THE LIFE OF John Buncle,
Esq
CONTAINING Various OBSERVATIONS and REFLECTIONS, Made in several Parts of the WORLD, AND Many Extraordinary RELATIONS.
.—
.
&c.
Arr. Epict. L. III. C. 22. Enchirid. C. 23.
VOL. II.
LONDON: Printed for J. JOHNSON and B. DAVENPORT, at the Globe in Pater-Noster Row. MDCCLXVI.
ADVERTISEMENT.
IN a book published in the year 1756, I related the principal transactions of my life, from my entrance into the university to the day of my marriage, in the year 1725; and endeavoured, by the way, to entertain my Readers with a variety of notions and remarks.
I now proceed to tell the remainder of my story, and to lay before the Public some more of my observations and hints: This second volume is chiefly a further vindication of myself; and the observations I add on subjects and matters of various kinds, are such reflections as resulted from the reason and nature of things, and were formed by a judgment free, and unbiassed by any authority. My own apology is the principal thing, interspersed with real characters of several sorts; and the additions to it, are as many solid, natural, and delicate adventitious things as came in my way. This is my book. I write with modesty, and I purpose to do good. I imagine then, that all
Critics
(except the
Critical Reviewers
) will wink at the blemishes of a laudable writing. Scholars and men of sense (who are above malevolence and the supercilious temper,) can bear deformities in a long work, and justly lay them on the imperfection of human nature. They know it is incapable of faultless productions.
FELICES.
CONTENTS.
N. B.
What refers to the Notes is distinguished thus
().
1 THE author's apology for the married state — Page 1
2 The history of Orlando and Belinda, rectified from a mistake in the Tatler Page 2
3 The author's apology for the married state continued — Page 11
4 The author's manner of living at Orton-lodge — Page 14
5 Description of Glencrow water-falls, and of the great age and size of carp and tench in a fenny water near Orton-lodge Page 15
6 Farther account of uncommonly large carp and tench — Page 16
7 (1 Description of the black cock, the moor cock, and the cock of the woods) Page 17
8 The author loses his wife Charlotte, his friend Tom Flemming, and others Page 18
9 A reflexion on death — Page 19
10 The author departs from Orton-lodge, to try his fortune once more — Page 24
11 Finds a delightful spot among the fells of Westmoreland — Page 25
12 His description of Basil groves, the seat of Charles Henley,
Esq
and of the library and skeleton there — Page 25
13 His description of John Henley,
Esq
Page 32
14 His description of Miss Statia Henley, and his conversation with John Henley,
Esq
Page 33
15 The author's account of himself to John Henley,
Esq
— Page 35
16 Mr. Henley's reply to his story, and commendation of him for his sentiments in religious matters. — Page 37
17 The history of Charles Henley,
Esq
and of his beautiful daughter Statia Page 38
18 J. Henley,
Esq
offers his grand-daughter (Miss Statia) in marriage to the author Page 40
19 The author's reply on that occasion Page 41
20 His stay and manner of living at Basil-grove.—The death of Mr. Henley, and Miss Statia's behaviour thereupon Page 42
21 Conversation between him and Miss Henley on the subject of matrimony — Page 44
22 (2. The author's reflexions on celibacy and marriage) — Page 48
23 Miss Henley's answer to the author's remarks in favour of marriage — Page 49
24 The author marries Miss Statia Henley Page 51
25 They repair to Orton-lodge.—Statia dies there — — Page 52
26 The author leaves Orton-lodge, and sets out for Harrogate spaw.—Description of the romantic country over which he travelled Page 53
27 Description of a society of protestant married friars in Westmoreland, and of the regularity of their lives — Page 54
28 Some thoughts on the institution of married regulars, exploding the doctrine of celibacy — Page 56
29 The author's farther account of the married regulars he met with among the fells of Westmoreland, with their form of morning prayer — Page 60
30 Their prayer for night — Page 65
31 The author's observation on the prayers of those recluses, and their account of their belief, which is unitarian — Page 67
32 A reflection on true and false religion Page 71
33 Thoughts exploding the invocation of saints Page 79
34 (3. A short account of the councils, and of the several editors and editions of them) Page 79
35 Some further remarks on the doctrine of the invocation of saints, shewing the absurdity of papists therein — Page 91
36 The author leaves the religious in Westmoreland, and proceeds on his journey to Harrogate.—Misses his way Page 98
37 Description of a little country seat in the northern extremity of Stanmore, and of a sleeping parlour in a grove — Page 101
38 Where the author passes the night Page 102
