# Characteristicks of Men, Manners, Opinions, Times/Volume 2/Treatise 5/Part 1

THE
MORALISTS, &c.
PART I.
PHILOCLES to PALEMON.
What Mortal, if he had never chanc'd to hear your Character, Palemon, cou'd imagine, that a Genius fitted for the greatest Affairs, and form'd amidst Courts and Camps, shou'd have so violent a Turn towards Philosophy and the Schools? Who is there ​cou'd possibly believe that one of your Rank and Credit in the fashionable World, shou'd be do thorowly conversant in the learned one, and deeply interested in the Affairs of a People so disagreeable to the Generality of Mankind and Humour of the Age?
I Believe truly, You are the only well-bred Man who wou'd have taken the Fancy to talk Philosophy in such a Circle of good Company as we had round us yesterday, when we were in your Coach together, in the Park. How you cou'd reconcile the Objects there, to such Subjects as these, was unaccountable. I cou'd only conclude, that either you had an extravagant Passion for Philosophy, to quit so many Charms for it; or that some of those tender Charms had an extravagant Effect, which sent you to Philosophy for Relief.
In either Case I pity'd you; thinking it a milder Fate, to be, as I truly was, for my own part, a more indifferent Lover. 'Twas better, I told you, to admire Beauty and Wisdom a little more moderately. 'Twas better, I maintain'd, to ingage so cautiously as to be sure of coming off with a whole Heart, and a Fancy as strong as ever towards all the pretty Entertainments and Diversions of the World. For these, methought, were things one wou'd not ​willingly part with, for a fine romantick Passion of one of those Gentlemen whom they call’d Virtuosos.
The Name I took to belong in common to your Lover and Philosopher. No matter what the Object was; whether Poetry, Musick, Philosophy, or the Fair. All who were enamour’d any-way, were in the same Condition. You might perceive it, I told you, by their Looks, their Admiration, their profound Thoughtfulness, their waking ever and anon as out of a Dream, their talking still of one thing, and scarce minding what they said on any other Subject.—Sad Indications!
But all this Warning serv’d not to deter you. For you, Palemon, are one of the Adventurous, whom Danger rather animates than discourages. And now nothing less will satisfy you than to have our Philosophical Adventures recorded. All must be laid before you, and summ’d in one compleat Account; to remain, it seems, as a Monument of that unseasonable Conversation, so opposite to the reigning Genius of Gallantry and Pleasure.
I MUST own, indeed, ’tis become fashionable in our Nation to talk Politicks in every ​Company, and mix the Discourses of State-affairs with those of Pleasure and Entertainment. However, ’tis certain we approve of no such Freedom in Philosophy. Nor do we look upon Politicks to be of her Province, or in the least related to her. So much have we Moderns degraded her, and stripp’d her of her chief Rights.
You must allow me, Palemon, thus to bemoan Philosophy; since you have forc’d me to ingage with her at a time when her Credit runs so low. She is no longer active in the World; nor can hardly, with any advantage, be brought upon the publick Stage. We have immur’d her (poor Lady!) in Colleges and Cells; and have set her servilely to such Works as those in the Mines. Empiricks, and pedantick Sophists are her chief Pupils. The School-syllogism, and the Elixir, are the choicest of her Products. So far is she from producing Statesmen, as of old, that hardly any Man of Note in the publick cares to own the least Obligation to her. If some few maintain their Acquaintance, and come now and then to her Recesses, ’tis as the Disciple of Quality came to his Lord and Master; “secretly, and by night.”
But as low as Philosophy is reduc’d; if Morals be allow’d belonging to her, Politicks ​must undeniably be hers. For to understand the Manners and Constitutions of Men in common, ’tis necessary to study Man in particular, and know the Creature, as he is in himself, before we consider him in Company, as he is interested in the State, or join’d to any City or Community. Nothing is more familiar than to reason concerning Man in his confederate State and national Relation; as he stands ingag’d to this or that Society, by Birth or Naturalization: Yet to consider him as a Citizen or Commoner of the World, to trace his Pedegree a step higher, and view his End and Constitution in Nature it-self, must pass, it seems, for some intricate or over-refin’d Speculation.
It may be properly alledg’d perhaps, as a Reason for this general Shyness in moral Inquirys; that the People to whom it has principally belong’d to handle these Subjects, have done it in such a manner as to put the better Sort out of countenance with the Undertaking. The appropriating this Concern to mere Scholasticks, has brought their Fashion and Air into the very Subject. There are formal Set-places, where, we reckon, there is enough said and taught on the Head of these graver Subjects. We can give no quarter to any thing like it in good Company. The least mention of such matters gives us a disgust, and puts us out of ​humour. If Learning comes a-cross us, we count it Pedantry; if Morality, ’tis Preaching.
One must own this, however, as a real Disadvantage of our modern Conversations; that by such a scrupulous Nicety they lose those masculine Helps of Learning and sound Reason. Even the Fair Sex, in whose favour we pretend to make this Condescension, may with reason despise us for it, and laugh at us for aiming at their peculiar Softness. ’Tis no Compliment to them, to affect their Manners, and be effeminate. Our Sense, Language, and Style, as well as our Voice, and Person, shou’d have something of that Male-Feature, and natural Roughness, by which our Sex is distinguish’d. And whatever Politeness we may pretend to, ’tis more a Disfigurement than any real Refinement of Discourse, to render it thus delicate.
