinction of colours in ribbons, which we might do with as good a
grace about the dignity of the blue and the green, and serve as properly
to divide the Court, the Parliament, and the kingdom between them, as any
terms of art whatsoever, borrowed from religion. And therefore I think
there is little force in this objection against Christianity, or prospect
of so great an advantage as is proposed in the abolishing of it.

It is again objected, as a very absurd, ridiculous custom, that a set of
men should be suffered, much less employed and hired, to bawl one day in
seven against the lawfulness of those methods most in use towards the
pursuit of greatness, riches, and pleasure, which are the constant
practice of all men alive on the other six. But this objection is, I
think, a little unworthy so refined an age as ours. Let us argue this
matter calmly. I appeal to the breast of any polite Free-thinker,
whether, in the pursuit of gratifying a pre-dominant passion, he hath not
always felt a wonderful incitement, by reflecting it was a thing
forbidden; and therefore we see, in order to cultivate this test, the
wisdom of the nation hath taken special care that the ladies should be
furnished with prohibited silks, and the men with prohibited wine. And
indeed it were to be wished that some other prohibitions were promoted,
in order to improve the pleasures of the town, which, for want of such
expedients, begin already, as I am told, to flag and grow languid, giving
way daily to cruel inroads from the spleen.

'Tis likewise proposed, as a great advantage to the public, that if we
once discard the system of the Gospel, all religion will of course be
banished for ever, and consequently along with it those grievous
prejudices of education which, under the names of conscience, honour,
justice, and the like, are so apt to disturb the peace of human minds,
and the notions whereof are so hard to be eradicated by right reason or
free-thinking, sometimes during the whole course of our lives.

Here first I observe how difficult it is to get rid of a phrase which the
world has once grown fond of, though the occasion that first produced it
be entirely taken away. For some years past, if a man had but an ill-
favoured nose, the deep thinkers of the age would, some way or other
contrive to impute the cause to the prejudice of his education. From
this fountain were said to be derived all our foolish notions of justice,
piety, love of our country; all our opinions of God or a future state,
heaven, hell, and the like; and there might formerly perhaps have been
some pretence for this charge. But so effectual care hath been since
taken to remove those prejudices, by an entire change in the methods of
education, that (with honour I mention it to our polite innovators) the
young gentlemen, who are now on the scene, seem to have not the least
tincture left of those infusions, or string of those weeds, and by
consequence the reason for abolishing nominal Christianity upon that
pretext is wholly ceased.

For the rest, it may perhaps admit a controversy, whether the banishing
all notions of religion whatsoever would be inconvenient for the vulgar.
Not that I am in the least of opinion with those who hold religion to
have been the invention of politicians, to keep the lower part of the
world in awe by the fear of invisible powers; unless mankind were then
very different from what it is now; for I look upon the mass or body of
our people here in England to be as Freethinkers, that is to say, as
staunch unbelievers, as any of the highest rank. But I conceive some
scattered notions about a superior power to be of singular use for the
common people, as furnishing excellent materials to keep children quiet
when they grow peevish, and providing topics of amusement in a tedious
winter night.

Lastly, it is proposed, as a singular advantage, that the abolishing of
Christianity will very much contribute to the uniting of Protestants, by
enlarging the terms of communion, so as to take in all sorts of
Dissenters, who are now shut out of the pale upon account of a few
ceremonies, which all sides confess to be things indifferent. That this
alone will effectually answer the great ends of a scheme for
comprehension, by opening a large noble gate, at which all bodies may
enter; whereas the chaffering with Dissenters, and dodging about this or
t'other ceremony, is but like opening a few wickets, and leaving them at
jar, by which no more than one can get in at a time, and that not without
stooping, and sideling, and squeezing his body.