39 Receives the next day some account of Miss Antonia Cranmer, a beautiful young lady of great fortune, mistress of that house Page 103
40 The author resolves, if possible, to get her. —His manner of living for several days in the cottage of a poor fisherman, in expectation of the return of the beautiful Antonia from Cumberland — Page 104
41 Description of a charming little country seat, where a solitary gentleman lived Page 105
42 Some account of this gentleman, Doric Watson, who had been bred a catholic in France, and became a protestant hermit in England, with the motives for his conversion — Page 106
43 The hermit's observations on Cardinal Bellarmine's notes of the church, shewing them not to be at all applicable to the church of Rome — Page 107
44 (7. An abstract of Dr. Chandler's observations on Bellarmine's sixth note of the church — Page 109
45 Remarks on the Abbé Le Blanc, and on his letters on the English nation, with some strictures on Voltaire, and a defence of the English reformation — Page 115
46 (9. Some account of the character and writings of Mons. Bouhier, president of the French academy) — Page 118
47 The marriage of priests defended, and shewn to have been the primitive doctrine of the church — Page 126
48 The beginning of the author's acquaintance with Miss Antonia Cranmer, and how it ended in a marriage — Page 134
49 (10. Some remarks on the absurdity of transubstantiation) — Page 134
50 The author buries his wife Antonia, and hastens to Harrogate to dissipate his grief.—His reason for not mentioning his children by his many wives Page 137
51 Description of Harrogate; of it's wells, and of the company there, with their manner of living; the nature and quality of these waters, for what disorders fittest, and the same of several other mineral waters — — Page 139
52 The author meets at Harrogate six gentlemen of his acquaintance from Dublin Page 146
53 Their characters — Page 147
54 The history of the unfortunate Miss Hunt Page 156
55 The picture of Miss Hunt, and her unhappy end — Page 157
56 The author falls in love with Miss Spence Page 162
57 An apology for the author's marrying so often Page 163
58 Miss Spence's reply to his addresses Page 167
59 The author removes to Oldfield spaw, on account of an indisposition occasioned by a night's hard drinking, and his reflections on hard drinking — Page 171
60 Description of Oldfield spaw, with an account of it's water — Page 173
61 An observation on our people of fortune going to other countries to drink mineral waters — Page 174
62 An account of Moffat wells, and of the virtues of these waters — Page 174
63 The author sets out from Oldfield spaw for Knaresborough, but arrives at another place.—A morning thought on the rising sun — Page 178
64 Description of a beautiful spot and charming country seat, in the west riding of Yorkshire — Page 180
65 An account of two wonderful figures which played on the German flute — Page 181
66 The history of Miss Wolfe, who had known the author in Ireland, and recollects him Page 182
67 An account of Oliver Wincup,
Esq
with whom the author accidentally becomes acquainted — Page 184
68 And goes with him to his seat, called Woodcester-house — Page 185
69 The manner of living at Woodcester Page 186
70 An account of a company of strolling players at Woodcester — Page 187
71 The author leaves Woodcester, and rides to a lone silent place, called Lasco Page 189
72 The history of two rich beauties, immured in a lone-house, in a wood near Lasco Page 190
73 Character of their guardian, Jeremiah Cock, an old lawyer — Page 191
74 The author gets acquainted with him, and dines at his house — Page 194
75 Description of old Cock the lawyer Page 196
76 The author finds means to propose to the ladies to carry them off — Page 198
77 They agree to it, and he carries them off Page 199
78 Is puzzled how to dispose of them Page 202
79 Carries them to Orton-lodge — Page 205
80 The author's departure from Orton-lodge, where he leaves his two young heiresses: misses his way a second time; description of the country — Page 210
81 Description of Mrs. Thurloe's seat in Westmoreland — Page 213
82 An account of the two Miss Thurloes Page 214
83 Account of a Carthusian monastery in Richmondshire — Page 216
84 Reasons for reading the works of the Rabbies, fictitious and extravagant as they are — Page 217
85 (11. An account of the Talmuds — Page 225
86 An account of Knaresborough and it's waters.—The fall and death of Gaveston Page 225
87 Description of the dropping well near Knaresborough — Page 227
88 Observations on petrifying waters — Page 228
89 (12. Etymology of the word
Postilla
) Page 231
90 An account of Wardrew sulphur-water, and a description of Wardrew in Northumberland — Page 232
91 The history of Claudius Hobart, a recluse Page 233
92 Who gives the author a manuscript, intitled,
The Rule of Reason, with a few thoughts on religion
— Page 236
93 Specimens of this tract,
viz.