No Work of Wit can be esteem’d perfect without that Strength and Boldness of Hand, which gives it Body and Proportions. A good Piece, the Painters say, must have good Muscling as well as Colouring and Drapery. And surely no Writing or Discourse of any great moment, can seem other than enervated, when neither strong Reason, nor Antiquity, nor the Records of Things, nor the natural History of Man, ​nor any-thing which can be call’d Knowledge, dares accompany it; except perhaps in some ridiculous Habit, which may give it an Air of Play and Dalliance.
THIS brings to my mind a Reason I have often sought for; why we Moderns, who abound so much in Treatises and Essays, are so sparing in the way of Dialogue; which heretofore was found the politest and best way of managing even the graver Subjects. The truth is; ’twou’d be an abominable Falshood, and belying of the Age, to put so much good Sense together in any one Conversation, as might make it hold out steddily, and with plain coherence, for an hour’s time, till any one Subject had been rationally examin’d.
To lay Colours, to draw, or describe, against the Appearance of Nature and Truth, is a Liberty neither permitted the Painter nor the Poet. Much less can the Philosopher have such a Privilege; especially in his own Case. If he represents his Philosophy as making any figure in Conversation; if he triumphs in the Debate, and gives his own Wisdom the advantage over ​that of the World; he may be liable to sound Raillery, and possibly be made a Fable of.
’Tis said of the Lion, that being in civil Conference with the Man, he wisely refus’d to yield the Superiority of Strength to him; when instead of Fact, the Man produc’d only certain Figures and Representations of human Victorys over the Lionkind. These Master-pieces of Art the Beast discover’d to be wholly of human Forgery: and from these he had good right to appeal. Indeed had he ever in his life been witness to any such Combats as the Man represented to him in the way of Art; possibly the Example might have mov’d him. But old Statues of a Hercules, a Theseus, or other Beast-subduers, cou’d have little power over him, whilst he neither saw nor felt any such living Antagonist capable to dispute the Field with him.
We need not wonder, therefore, that the sort of moral Painting, by way of Dialogue, is so much out of fashion; and that we see no more of these philosophical Portraitures now-a-days. For where are the Originals? Or what tho you, Palemon, or I, by chance, have lighted on such a one; and pleas’d our-selves with the Life? Can you imagine it shou’d make a good Picture?
​YOU know too, that in this Academick Philosophy I am to present you with, there is a certain way of Questioning and Doubting, which no-way sutes the Genius of our Age. Men love to take party instantly. They can’t bear being kept in suspence. The Examination torments ’em. They want to be rid of it, upon the easiest terms. ’Tis as if Men fansy’d themselves drowning, whenever they dare trust to the Current of Reason. They seem hurrying away, they know not whither; and are ready to catch at the first Twig. There they chuse afterwards to hang, tho ever so insecurely, rather than trust their Strength to bear ’em above Water. He who has got hold of an Hypothesis, how slight soever, is satisfy’d. He can presently answer every Objection, and, with a few Terms of Art, give an account of every thing without trouble.
’Tis no wonder if in this Age the Philosophy of the Alchymists prevails so much: since it promises such Wonders, and requires more the Labour of Hands than Brains. We have a strange Fancy to be Creators, a violent Desire at least to know the Knack or Secret by which Nature does all. The rest of our Philosophers only aim at that in Speculation, which ​our Alchymists aspire to in Practice. For with some of these it has been actually under deliberation how to make Man, by other Mediums than Nature has hitherto provided. Every Sect has a Recipe. When you know it, you are Master of Nature: you solve all her Phaenomena: you see all her Designs, and can account for all her Operations. If need were, you might, perchance too, be of her Laboratory, and work for her. At least one wou’d imagine the Partizans of each modern Sect had this Conceit. They are all Archimedes’s in their way, and can make a World upon easier terms than he offer’d to move one.
In short; there are good Reasons for our being thus superficial, and consequently thus dogmatical in Philosophy. We are too lazy and effeminate, and withal a little too cowardly, to dare doubt. The decisive way best becomes our Manners. It sutes as well with our Vices as with our Superstition. Which-ever we are fond of, is secur’d by it. If in favour of Religion we have espous’d an Hypothesis, on which our Faith, we think, depends; we are superstitiously careful not to be loosen’d in it. If, by means of our ill Morals, we are broken with Religion; ’tis the same Case still: ​We are as much afraid of Doubting. We must be sure to say, “It cannot be”; and “’tis Demonstrable: For otherwise Who knows? And not to know, is to yield!”—
Thus we will needs know every thing, and be at the pains of examining nothing. Of all Philosophy, therefore, how absolutely the most disagreeable must that appear, which goes upon no establish’d Hypothesis, nor presents us with any flattering Scheme, talks only of Probabilitys, Suspence of Judgment, Inquiry, Search, and Caution not to be impos’d on, or deceiv’d? This is that Academick Discipline in which formerly the Youth were train’d:Antients. when not only Horsemanship and Military Arts had their publick Places of Exercise; but Philosophy too had its Wrestlers in repute. Reason and Wit had their Academy, and underwent this Trial; not in a formal way, apart from the World; but openly, among the better sort, and as an Exercise of the genteeler kind. This the greatest Men were not asham’d to practise, in the Intervals of publick Affairs, in the highest Stations and Employments, and at the latest hour of their Lives. Hence that way of Dialogue, and Patience of Debate and Reasoning, of which we have scarce a Resemblance left in any of our Conversations, at this season of the World.