To all this I answer, that there is one darling inclination of mankind
which usually affects to be a retainer to religion, though she be neither
its parent, its godmother, nor its friend. I mean the spirit of
opposition, that lived long before Christianity, and can easily subsist
without it. Let us, for instance, examine wherein the opposition of
sectaries among us consists. We shall find Christianity to have no share
in it at all. Does the Gospel anywhere prescribe a starched, squeezed
countenance, a stiff formal gait, a singularity of manners and habit, or
any affected forms and modes of speech different from the reasonable part
of mankind? Yet, if Christianity did not lend its name to stand in the
gap, and to employ or divert these humours, they must of necessity be
spent in contraventions to the laws of the land, and disturbance of the
public peace. There is a portion of enthusiasm assigned to every nation,
which, if it hath not proper objects to work on, will burst out, and set
all into a flame. If the quiet of a State can be bought by only flinging
men a few ceremonies to devour, it is a purchase no wise man would
refuse. Let the mastiffs amuse themselves about a sheep's skin stuffed
with hay, provided it will keep them from worrying the flock. The
institution of convents abroad seems in one point a strain of great
wisdom, there being few irregularities in human passions which may not
have recourse to vent themselves in some of those orders, which are so
many retreats for the speculative, the melancholy, the proud, the silent,
the politic, and the morose, to spend themselves, and evaporate the
noxious particles; for each of whom we in this island are forced to
provide a several sect of religion to keep them quiet; and whenever
Christianity shall be abolished, the Legislature must find some other
expedient to employ and entertain them. For what imports it how large a
gate you open, if there will be always left a number who place a pride
and a merit in not coming in?

Having thus considered the most important objections against
Christianity, and the chief advantages proposed by the abolishing
thereof, I shall now, with equal deference and submission to wiser
judgments, as before, proceed to mention a few inconveniences that may
happen if the Gospel should be repealed, which, perhaps, the projectors
may not have sufficiently considered.

And first, I am very sensible how much the gentlemen of wit and pleasure
are apt to murmur, and be choked at the sight of so many daggle-tailed
parsons that happen to fall in their way, and offend their eyes; but at
the same time, these wise reformers do not consider what an advantage and
felicity it is for great wits to be always provided with objects of scorn
and contempt, in order to exercise and improve their talents, and divert
their spleen from falling on each other, or on themselves, especially
when all this may be done without the least imaginable danger to their
persons.

And to urge another argument of a parallel nature: if Christianity were
once abolished, how could the Freethinkers, the strong reasoners, and the
men of profound learning be able to find another subject so calculated in
all points whereon to display their abilities? What wonderful
productions of wit should we be deprived of from those whose genius, by
continual practice, hath been wholly turned upon raillery and invectives
against religion, and would therefore never be able to shine or
distinguish themselves upon any other subject? We are daily complaining
of the great decline of wit among as, and would we take away the
greatest, perhaps the only topic we have left? Who would ever have
suspected Asgil for a wit, or Toland for a philosopher, if the
inexhaustible stock of Christianity had not been at hand to provide them
with materials? What other subject through all art or nature could have
produced Tindal for a profound author, or furnished him with readers? It
is the wise choice of the subject that alone adorns and distinguishes the
writer. For had a hundred such pens as these been employed on the side
of religion, they would have immediately sunk into silence and oblivion.

Nor do I think it wholly groundless, or my fears altogether imaginary,
that the abolishing of Christianity may perhaps bring the Church in
danger, or at least put the Senate to the trouble of another securing
vote. I desire I may not be mistaken; I am far from presuming to affirm
or think that the Church is in danger at present, or as things now stand;
but we know not how soon it may be so when the Christian religion is
repealed. As plausible as this project seems, there may be a dangerous
design lurk under it. Nothing can be more notorious than that the
Atheists, Deists, Socinians, Anti-Trinitarians, and other subdivisions of
Freethinkers, are persons of little zeal for the present ecclesiastical
establishment: their declared opinion is for repealing the sacramental
test; they are very indifferent with regard to ceremonies; nor do they
hold the _Jus Divinum_ of episcopacy: therefore they may be intended as
one politic step towards altering the constitution of the Church
established, and setting up Presbytery in the stead, which I leave to be
further considered by those at the helm.