Discourse on the rule of reason — Page 237
94 Account of revelation — Page 240
95 Of the mysteries, Trinity, and sacrifice of the cross — Page 243
96 Defence of the Socinians — Page 246
97 An account of Socinus — Page 255
98 The author returns to Harrogate, and from thence goes to Cleator in Westmoreland, to wait upon Miss Spence — Page 259
99 (13. An excellent morning and evening prayer, with observations thereon) Page 260
100 The author's reception by Miss Spence Page 261
101 Manner in which he passed the evening at Cleator the first night he was there Page 264
102 Conversation between the author and Miss Spence's uncle, a clergyman, relating to the revolution, and exclusion of James II. Page 270
103 A description of Cleator — Page 277
104 Character of Miss Maria Spence Page 278
105 A reflection on the education of women Page 281
106 The author's departure from Cleator to London, in company with Miss Spence Page 282
107 A discourse on fluxions, between Miss Spence and the author — Page 284
108 An account of Martin Murdoch, Miss Maria Spence's preceptor in the mathematics, and his method of instructing her Page 290
The author's marriage with Miss Spence Page 300
109 Her death, and the author's behaviour thereupon — Page 301
110 (14. Some account of the philosopher Cleanthes) — Page 301
111 The case of a lady (the author's wife) in a fever, and an account of four physicians who attended her — Page 303
112 Moral thoughts; written by Miss Spence,
viz.
Of Morality — Page 311
Of Religion — Page 316
Of Reason and Truth — Page 318
Of Integrity — Page 319
Of Priest-craft in the transmission of moveables, from the dead to the living Page 321
Of the Athanasian creed — Page 324
Of Faith — Page 326
Avoidings.—The offices of a christian Page 330
The meaning of John,
chap.
vi.
v.
44.
Of Baptisms in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit — Page 332
Of Christian idolatry.—Churchisms and creeds — Page 333
113 An account of Richmond the beau, and old Ribble the chymist — Page 334
114 The picture of beau Richmond — Page 337
115 The picture of a temperate man born with a consumption — Page 338
116 A history of metals.—What phlogiston is, Page 340
What semi-metals are.—The nature and composition of antimony; what butter of antimony is — Page 341
Liver of antimony.—How antimony separates gold from other metals — Page 342
The excellence of antimonial wine Page 343
The nature of bismuth — Page 344
An extraordinary sympathetic ink Page 345
Of zinc.—Of the nature of regulus of arsenic — Page 347
The characters of gold — Page 348
The wonderful ductility of gold — Page 353
117 Mr. Ribble's conclusion, containing his thoughts and advice concerning riches Page 358
118 A charming vale and country house in Nottinghamshire, the seat of Mr. Monckton Page 362
119 Character of Mr. Monckton — Page 363
120 The author baits at a lone inn, where arrives the beautiful Miss Turner of Skalsmore vale — Page 368
121 The picture of Miss Turner — Page 369
122 The author's address to Miss Turner Page 370
123 Miss Turner's answer to the author, and their marriage — Page 371
124 The unfortunate death of Miss Turner, the author's fifth wife — Page 375
125 (15. Some account of the temple of Jupiter Ammon) — ibid
126 (16. The story of Homonaea and Atimetus; and the epitaph of Homonaea at large) Page 377
127 The picture and character of Curl the bookseller — Page 382
128 The picture of Carola Bennet — Page 384
129 History of Miss Bennet — Page 386
130 A description of a London convent, and an adventure there — Page 387
131 The history of Miss Bennet continued Page 390
132 A reflexion on hypocrites — Page 392
133 The Rev. Mr. Tench's conversation with Miss Bennet, in relation to religion, and her conversion — Page 395
134 A reflexion on the conversion of Miss Bennet — Page 400
135 Two Irish gentlemen carry the author to a gaming-table, where he loses all his fortune — Page 402
136 Curl's scheme for the author to carry off an heiress, which he does effectually, and by what means — Page 404
137 The picture of Miss Dunk — Page 409
138 Supposed death of Miss Dunk, and her burial by the author — Page 412
139 A winter night-scene on the mountains of Westmoreland — Page 413