​CONSIDER then, Palemon, what our Picture is like to prove: and how it will appear; especially in the Light you have unluckily chosen to set it. For who wou’d thus have confronted Philosophy with the Gaiety, Wit, and Humour of the Age?—If this, however, can be for your Credit, I am content. The Project is your own. ’Tis you who have match’d Philosophy thus unequally. Therefore leaving you to answer for the Success, I begin this inauspicious Work, which my ill Stars and you have assign’d me; and in which I hardly dare ask Succour of the Muses, as poetical as I am oblig’d to shew my-self in this Enterprize.
SECT. II
“O WRETCHED State of Mankind!—Hapless Nature, thus to have err’d in thy chief Workmanship!—Whence sprang this fatal Weakness? What Chance or Destiny shall we accuse? Or shall we mind the Poets, when they sing thy Tragedy (Prometheus!) who with thy stoln celestial Fire, mix’d with vile Clay, didst mock Heaven’s Countenance, and in abusive Likeness of the Immortals mad’st the compound ​Man; that wretched Mortal, ill to himself, and Cause of Ill to all.”—
What say you, Palemon, to this Rant, now upon second thoughts? Or have you forgot ’twas just in such a romantick Strain that you broke out against human Kind, upon a Day when every thing look’d pleasing, and the Kind it-self (I thought) never appear’d fairer, or made a better shew?
But ’twas not the whole Creation you thus quarrel’d with: Nor were you so out of conceit with all Beauty. The Verdure of the Field, the distant Prospects, the gilded Horizon, and purple Sky, form’d by a setting Sun, had Charms in abundance, and were able to make impression on you. Here, Palemon, you allow’d me to admire as much as I pleas’d; when, at the same instant, you wou’d not bear my talking to you of those nearer Beautys of our own Kind, which I thought more natural for Men at our Age to admire. Your Severity however cou’d not silence me upon this Subject. I continu’d to plead the Cause of the Fair, and advance their Charms above all those other Beautys of Nature. And when you took advantage from this Opposition, to shew how little there was of Nature, and how much of Art in what I admir’d, I made the best Apology ​I cou’d; and fighting for Beauty, kept the Field as long as there was one Fair-one present.
Considering how your Genius stood inclin’d to Poetry, I wonder’d most to find you on a sudden grown so out of conceit with our modern Poets, and Galante Writers; whom I quoted to you, as better Authoritys than any Antient in behalf of the Fair Sex, and their Prerogative. But this you treated slightly. You acknowledg’d it to be true indeed, what had been observ’d by some late Wits, “That Gallantry was of a modern Growth.” And well it might be so, you thought, without dishonour to the Antients; who understood Truth and Nature too well, to admit so ridiculous an Invention.
’Twas in vain, therefore, that I held up this Shield in my defense. I did my Cause no service, when in behalf of the Fair I pleaded all the fine things which are usually said, in this romantick way, to their advantage. You attack’d the very Fortress of Gallantry, ridicul’d the Point of Honour, with all those nice Sentiments and Ceremonials belonging to it. You damn’d even our Favourite Novels; those dear sweet natural Pieces, writ most of ’em by the Fair Sex themselves. In short, this whole ​Order and Scheme of Wit you condemn’d absolutely, as false, monstrous, and Gothick; quite out of the way of Nature, and sprung from the mere Dregs of Chivalry or Knight-Errantry; a thing which in it-self you prefer’d, as of a better Taste than that which reigns at present in its stead. For at a time when this Mystery of Gallantry carry’d along with it the Notion of doughty Knighthood; when the Fair were made Witnesses, and in a manner, Partys to Feats of Arms, enter’d into all the Points of War and Combat, and were won by dint of Launce and manly Prowess; ’twas not altogether absurd, you thought, on such a foundation as this, to pay ’em Homage and Adoration, make ’em the Standard of Wit and Manners, and bring Mankind under their Laws. But in a Country where no She-Saints were worship’d by any Authority from Religion, ’twas as impertinent and sensless, as it was profane, to deify the Sex, raise ’em to a Capacity above what Nature had allow’d, and treat ’em with a Respect, which in the natural way of Love they themselves were the aptest to complain of.
Indeed as for the Moral Part, ’twas wonderful, you said, to observe the Licentiousness which this foppish courtly Humour had establish’d in the World. What such a flattering way of Address to all the Sex in common ​cou’d mean, you knew not; unless it were to render ’em wholly common indeed, and make each Fair-one apprehend that the Publick had a right to her; and that Beauty was too communicative and divine a Thing, to be made a Property, and confin’d to One at once.