In the last place, I think nothing can be more plain, than that by this
expedient we shall run into the evil we chiefly pretend to avoid; and
that the abolishment of the Christian religion will be the readiest
course we can take to introduce Popery. And I am the more inclined to
this opinion because we know it has been the constant practice of the
Jesuits to send over emissaries, with instructions to personate
themselves members of the several prevailing sects amongst us. So it is
recorded that they have at sundry times appeared in the guise of
Presbyterians, Anabaptists, Independents, and Quakers, according as any
of these were most in credit; so, since the fashion hath been taken up of
exploding religion, the Popish missionaries have not been wanting to mix
with the Freethinkers; among whom Toland, the great oracle of the Anti-
Christians, is an Irish priest, the son of an Irish priest; and the most
learned and ingenious author of a book called the "Rights of the
Christian Church," was in a proper juncture reconciled to the Romish
faith, whose true son, as appears by a hundred passages in his treatise,
he still continues. Perhaps I could add some others to the number; but
the fact is beyond dispute, and the reasoning they proceed by is right:
for supposing Christianity to be extinguished the people will never he at
ease till they find out some other method of worship, which will as
infallibly produce superstition as this will end in Popery.

And therefore, if, notwithstanding all I have said, it still be thought
necessary to have a Bill brought in for repealing Christianity, I would
humbly offer an amendment, that instead of the word Christianity may be
put religion in general, which I conceive will much better answer all the
good ends proposed by the projectors of it. For as long as we leave in
being a God and His Providence, with all the necessary consequences which
curious and inquisitive men will be apt to draw from such promises, we do
not strike at the root of the evil, though we should ever so effectually
annihilate the present scheme of the Gospel; for of what use is freedom
of thought if it will not produce freedom of action, which is the sole
end, how remote soever in appearance, of all objections against
Christianity? and therefore, the Freethinkers consider it as a sort of
edifice, wherein all the parts have such a mutual dependence on each
other, that if you happen to pull out one single nail, the whole fabric
must fall to the ground. This was happily expressed by him who had heard
of a text brought for proof of the Trinity, which in an ancient
manuscript was differently read; he thereupon immediately took the hint,
and by a sudden deduction of a long Sorites, most logically concluded:
why, if it be as you say, I may safely drink on, and defy the parson.
From which, and many the like instances easy to be produced, I think
nothing can be more manifest than that the quarrel is not against any
particular points of hard digestion in the Christian system, but against
religion in general, which, by laying restraints on human nature, is
supposed the great enemy to the freedom of thought and action.

Upon the whole, if it shall still be thought for the benefit of Church
and State that Christianity be abolished, I conceive, however, it may be
more convenient to defer the execution to a time of peace, and not
venture in this conjuncture to disoblige our allies, who, as it falls
out, are all Christians, and many of them, by the prejudices of their
education, so bigoted as to place a sort of pride in the appellation. If,
upon being rejected by them, we are to trust to an alliance with the
Turk, we shall find ourselves much deceived; for, as he is too remote,
and generally engaged in war with the Persian emperor, so his people
would be more scandalised at our infidelity than our Christian
neighbours. For they are not only strict observers of religions worship,
but what is worse, believe a God; which is more than is required of us,
even while we preserve the name of Christians.

To conclude, whatever some may think of the great advantages to trade by
this favourite scheme, I do very much apprehend that in six months' time
after the Act is passed for the extirpation of the Gospel, the Bank and
East India stock may fall at least one per cent. And since that is fifty
times more than ever the wisdom of our age thought fit to venture for the
preservation of Christianity, there is no reason we should be at so great
a loss merely for the sake of destroying it.




HINTS TOWARDS AN ESSAY ON CONVERSATION.


I have observed few obvious subjects to have been so seldom, or at least
so slightly, handled as this; and, indeed, I know few so difficult to be
treated as it ought, nor yet upon which there seemeth so much to be said.