140 The author arrives at Dr. Stainvil's house, and is introduced to the doctor and company — Page 414
141 Surprising story of Mrs. Stainvil, who proves to be the lately buried Miss Dunk Page 415
142 A reflexion on Miss Dunk's marrying Dr. Stainvil — Page 410
143 The author's departure from Dr. Stainvirl's house — Page 421
144 Some observations on Mrs. Stainvil's coming to life again, after being taken out of the grave — Page 422
145 The legend on the monument of Homonaea translated into English — Page 424
146 (17. Strictures on the Rev. Mr. Collier's translation of the mythological picture of Cebes, and another promised) — Page 428
147 (18. Anecdote of the great Prince of Condé) Page 429
148 The author puts up at an inn, where he is informed of an old acquaintance of his, Dr. Fitzgibbons, who lived hard by Page 431
149 Is most graciously received by the doctor, and why — Page 432
150 The picture of Miss Julia Fitzgibbons — Page 437
151 The author marries Miss Fitzgibbons, his seventh wife — Page 439
152 And studies physic in a private manner, by which a gentleman, with the purchase of a diploma, may turn out
doctor,
as well as if he went to
Padua,
to hear
Morganni.
—The method of study described, with some account of the best writers, and best editions of their works — Page 440
153 (20. Anecdote concerning the great anatomist
Vesalius
) — Page 448
154 A translation of the
Table of Cebes,
compared with the Rev. Mr. Collier's translation of the same — Page 453
155 (21. A remark on the
Table of Cebes
) Page 476
156 The unfortunate death of the author's wife Julia — Page 479
157 His reflexion on that loss — Page 482
158 His thoughts on wives and whores Page 483
159 The author returns to Orton-lodge, in hopes of finding the two heiresses he had left there — Page 485
160 But finds only a letter of thanks for his civilities, and no indication of the place they were gone to — Page 486
161 The history of the beautiful and excellent Leonora, and of the barbarous treatment she met with from an Irish villain whom she had married — Page 488
162 A reflexion on popery — Page 492
163 (23. An address to the protestant ladies of Great-Britain, warning them against the dangers of popery, and of popish husbands) — Page 493
164 A remark on the unfortunate Leonora Page 498
165 The tenth satire of Juvenal, translated into English verse — Page 499
166 (24. Bishop Burnet's opinion of the excellence of this satire, and the author's consequent reflexions) — Page 510
167 The author visits again Dr. Stainvil and his lady — Page 513
168 Discourse between Dr. Stainvil and the author, concerning the manner in which the Spanish fly acts on the human body when applied in blisters — Page 514
169 Dr. Stainvil's sudden death by an apoplexy; cause of apoplexies; and a reflexion on death — Page 516
170 Short examination of the sentiments of Wollaston, Burnet, Caleb Fleming, Dr. Edmund Law, and Bishop Sherlock, concerning the state of departed souls Page 518
171 The character of Dr. Stainvil — Page 520
172 (25 and 26. Encomium of Dr. Law, and character of Bishop Sherlock and Bishop Hoadley, with some account of their writings) — Page 520
173 The author's remarks on the
sleeping
and the
conscious
schemes, concerning departed souls — Page 522
174 Mrs. Stainvil's behaviour on the death of her husband.—The author marries her, and they set out for Ireland to pay a visit to his father — Page 523
175 The author finds his father become as strict an
unitarian
as himself — Page 524
176 Death of the author's father.—The author returns to England with his wife Page 525
177 The author's wife dies, and he goes to sea as captain of a little ship of his own; sails to the South-seas, China, and very many other places, returns to Europe, after having spent nine years in travelling, and promises an account of his observations in a future work — Page 526
178 (27 and 28. Remarks on Dr. Cheyne, and on Mr. William Law, the nonjuror, father of our methodists, and disciple of the famous Jacob Behmen) — Page 528
179 The author purchases a little villa near London, and retires thither to indulge his contemplative disposition — Page 529
180 His praise of our king and present ministry Page 530
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THE LIFE OF
John Buncle,
Esq
PART II.