MEAN while our Company began to leave us. The Beau-monde, whom you had been thus severely censuring, drew off apace: for it grew late. I took notice that the approaching Objects of the Night were the more agreeable to you, for the Solitude they introduc’d; and that the Moon and Planets which began now to appear, were in reality the only proper Company for a Man in your Humour. For now you began to talk with much Satisfaction of natural Things, and of all Orders of Beautys, Man only excepted. Never did I hear a finer Description than you made of the Order of the heavenly Luminarys, the Circles of the Planets, and their attendent Satellites. And you, who wou’d allow nothing to those fair earthly Luminarys in the Circles which just now we mov’d in; you, Palemon, who seem’d to overlook the Pride of that Theater, began now to look out with Ravishment on this other, and triumph in the new philosophical Scene of Worlds unknown. Here, ​when you had pretty well spent the first Fire of your Imagination, I wou’d have got you to reason more calmly with me upon that other Part of the Creation, your own Kind; to which, I told you, you discover’d so much Aversion, as wou’d make one believe you a compleat Timon, or Man-hater.
“Can you then, O Philocles,” (said you in a high strain, and with a moving air of Passion) “Can you believe me of that Character? Or can you think it of me in earnest, that being Man, and conscious of my Nature, I shou’d have yet so little of Humanity, as not to feel the Affections of a Man? Or feeling what is natural towards my Kind, that I shou’d hold their Interest light, and be indifferently affected with what affects or seriously concerns them? Am I so ill a Lover of my Country? Or is it that you find me indeed so ill a Friend? For what are all Relations else? What are the Ties of private Friendship, if that to Mankind be not obliging? Can there be yet a Bond in Nature, if That be none? O Philocles! Believe me when I say I feel it one, and fully prove its Power within me. Think not that I wou’d willingly break my Chain: Nor count me so degenerate or unnatural, as whilst I hold this Form, and wear a human Heart, I shou’d ​throw off Love, Compassion, Kindness, and not befriend Mankind.—But O what Treacherys! what Disorders! And how corrupt is all!—Did you not observe e’en now, when all this Space was fill’d with goodly Rows of Company, how peaceful all appear’d.—What Charms there are in publick Companys! What Harmony in Courts and Courtly Places! How pleas’d is every Face! How courteous and humane the general Carriage and Behaviour!—What Creature capable of Reflection, if he thus saw us Mankind, and saw no more, wou’d not believe our Earth a very Heaven? What Foreigner (the Inhabitant, suppose, of some near Planet) when he had travel’d hither, and survey’d this outward Face of things, wou’d think of what lay hid beneath the Mask?—But let him stay a-while. Allow him leisure; till he has gain’d a nearer View, and following our dissolv’d Assemblys to their particular Recesses, he has the power of seeing ’em in this new Aspect.—Here he may behold those great Men of the Ministry, who not an hour ago in publick appear’d such Friends, now plotting craftily each other’s Ruin, with the Ruin of the State it-self, a Sacrifice to their Ambition. Here he may see too those of a softer kind, who know​ing not Ambition, follow only Love. Yet (Philocles) who wou’d think it?”—
At these words, you may remember, I discover’d the Lightness of my Temper, and laugh’d aloud; which I cou’d hardly hope you wou’d have pardon’d, had I not freely told you the true reason. ’Twas not for want of being affected with what you spoke. I only imagin’d a more particular Cause had provok’d you, when having pass’d over the Ambitious, you were coming full-charg’d against the People of a softer Passion. At first, I look’d on you as deeply in the Spleen: But now I concluded you in love, and so unhappily engag’d as to have reason to complain of Infidelity. “This,” thought I, “has mov’d Palemon thus. Hence the sad World! Here was that Corruption, and those Disorders he lamented!”
AFTER I had begg’d pardon for my rude Mirth, which had the good fortune however to make some change in your Humour; we fell naturally into cool Reasoning about the Nature and Cause of ILL in general: “Thro’ what Contingency, what Chance; by what fatal Necessity, what Will, or what Permission it came upon the World; or being come once, ​shou’d still subsist.” This Inquiry, which with slight Reasoners is easily got over, stuck hard, I found, with one of your close Judgment and Penetration. And this insensibly led us into a nice Criticism of Nature; whom you sharply arraign’d for many Absurditys you thought her guilty of, in relation to Mankind, and his peculiar State.
Fain wou’d I have persuaded you to think with more Equality of Nature, and to proportion her Defects a little better. My Notion was, that the Grievance lay not altogether in one part, as you plac’d it; but that every thing had its share of Inconvenience. Pleasure and Pain, Beauty and Deformity, Good and Ill, seem’d to me every-where interwoven; and one with another made, I thought, a pretty Mixture, agreeable enough, in the main. ’Twas the same, I fansy’d, as in some of those rich Stuffs, where the Flowers and Ground were oddly put together, with such irregular Work, and contrary Colours, as look’d ill in the Pattern, but mighty natural and well in the Piece.