Most things pursued by men for the happiness of public or private life
our wit or folly have so refined, that they seldom subsist but in idea; a
true friend, a good marriage, a perfect form of government, with some
others, require so many ingredients, so good in their several kinds, and
so much niceness in mixing them, that for some thousands of years men
have despaired of reducing their schemes to perfection. But in
conversation it is or might be otherwise; for here we are only to avoid a
multitude of errors, which, although a matter of some difficulty, may be
in every man's power, for want of which it remaineth as mere an idea as
the other. Therefore it seemeth to me that the truest way to understand
conversation is to know the faults and errors to which it is subject, and
from thence every man to form maxims to himself whereby it may be
regulated, because it requireth few talents to which most men are not
born, or at least may not acquire without any great genius or study. For
nature bath left every man a capacity of being agreeable, though not of
shining in company; and there are a hundred men sufficiently qualified
for both, who, by a very few faults that they might correct in half an
hour, are not so much as tolerable.

I was prompted to write my thoughts upon this subject by mere
indignation, to reflect that so useful and innocent a pleasure, so fitted
for every period and condition of life, and so much in all men's power,
should be so much neglected and abused.

And in this discourse it will be necessary to note those errors that are
obvious, as well as others which are seldomer observed, since there are
few so obvious or acknowledged into which most men, some time or other,
are not apt to run.

For instance, nothing is more generally exploded than the folly of
talking too much; yet I rarely remember to have seen five people together
where some one among them hath not been predominant in that kind, to the
great constraint and disgust of all the rest. But among such as deal in
multitudes of words, none are comparable to the sober deliberate talker,
who proceedeth with much thought and caution, maketh his preface,
brancheth out into several digressions, findeth a hint that putteth him
in mind of another story, which he promiseth to tell you when this is
done; cometh back regularly to his subject, cannot readily call to mind
some person's name, holdeth his head, complaineth of his memory; the
whole company all this while in suspense; at length, says he, it is no
matter, and so goes on. And, to crown the business, it perhaps proveth
at last a story the company hath heard fifty times before; or, at best,
some insipid adventure of the relater.

Another general fault in conversation is that of those who affect to talk
of themselves. Some, without any ceremony, will run over the history of
their lives; will relate the annals of their diseases, with the several
symptoms and circumstances of them; will enumerate the hardships and
injustice they have suffered in court, in parliament, in love, or in law.
Others are more dexterous, and with great art will lie on the watch to
hook in their own praise. They will call a witness to remember they
always foretold what would happen in such a case, but none would believe
them; they advised such a man from the beginning, and told him the
consequences just as they happened, but he would have his own way. Others
make a vanity of telling their faults. They are the strangest men in the
world; they cannot dissemble; they own it is a folly; they have lost
abundance of advantages by it; but, if you would give them the world,
they cannot help it; there is something in their nature that abhors
insincerity and constraint; with many other unsufferable topics of the
same altitude.

Of such mighty importance every man is to himself, and ready to think he
is so to others, without once making this easy and obvious reflection,
that his affairs can have no more weight with other men than theirs have
with him; and how little that is he is sensible enough.

Where company hath met, I often have observed two persons discover by
some accident that they were bred together at the same school or
university, after which the rest are condemned to silence, and to listen
while these two are refreshing each other's memory with the arch tricks
and passages of themselves and their comrades.

I know a great officer of the army, who will sit for some time with a
supercilious and impatient silence, full of anger and contempt for those
who are talking; at length of a sudden demand audience; decide the matter
in a short dogmatical way; then withdraw within himself again, and
vouchsafe to talk no more, until his spirits circulate again to the same
point.