SECTION I.
Felices homines! quos stricto foedere jungit,
Et socios natura facit! sic cura levatur!
Sic augentur opes! sic mutua gaudia crescunt!
Thompson's
Tuphlo-pero-gamia
The author of
Tuphlo-pero-gamia
is the Rev. Mr.
William Thompson;
a junior Fellow of Trinity College,
Dublin,
when I was a member of that university. He was a man of the finest parts and learning, and was remarkable for a temper so vastly happy, that he was always called
Benign Billy.
His Paraphrase on
Job,
in blank verse, is an admirable thing: It is, in my opinion, far preferable to the ingenious
Broome
's paraphrase on this sacred book.
.
That is,
Go, happy pair! in strictest bonds ally'd!
Whom nature joins, and can, alone, divide:
'Tis thus, their riches, and their joys increase,
Their cares grow lighter, and they smile in peace.
An apology for the married state.
§. 1. WHEN I consider how happy I have been in the married state, and in a succession of seven wives, never had one uneasy hour; that even a Paradise, without an
Eve,
would have been a wilderness to me; that the woods, the groves, the walks, the prospects, the flowers, the fruits, the day, the night, all would have wanted a relish, without that dear, delightful companion, a wife; it amazes me to hear many sensible people speak with abhorrence of matrimony, and insist upon it, that wedlock produces so many troubles, even where the pair have affection, and sorrows so very great, when they have no love for each other, or begin to fail in the kind and obliging offices, that it is contrary to reason to contract, if we have a just regard to peace and satisfaction of mind, and would avoid, as much as possible, the woes and bewailings of this turbid period. If you have acquired the divine habits, marriage may unhinge them. It often forces even the pious into immoralities. True, unhappy are many a wedded pair: years of calamity this engagement has produced to thousands of mortals: it has made the most pious divines become very cruel, as I could relate: it has caused the most generous, sensible men, to murder the women they adored before they were their wives.
The History of Orlando and Bellinda.
§. 2. This story has been told before by the
Tatler,
in his 172d paper; but as he has related only by hear say, and was mistaken in several particulars, the account I give of this extraordinary affair, may be grateful to the reader.
When I was a little boy in
Dublin,
between seven and eight, Mr.
Eustace
and his Lady lived next door to my father, in
Smithfield,
and the two families were intimate. Being a lively prating thing, Mrs.
Eustace
was fond of me, and by tarts and fruit, encouraged me to run into her parlour as often as I could. This made me well acquainted in the house; and, as I was a remarker so early in my life, I had an opportunity of making the following observations.
Orlando Eustace
was a tall, thin, strong man, well made, and a very genteel person. His face was pale, and marked with the small-pox: his features were good, and yet there was something fierce in his look, even when he was not displeased. He had sense and learning, and, with a large fortune, was a generous man; but passionate to an amazing degree, for his understanding; and a trifle would throw him into a rage. He had been humoured in every thing from his cradle, on account of his fine estate; from his infancy to his manhood, had been continually flattered, and in every thing obeyed. This made him opinionated and proud, obstinate, and incapable of bearing the least contradiction.