But you were still upon Extremes. Nothing wou’d serve to excuse the Faults or Blemishes ​of this Part of the Creation, Mankind; even tho all besides were fair, without a Blemish. The very Storms and Tempests had their Beauty in your account, those alone excepted which arose in human Breasts. ’Twas only for this turbulent Race of Mortals you offer’d to accuse Nature. And I now found why you had been so transported with the Story of Prometheus. You wanted such an Operator as this for Mankind: And you were tempted to wish the Story cou’d have been confirm’d in modern Divinity; that clearing the supreme Powers of any Concern or Hand in the ill Workmanship, you might have the liberty of inveighing against it, without Profaneness.
This however, I told you, was but a slight Evasion of the religious Poets among the Antients. ’Twas easy to answer every Objection by a Prometheus: as, “Why had Mankind originally so much Folly and Perverseness? Why so much Pride, such Ambition, and strange Appetites? Why so many Plagues, and Curses, entail’d on him and his Posterity?”—Prometheus was the Cause. The plastick Artist, with his unlucky Hand, solv’d all. “ ’Twas His Contrivance (they said) and He was to answer for it.” They reckon’d it a fair Game, if they cou’d gain a single Remove, ​and put the evil Cause farther off. If the People ask’d a Question, they told ’em a Tale, and sent ’em away satisfy’d. None besides a few Philosophers wou’d be such Busy-bodys, they thought, as to look beyond, or ask a second Question.
And in reality, continu’d I, ’tis not to be imagin’d how serviceable a Tale is, to amuse others besides mere Children; and how much easier the Generality of Men are paid in this Paper-coin, than in Sterling Reason. We ought not to laugh so readily at the Indian Philosophers, who to satisfy their People how this huge Frame of the World is supported, tell ’em ’tis by an Elephant.—And the Elephant how?—A shreud Question! but which by no means shou’d be answer’d. ’Tis here only that our Indian Philosophers are to blame. They shou’d be contented with the Elephant, and go no further. But they have a Tortoise in reverse; whose Back, they think, is broad enough. So the Tortoise must bear the new Load: And thus the matter stands worse than before.
The Heathen Story of Prometheus was, I told you, much the same with this Indian one: only the Heathen Mythologists were so wise as not to go beyond the first Remove. A ​single Prometheus was enough to take the Weight from Jove. They fairly made Jove a Stander-by. He resolv’d, it seems, to be Neuter; and see what wou’d come of this notable Experiment; how the dangerous Man-moulder wou’d proceed; and what wou’d be the Event of his Tampering.—Excellent Account, to satisfy the Heathen Vulgar! But how, think you, wou’d a Philosopher digest this? “For the Gods” (he wou’d say presently) “either cou’d have hinder’d Prometheus’s Creation, or they cou’d not. If they cou’d, they were answerable for the Consequences; if they cou’d not, they were no longer Gods, being thus limited and controul’d. And whether Prometheus were a Name for Chance, Destiny, a plastick Nature, or an evil Daemon; whatever was design’d by it; ’twas still the same Breach of Omnipotence.”
That such a hazardous Affair as this of Creation shou’d have been undertaken by those who had not perfect Foresight as well as Command, you own’d was neither wise nor just. But you stood to Foresight. You allow’d the Consequences to have been understood by the creating Powers, when they undertook their Work: and you deny’d that it wou’d have been better for them to have omitted it; tho they knew what wou’d be the Event. “’Twas bet​ter still that the Project shou’d be executed, whatever might become of Mankind, or how hard soever such a Creation was like to fall on the generality of this miserable Race. For ’twas impossible, you thought, that Heaven shou’d have acted otherwise than for the best. So that even from this Misery and Ill of Man, there was undoubtedly some Good arising; something which over-balanc’d all, and made full amends.”
THIS was a Confession I wonder’d indeed how I came to draw from you: And soon afterwards I found you somewhat uneasy under it. For here I took up your own part against you; and setting all those Villanys and Corruptions of human Kind in the same light you had done just before, I put it upon you to tell, where possibly cou’d be the Advantage or Good arising hence; or what Excellence or Beauty cou’d redound from those tragical Pictures you your-self had drawn so well after the Life. Whether it must not be a very strong philosophical Faith, which shou’d persuade one that those dismal Parts you set to view were only the necessary Shades of a fine Piece, to be reckon’d among the Beautys of the Creation: Or whether possibly you ​might look upon that Maxim as very fit for Heaven, which I was sure you did not approve at all in Mankind; “To do Ill that Good might follow.”
This, I said, made me think of the manner of our modern Prometheus’s, the Mountebanks, who perform’d such Wonders of many kinds, here on our earthly Stages. They cou’d create Diseases, and make Mischief, in order to heal, and to restore. But shou’d we assign such a Practice as this to Heaven? Shou’d we dare to make such Empiricks of the Gods, and such a Patient of poor Nature? “Was this a reason for Nature’s Sickliness? Or how else came she (poor Innocent!) to fall sick, or run astray? Had she been originally healthy, or created sound at first; she had still continu’d so. ’Twas no credit to the Gods to leave her destitute, or with a Flaw which wou’d cost dear the mending, and make them Sufferers for their own Work.”—
I was going to bring Homer to witness for the many Troubles of Jove, the Death of Sarpedon, and the frequent Crosses Heaven met with, from the fatal Sisters. But this Discourse, I saw, displeas’d you. I had by this time plainly discover’d my Inclination to Scep​ticism. And here not only Religion was objected to me, but I was reproach’d too on the account of that Gallantry which I had some time before defended. Both were join’d together in the Charge you made against me, when you saw I adher’d to nothing: but was now as ready to declaim against the Fair, as I had been before to plead their Cause, and defend the Moral of Lovers. This, you said, was my constant way in all Debates: I was as well pleas’d with the Reason on one side, as on the other: I never troubled my-self about the Success of the Argument, but laugh’d still, whatever way it went; and even when I convinc’d others, never seem’d as if I was convinc’d myself.