There are some faults in conversation which none are so subject to as the
men of wit, nor ever so much as when they are with each other. If they
have opened their mouths without endeavouring to say a witty thing, they
think it is so many words lost. It is a torment to the hearers, as much
as to themselves, to see them upon the rack for invention, and in
perpetual constraint, with so little success. They must do something
extraordinary, in order to acquit themselves, and answer their character,
else the standers by may be disappointed and be apt to think them only
like the rest of mortals. I have known two men of wit industriously
brought together, in order to entertain the company, where they have made
a very ridiculous figure, and provided all the mirth at their own
expense.

I know a man of wit, who is never easy but where he can be allowed to
dictate and preside; he neither expecteth to be informed or entertained,
but to display his own talents. His business is to be good company, and
not good conversation, and therefore he chooseth to frequent those who
are content to listen, and profess themselves his admirers. And, indeed,
the worst conversation I ever remember to have heard in my life was that
at Will's coffee-house, where the wits, as they were called, used
formerly to assemble; that is to say, five or six men who had written
plays, or at least prologues, or had share in a miscellany, came thither,
and entertained one another with their trifling composures in so
important an air, as if they had been the noblest efforts of human
nature, or that the fate of kingdoms depended on them; and they were
usually attended with a humble audience of young students from the inns
of courts, or the universities, who, at due distance, listened to these
oracles, and returned home with great contempt for their law and
philosophy, their heads filled with trash under the name of politeness,
criticism, and belles lettres.

By these means the poets, for many years past, were all overrun with
pedantry. For, as I take it, the word is not properly used; because
pedantry is the too front or unseasonable obtruding our own knowledge in
common discourse, and placing too great a value upon it; by which
definition men of the court or the army may be as guilty of pedantry as a
philosopher or a divine; and it is the same vice in women when they are
over copious upon the subject of their petticoats, or their fans, or
their china. For which reason, although it be a piece of prudence, as
well as good manners, to put men upon talking on subjects they are best
versed in, yet that is a liberty a wise man could hardly take; because,
beside the imputation of pedantry, it is what he would never improve by.

This great town is usually provided with some player, mimic, or buffoon,
who hath a general reception at the good tables; familiar and domestic
with persons of the first quality, and usually sent for at every meeting
to divert the company, against which I have no objection. You go there
as to a farce or a puppet-show; your business is only to laugh in season,
either out of inclination or civility, while this merry companion is
acting his part. It is a business he hath undertaken, and we are to
suppose he is paid for his day's work. I only quarrel when in select and
private meetings, where men of wit and learning are invited to pass an
evening, this jester should be admitted to run over his circle of tricks,
and make the whole company unfit for any other conversation, besides the
indignity of confounding men's talents at so shameful a rate.

Raillery is the finest part of conversation; but, as it is our usual
custom to counterfeit and adulterate whatever is too dear for us, so we
have done with this, and turned it all into what is generally called
repartee, or being smart; just as when an expensive fashion cometh up,
those who are not able to reach it content themselves with some paltry
imitation. It now passeth for raillery to run a man down in discourse,
to put him out of countenance, and make him ridiculous, sometimes to
expose the defects of his person or understanding; on all which occasions
he is obliged not to be angry, to avoid the imputation of not being able
to take a jest. It is admirable to observe one who is dexterous at this
art, singling out a weak adversary, getting the laugh on his side, and
then carrying all before him. The French, from whom we borrow the word,
have a quite different idea of the thing, and so had we in the politer
age of our fathers. Raillery was, to say something that at first
appeared a reproach or reflection, but, by some turn of wit unexpected
and surprising, ended always in a compliment, and to the advantage of the
person it was addressed to. And surely one of the best rules in
conversation is, never to say a thing which any of the company can
reasonably wish we had rather left unsaid; nor can there anything be well
more contrary to the ends for which people meet together, than to part
unsatisfied with each other or themselves.

There are two faults in conversation which appear very different, yet
arise from the same root, and are equally blamable; I mean, an impatience
to interrupt others, and the uneasiness of being interrupted ourselves.
The two chief ends of conversation are, to entertain and improve those we
are among, or to receive those benefits ourselves; which whoever will
consider, cannot easily run into either of those two errors; because,
when any man speaketh in company, it is to be supposed he doth it for his
hearers' sake, and not his own; so that common discretion will teach us
not to force their attention, if they are not willing to lend it; nor, on
the other side, to interrupt him who is in possession, because that is in
the grossest manner to give the preference to our own good sense.