Bellinda Coot,
his Lady, with whom he had been passionately in love, was as fine a figure as could be seen among the daughters of men. Her person was charming; her face was beautiful, and had a sweetness in it that was pleasing to look at. Her vivacity was great, and her understanding extraordinary; but she had a satirical wit, and a vanity, which made her delight in shewing the weakness of other minds, and the clearness of her own conception. She was too good, however, to have the least malice in such procedure. It was human weakness, and a desire to make her neighbours wiser. Unfortunately for her, she was married to a man, who, of all men in the world, was the unfittest subject for her quick fancy to act on.
But, notwithstanding this,
Eustace
and
Bellinda
were, for the most of their time, very fond. As she was formed in a prodigality of nature, to shew mankind a finished composition, and had wit and charms enough to fire the dullest and most insensible heart; a man of
Orlando
's taste for the sex, could not be without an inflamed heart, when so near the transporting object of desire. She was his delight for almost a year, the dear support of his life. He seemed to value her esteem, her respect, her love; and endeavoured to merit them by the virtues which fortify love: and therefore, when by his being short, positive, and unreasonable in his dictates, as was too often his wont; and on her being intemperate in the strong sentiments her imagination produced upon the occasion, which was too frequently the case; when they seemed to forget the Apostle's advice for a while,
that ye love one another with a pure heart, fervently;
1
Pet.
i. 22. and had strifes and debates, which shewed, for the time they lasted, that they were far from being perfect and entire, wanting nothing; then would her throwing her face into smiles, with some tender expression, prove a reconciling method at once. Till the fatal night, this always had a power to soften pain, to ease and calm the raging man.
But poor at best is the condition of human life here below; and, when to weak and imperfect faculties, we add inconsistencies, and do not act up to the eternal law of
reason,
and of God; when love of fame, curiosity, resentment, or any of our particular propensities; when humour, vanity, or any of our inferior powers, are permitted to act against justice and veracity, and instead of reflecting on the
reason of the thing,
or the
right of the case,
that by the influence this has on the mind, we may be constituted virtuous, and attached to truth; we go down with the current of the passions, and let bent and humour determine us, in opposition to what is decent and fit: if in a state so unfriendly as this is, to the heavenly and divine life, where folly and vice are for ever striving to introduce disorder into our frame, and it is difficult indeed, to preserve, in any degree, an integrity of character, and peace within: — if, in such a situation, instead of labouring to destroy all the seeds of envy, pride, ill-will, and impatience, and endeavouring to establish and maintain a due inward oeconomy and harmony, by paying a perpetual regard to truth, that is, to the real circumstances and relation of things in which we stand, — to the practice of reason in its just extent, according to the capacities and natures of every being; we do, on the contrary, disregard the
moral faculty,
and become a mere system of passions and affections, without any thing at the head of them to govern them; — what then can be expected, but deficiency and deformity, degeneracy and guilty practice? This was the case of
Eustace
and
Bellinda. Passion
and
own-will
were so near and intimate to him, that he seemed to live under a deliberate resolution not to be governed by reason. He would wink at the light he had, struggle to evade conviction, and make his mind a
chaos
and a
hell. Bellinda,
at the same time, was too
quick,
too
vain,
and too often forgot to take into her idea of a good character, a
continual subordination
of the
lower powers
of our nature to the
faculty of reason.
This produced the following scene.
Maria
(sister to
Bellinda
) returned one evening with a five-guinea fan she had bought that afternoon, and was tedious in praising some
Indian
figures that were painted in it. Mrs.
Eustace,
who had a taste for pictures, said, the colours were fine, but the images ridiculous and despicable; and her sister must certainly be a little
Indian-mad,
or her fondness for every thing from that side of the globe could not be so excessive and extravagant as it always appeared to be.
To this
Maria
replied with some heat, and
Eustace
very peremptorily insisted upon it, that she was right. With positiveness and passion, he magnified the beauties of the figures in the fan, and with violence reflected so severely on the good judgment
Bellinda,
upon all occasions, pretended to, (as he expressed it) that at last, her imagination was fired, and, with too much eagerness, she not only ridiculed the opinion of her sister, in respect of such things, but spoke with too much warmth against the despotic tempers of self-sufficient husbands.