I own’d to you, Palemon, there was Truth enough in your Charge. For above all things I lov’d Ease; and of all Philosophers those who reason’d most at their ease, and were never angry or disturb’d; as those call’d Scepticks, you own’d, never were. I look’d upon this kind of Philosophy as the prettiest, agreeablest, roving Exercise of the Mind, possible to be imagin’d. The other kind, I thought, was painful and laborious; “To keep always in the Limits of one Path; to drive always at a Point; and hold precisely to what Men, at a venture, call’d the Truth: ​A Point, in all appearance, very unfix’d, and hard to ascertain.” Besides, my way hurt no body. I was always the first to comply on any occasion; and for Matters of Religion, was further from Profaneness and erroneous Doctrine than any-one. I cou’d never have the Sufficiency to shock my spiritual and learned Superiors. I was the furthest from leaning to my own Understanding: nor was I one who exalted Reason above Faith, or insisted much upon what the dogmatical Men call Demonstration, and dare oppose to the sacred Mysterys of Religion. And to shew you, continu’d I, how impossible it is for the Men of our sort ever to err from the Catholick and Establish’d Faith, pray consider; That whereas Others pretend to see with their own Eyes, what is properest and best for them in Religion; We, for our parts, pretend not to see with any other than those of our spiritual Guides. Neither do we presume to judg those Guides our-selves; but submit to them, as they are appointed us by our just Superiors. In short, you who are Rationalists, and walk by Reason in every thing, pretend to know all things, whilst you believe little or nothing: We for our parts know nothing, and believe all.
HERE I ended; and, in return, you only ask’d me coldly, “Whether with that fine Scepticism of mine, I made no more distinction between Sincerity and Insincerity in Actions, than I did between Truth and Falshood, Right and Wrong, in Arguments?”
I durst not ask what your Question drove at. I was afraid I saw it too plainly; and that by this loose way of talking, which I had learnt in some fashionable Conversations of the World, I had given you occasion to suspect me of the worst sort of Scepticism, such as spar’d nothing; but overthrew all Principles, Moral and Divine.
Forgive me, said I, good Palemon: you are offended, I see, and not without cause. But what if I shou’d endeavour to compensate my Sceptical Misbehaviour, by using a known Sceptick Privilege, and asserting strenuously the Cause I have hitherto oppos’d? Do not imagine that I dare aspire so high as to defend reveal’d Religion, or the holy Mysterys of the Christian Faith. I am unworthy of such a Task, and shou’d profane the Subject. ’Tis of mere Philosophy I speak: And my Fancy is only to try what I can muster up thence, to make ​head against the chief Arguments of Atheism, and reestablish what I have offer’d to loosen in the System of Theism.
Your Project, said you, bids fair to reconcile me to your Character, which I was beginning to mistrust. For as averse as I am to the Cause of Theism, or Name of Deist, when taken in a sense exclusive of Revelation; I consider still that, in strictness, the Root of all is Theism; and that to be a settled Christian, it is necessary to be first of all a good Theist. For Theism can only be oppos’d to Polytheism, or Atheism. Nor have I patience to hear the Name of Deist (the highest of all Names) decry’d, and set in opposition to Christianity. “As if our Religion was a kind of Magick, which depended not on the Belief of a single supreme Being. Or as if the firm and rational Belief of such a Being, on philosophical Grounds, was an improper Qualification for believing any thing further.” Excellent Presumption, for those who naturally incline to the Disbelief of Revelation, or who thro’ Vanity affect a Freedom of this kind!—
But let me hear, continu’d you, whether in good Earnest, and thorow Sincerity, you ​intend to advance any thing in favour of that Opinion which is fundamental to all Religion; or whether you design only to divert your-self with the Subject, as you have done hitherto? “Whatever your Thoughts are, Philocles, I am resolv’d to force ’em from you. You can no longer plead the Unsutableness of the Time or Place to such grave Subjects. The gaudy Scene is over with the Day. Our Company have long since quitted the Field. And the solemn Majesty of such a Night as this, may justly sute with the profoundest Meditation, or most serious Discourse.”
Thus, Palemon, you continu’d to urge me; till by necessity I was drawn into the following Vein of Philosophical Enthusiasm.