There are some people whose good manners will not suffer them to
interrupt you; but, what is almost as bad, will discover abundance of
impatience, and lie upon the watch until you have done, because they have
started something in their own thoughts which they long to be delivered
of. Meantime, they are so far from regarding what passes, that their
imaginations are wholly turned upon what they have in reserve, for fear
it should slip out of their memory; and thus they confine their
invention, which might otherwise range over a hundred things full as
good, and that might be much more naturally introduced.

There is a sort of rude familiarity, which some people, by practising
among their intimates, have introduced into their general conversation,
and would have it pass for innocent freedom or humour, which is a
dangerous experiment in our northern climate, where all the little
decorum and politeness we have are purely forced by art, and are so ready
to lapse into barbarity. This, among the Romans, was the raillery of
slaves, of which we have many instances in Plautus. It seemeth to have
been introduced among us by Cromwell, who, by preferring the scum of the
people, made it a court-entertainment, of which I have heard many
particulars; and, considering all things were turned upside down, it was
reasonable and judicious; although it was a piece of policy found out to
ridicule a point of honour in the other extreme, when the smallest word
misplaced among gentlemen ended in a duel.

There are some men excellent at telling a story, and provided with a
plentiful stock of them, which they can draw out upon occasion in all
companies; and considering how low conversation runs now among us, it is
not altogether a contemptible talent; however, it is subject to two
unavoidable defects: frequent repetition, and being soon exhausted; so
that whoever valueth this gift in himself hath need of a good memory, and
ought frequently to shift his company, that he may not discover the
weakness of his fund; for those who are thus endowed have seldom any
other revenue, but live upon the main stock.

Great speakers in public are seldom agreeable in private conversation,
whether their faculty be natural, or acquired by practice and often
venturing. Natural elocution, although it may seem a paradox, usually
springeth from a barrenness of invention and of words, by which men who
have only one stock of notions upon every subject, and one set of phrases
to express them in, they swim upon the superficies, and offer themselves
on every occasion; therefore, men of much learning, and who know the
compass of a language, are generally the worst talkers on a sudden, until
much practice hath inured and emboldened them; because they are
confounded with plenty of matter, variety of notions, and of words, which
they cannot readily choose, but are perplexed and entangled by too great
a choice, which is no disadvantage in private conversation; where, on the
other side, the talent of haranguing is, of all others, most
insupportable.

Nothing hath spoiled men more for conversation than the character of
being wits; to support which, they never fail of encouraging a number of
followers and admirers, who list themselves in their service, wherein
they find their accounts on both sides by pleasing their mutual vanity.
This hath given the former such an air of superiority, and made the
latter so pragmatical, that neither of them are well to be endured. I
say nothing here of the itch of dispute and contradiction, telling of
lies, or of those who are troubled with the disease called the wandering
of the thoughts, that they are never present in mind at what passeth in
discourse; for whoever labours under any of these possessions is as unfit
for conversation as madmen in Bedlam.

I think I have gone over most of the errors in conversation that have
fallen under my notice or memory, except some that are merely personal,
and others too gross to need exploding; such as lewd or profane talk; but
I pretend only to treat the errors of conversation in general, and not
the several subjects of discourse, which would be infinite. Thus we see
how human nature is most debased, by the abuse of that faculty, which is
held the great distinction between men and brutes; and how little
advantage we make of that which might be the greatest, the most lasting,
and the most innocent, as well as useful pleasure of life: in default of
which, we are forced to take up with those poor amusements of dress and
visiting, or the more pernicious ones of play, drink, and vicious amours,
whereby the nobility and gentry of both sexes are entirely corrupted both
in body and mind, and have lost all notions of love, honour, friendship,
and generosity; which, under the name of fopperies, have been for some
time laughed out of doors.

This degeneracy of conversation, with the pernicious consequences thereof
upon our humours and dispositions, hath been owing, among other causes,
to the custom arisen, for some time past, of excluding women from any
share in our society, further than in parties at play, or dancing, or in
the pursuit of an amour. I take the highest period of politeness in
England (and it is of the same date in France) to have been the peaceable
part of King Charles I. 's reign; and from what we read of those times, as
well as from the accounts I have formerly met with from some who lived in
that court, the methods then used for raising and cultivating
conversation were altogether different from ours; several ladies, whom we
find celebrated by the poets of that age, had assemblies at their houses,
where persons of the best understanding, and of both sexes, met to pass
the evenings in discoursing upon whatever agreeable subjects were
occasionally started; and although we are apt to ridicule the sublime
Platonic notions they had, or personated in love and friendship, I
conceive their refinements were grounded upon reason, and that a little
grain of the romance is no ill ingredient to preserve and exalt the
dignity of human nature, without which it is apt to degenerate into
everything that is sordid, vicious, and low. If there were no other use
in the conversation of ladies, it is sufficient that it would lay a
restraint upon those odious topics of immodesty and indecencies, into
which the rudeness of our northern genius is so apt to fall. And,
therefore, it is observable in those sprightly gentlemen about the town,
who are so very dexterous at entertaining a vizard mask in the park or
the playhouse, that, in the company of ladies of virtue and honour, they
are silent and disconcerted, and out of their element.

There are some people who think they sufficiently acquit themselves and
entertain their company with relating of facts of no consequence, nor at
all out of the road of such common incidents as happen every day; and
this I have observed more frequently among the Scots than any other
nation, who are very careful not to omit the minutest circumstances of
time or place; which kind of discourse, if it were not a little relieved
by the uncouth terms and phrases, as well as accent and gesture peculiar
to that country, would be hardly tolerable. It is not a fault in company
to talk much; but to continue it long is certainly one; for, if the
majority of those who are got together be naturally silent or cautious,
the conversation will flag, unless it be often renewed by one among them
who can start new subjects, provided he doth not dwell upon them, but
leaveth room for answers and replies.




THOUGHTS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.


We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us
love one another.

Reflect on things past as wars, negotiations, factions, etc. We enter so
little into those interests, that we wonder how men could possibly be so
busy and concerned for things so transitory; look on the present times,
we find the same humour, yet wonder not at all.

A wise man endeavours, by considering all circumstances, to make
conjectures and form conclusions; but the smallest accident intervening
(and in the course of affairs it is impossible to foresee all) does often
produce such turns and changes, that at last he is just as much in doubt
of events as the most ignorant and inexperienced person.

Positiveness is a good quality for preachers and orators, because he that
would obtrude his thoughts and reasons upon a multitude, will convince
others the more, as he appears convinced himself.

How is it possible to expect that mankind will take advice, when they
will not so much as take warning?

I forget whether Advice be among the lost things which Aristo says are to
be found in the moon; that and Time ought to have been there.

No preacher is listened to but Time, which gives us the same train and
turn of thought that older people have tried in vain to put into our
heads before.

When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on the good side
or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our minds run wholly on the
bad ones.

In a glass-house the workmen often fling in a small quantity of fresh
coals, which seems to disturb the fire, but very much enlivens it. This
seems to allude to a gentle stirring of the passions, that the mind may
not languish.

Religion seems to have grown an infant with age, and requires miracles to
nurse it, as it had in its infancy.

All fits of pleasure are balanced by an equal degree of pain or languor;
it is like spending this year part of the next year's revenue.

The latter part of a wise man's life is taken up in curing the follies,
prejudices, and false opinions he had contracted in the former.

Would a writer know how to behave himself with relation to posterity, let
him consider in old books what he finds that he is glad to know, and what
omissions he most laments.