SECT. III
YOU shall find then, said I (taking a grave Air) that it is possible for me to be serious; and that ’tis probable I am growing so, for good and all. Your Over-seriousness a-while since, at such an unseasonable time, may have driven me perhaps into a contrary Extreme, by opposition to your melancholy Humour. But I have now a better Idea of that Melancholy you discover’d; and notwithstand ​ing the humorous Turn you were pleas’d to give it, I am persuaded it has a different Foundation from any of those fantastical Causes I then assign’d to it. “Love, doubtless, is at the bottom; but a nobler Love than such as common Beautys inspire.”—
Here, in my turn, I began to raise my Voice, and imitate the solemn way you had been teaching me. “Knowing as you are,” continu’d I, “well-knowing and experienc’d in all the Degrees and Orders of Beauty, in all the mysterious Charms of the particular Forms; you rise to what is more general; and with a larger Heart, and Mind more comprehensive, you generously seek that which is highest in the kind. Not captivated by the Lineaments of a fair Face, or the well-drawn Proportions of a human Body, you view the Life it-self, and embrace rather the Mind, which adds the Lustre, and renders chiefly amiable.
“Nor is the Enjoyment of such a single Beauty sufficient to satisfy such an aspiring Soul. It seeks how to combine more Beautys, and by what Coalition of these, to form a beautiful Society. It views Communitys, Friendships, Relations, Dutys; and considers by what Harmony of particular Minds the ​general Harmony is compos’d, and Commonweal establish’d.
“Nor satisfy’d even with publick Good in one Community of Men, it frames it-self a nobler Object,Virtue. and with enlarg’d Affection seeks the Good of Mankind. It dwells with Pleasure amidst that Reason, and those Orders on which this fair Correspondence and goodly Interest is establish’d. Laws, Constitutions, civil and religious Rites; whatever civilizes or polishes rude Mankind; the Sciences and Arts, Philosophy, Morals, Virtue; the flourishing State of human Affairs, and the Perfection of human Nature; these are its delightful Prospects, and this the Charm of Beauty which attracts it.
“Still ardent in this Pursuit (such is its Love of Order and Perfection) it rests not here; nor satisfies it-self with the Beauty of a Part; but extending further its communicative Bounty, seeks the Good of All, and affects the Interest and Prosperity of the Whole. True to its native World and higher Country, ’tis here it seeks Order and Perfection; wishing the best, and hoping still to find a just and wise Administration.
​“And since all Hope of this were vain and idle, if no universal Mind presided;GOD. since without such a supreme Intelligence and providential Care, the distracted Universe must be condemn’d to suffer infinite Calamitys; ’tis here the generous Mind labours to discover that healing Cause by which the Interest of the Whole is securely establish’d, the Beauty of Things, and the universal Order happily sustain’d.
“This, Palemon, is the Labour of your Soul: and This its Melancholy; when unsuccessfully pursuing the supreme Beauty, it meets with darkning Clouds which intercept its Sight. Monsters arise, not those from Lybian Desarts, but from the Heart of Man more fertile; and with their horrid Aspect cast an unseemly Reflection upon Nature. She, helpless (as she is thought) and working thus absurdly, is contemn’d, the Government of the World arraign’d, and Deity made void.
“Much is alledg’d in answer, to shew why Nature errs, and how she came thus impotent and erring from an unerring Hand. But I deny she errs; and when she seems most ignorant or perverse in her Producti​ons, I assert her even then as wise and provident, as in her goodliest Works. For ’tis not then that Men complain of the World’s Order, or abhor the Face of things, when they see various Interests mix’d and interfering; Natures subordinate, of different kinds, oppos’d one to another, and in their different Operations submitted, the higher to the lower. ’Tis on the contrary, from this Order of inferior and superior Things, that we admire the World’s Beauty, founded thus on Contrarietys: whilst from such various and disagreeing Principles, a universal Concord is establish’d.
“Thus in the several Orders of terrestrial Forms, a Resignation is requir’d, a Sacrifice and mutual yielding of Natures one to another. The Vegetables by their Death sustain the Animals: and Animal Bodys dissolv’d, enrich the Earth, and raise again the vegetable World. The numerous Insects are reduc’d by the superior Kinds of Birds and Beasts: and these again are check’d by Man; who in his turn submits to other Natures, and resigns his Form a Sacrifice in common to the rest of Things. And if in Natures so ​little exalted or pre-eminent above each other, the Sacrifice of Interests can appear so just; how much more reasonably may all inferior Natures be subjected to the superior Nature of the World! That World, Palemon, which even now transported you, when the Sun’s fainting Light gave way to these bright Constellations, and left you this wide System to contemplate.
“Here are those Laws which ought not, nor can submit to any thing below. The central Powers, which hold the lasting Orbs in their just Poize and Movement, must not be controul’d to save a fleeting Form, and rescue from the Precipice a puny Animal, whose brittle Frame, howe’er protected, must of it-self so soon dissolve. The ambient Air, the inward Vapours, the impending Meteors, or whatever else is nutrimental or preservative of this Earth, must operate in a natural Course: and other Constitutions must submit to the good Habit and Constitution of the all-sustaining Globe.
“Let us not therefore wonder, if by Earthquakes, Storms, pestilential Blasts, nether or upper Fires, or Floods, the animal Kinds are oft afflicted, and whole Species perhaps involv’d at once in common Ruin: But ​much less let us account it strange, if either by outward Shock, or some interior Wound from hostile Matter, particular Animals are deform’d even in their first Conception, when the Disease invades the Seats of Generation, and seminal Parts are injur’d and obstructed in their accurate Labours. ’Tis then alone that monstrous Shapes are seen: Nature still working as before, and not perversly or erroneously; not faintly, or with feeble Endeavours; but o’erpower’d by a superior Rival, and by another Nature’s justly conquering Force.
“Nor need we wonder, if the interior Form, the Soul and Temper, partakes of this occasional Deformity, and sympathizes often with its close Partner. Who is there can wonder either at the Sicknesses of Sense, or the Depravity of Minds inclos’d in such frail Bodys, and dependent on such pervertible Organs?
“Here then is that Solution you require: and hence those seeming Blemishes cast upon Nature. Nor is there ought in this beside what is natural and good. ’Tis Good which is predominant; and every corruptible and mortal Nature by its Mortality and Corruption yields only to some better, and ​all in common to that best and highest Nature, which is incorruptible and immortal.”
I SCARCE had ended these Words, ere you broke out in admiration; asking what had befall’n me, that of a sudden I had thus chang’d my Character, and enter’d into Thoughts, which must certainly, you suppos’d, have some Foundation in me, since I cou’d express them with such seeming Affection as I had done.
O, said I, Palemon! that it had been my fortune to have met you the other day, just at my Return out of the Country from a Friend, whose Conversation had in one day or two made such an Impression on me, that I shou’d have suted you to a Miracle. You wou’d have thought indeed that I had been cur’d of my Scepticism and Levity, so as never to have rally’d more, at that wild rate, on any Subject, much less on these which are so serious.
Truly, said you, I cou’d wish I had met you rather at that time, or that those good and serious Impressions of your Friend had without interruption lasted with you till this moment.
Whatever they were, I told you, Palemon, I had not so lost ’em neither, as not easily, ​you saw, to revive ’em on occasion; were I not afraid. “Afraid!” said you. “For whose sake, good Philocles, I intreat you? For mine or your own?” “For both,” reply’d I. “For tho I was like to be perfectly cur’d of my Scepticism; ’twas by what I thought worse,Enthusiast. downright Enthusiasm. You never knew a more agreeable Enthusiast!”
Were he my Friend, said you, I shou’d hardly treat him in so free a manner. Nor shou’d I, perhaps, judg that to be Enthusiasm which you so freely term so. I have a strong suspicion that you injure him. Nor can I be satisfy’d till I hear further of that serious Conversation for which you tax him as Enthusiastick.
I must confess, said I, he had nothing of that savage Air of the vulgar enthusiastick Kind. All was serene, soft, and harmonious. The manner of it was more after the pleasing Transports of those antient Poets you are often charm’d with, than after the fierce unsociable way of modern Zealots; those starch’d gruff Gentlemen, who guard Religion as Bullys do a Mistress, and give us the while a very indifferent Opinion of their Lady’s Merit, and their own Wit, by adoring what they neither allow to be inspected by others, nor care themselves to ​examine in a fair light. But here I’ll answer for it; there was nothing of Disguise or Paint. All was fair, open, and genuine, as Nature herself. ’Twas Nature he was in love with: ’Twas Nature he sung. And if any-one might be said to have a natural Mistress, my Friend certainly might, whose Heart was thus ingag’d. But Love, I found, was every-where the same. And tho the Object here was very fine, and the Passion it created very noble; yet Liberty, I thought, was finer than all: And I who never car’d to ingage in other Loves of the least continuance, was the more afraid, I told you, of this which had such a power with my poor Friend, as to make him appear the perfectest Enthusiast in the World, Ill-humour only excepted. For this was singular in him, “That tho he had all of the Enthusiast, he had nothing of the Bigot. He heard every thing with Mildness and Delight; and bore with me when I treated all his Thoughts as visionary; and when, Sceptick-like, I unravel’d all his Systems.”
Here was that Character and Description which so highly pleas’d you, that you wou’d hardly suffer me to come to a conclusion. ’Twas impossible, I found, to give you satisfaction, without reciting the main of what pass’d in those two days between my Friend and me, in our Coun​try-Retirement. Again and again I bid you beware: “You knew not the danger of this philosophical Passion; nor consider’d what you might possibly draw upon your-self, and make me the Author of. I was far enough engag’d already: and you were pushing me further, at your own hazard.”
All I cou’d say made not the least impression on you. But rather than proceed any further this night, I engag’d, for your sake, to turn Writer, and draw up the Memoirs of those two philosophical Days; beginning with what had pass’d this last Day between our-selves; as I have accordingly done, you see, by way of Introduction to my Story.
BY this time, being got late to Town, some hours after the latest of our Company, you set me down at my own Lodging; and thus we bad Good-night.
* ↑ VOL. I. pag. 193, 4, 5, 6, 7, &c. VOL. III. pag. 290, &c. that
* ↑ See VOL. III. p. 160.
* ↑ VOL. I. pag. 333, &c. and Notes.
* ↑ Treatise IV. See the Beginning.
* ↑ “To Polytheism (Demonism) or Atheism:” as above, pag. 13.
* ↑ See VOL. III. p. 263, 264, what is cited in the Notes from the antient Author on the World.