To reverence and obey (she said) was not required by any obligation, when men were unreasonable, and paid no regard to a wife's domestic and personal felicity; nor would she give up her understanding to his weak determination, since custom cannot confer an authority which nature has denied: It cannot license a husband to be unjust, nor give right to treat her as a slave. If this was to be the case in matrimony, and women were to suffer under conjugal vexations, as she did, by his senseless arguments every day, they had better bear the reproach and solitude of antiquated virginity, and be treated as the refuse of the world, in the character of old maids.
This too lively, though just speech, enraged
Eustace
to the last degree, and from a fury, he sunk in a few minutes into a total sullen silence, and sat for half an hour, while I stayed, cruelly determining, I suppose, her sad doom.
Bellinda
soon saw she had gone too far, and did all that could be done to recover him from the fit he was in. She smiled, cried, asked pardon; but 'twas all in vain. Every charm had lost its power, and he seemed no longer man. When this beauty stood weeping by his chair, and said, My love, forgive me, as it was in rallery only I spoke, and let our pleasures and pains be hereafter honestly shared; I remember the tears burst from my eyes, and in that condition I went away. It was frightful to look at
Eustace,
as he shook, started, and wildly stared; and the distress his Lady appeared in, was enough to make the most stony heart bleed: it was a dismal scene.
This happened at nine at night, and at ten
Orlando
withdrew to bed, without speaking one word, as I was informed. Soon after he lay down, he pretended to be fast asleep, and his wife rejoicing to find him so, as she believed, in hopes that nature's soft nurse would lull the active instruments of motion, and calm the raging operations of his mind: she resigned herself to slumbers, and thought to abolish for that night every disagreeable sensation of pain: but no sooner did this furious man find that his charming wife was really asleep, than he plunged a dagger into her breast. The monster repeated the strokes, while she had life to speak to him, in the tenderest manner, and conjured him, in regard to his own happiness, to let her live, and not sink himself into perdition here and hereafter, by her death. In vain she prayed; he gave her a thousand wounds, and I saw her the next morning a bloody, mangled corpse, in the great house in
Smithfield,
which stood at a distance from the street, with a wall before it, and an avenue of high trees up to the door; and not in the country, as the
Tatler
says.
Eustace
fled, when he thought she was expiring, (though she lived for an hour after, to relate the case to her maid, who heard her groan, and came into her room) and went from
Dublin
to a little lodge he had in the country, about twenty miles from town. The magistrates, in a short time, had information where he was; and one
John Mansel,
a constable, a bold and strong man, undertook, for a reward, to apprehend him. To this purpose, he set out immediately, with a case of pistols, and a hanger, and lurked several days and nights in the fields, before he could find an opportunity of coming at him; for
Eustace
lived by himself in the house, well secured by strong doors and bars, and only went out now and then, to an ale-house, the master of which was his friend. Near it, at last, about break of day,
Mansel
chanced to find him, and, upon his refusing to be made a prisoner, and cocking a pistol to shoot the officer of justice, both their pistols were discharged at once, and they both dropt down dead men.
Eustace
was shot in the heart, and the constable in the brain. They were both brought to
Dublin
on one of the little low-back'd cars there used; and I was one of the boys that followed the car, from the beginning of
James-street,
the out-side of the city, all thro' the town.
Eustace
's head hung dangling near the ground, with his face upwards, and his torn bloody breast bare; and of all the faces of the dead I have seen, none ever looked like his. There was an anxiety, a rage, a horror, and a despair to be seen in it, that no pencil could express.
The apology for the married state continued.
§. 3. Thus fell
Eustace
in the 29th year of his age, and by his hand his virtuous, beautiful, and ingenious wife: and what are we to learn from thence? is it, that on such accounts, we ought to dread wedlock, and never be concerned with a wife; No, surely; but to be from thence convinced, that it is necessary, in order to a happy marriage, to bring the will to the obedience of reason, and acquire an equanimity in the general tenour of life. Of all things in this world,
moral dominion,
or the
empire over ourselves,
is not only the most glorious, as reason is the superior nature of man, but the most valuable, in respect of real human happiness. A conformity to reason, or good sense, and to the inclination of our neighbours, with very little money, may produce great and lasting felicity; but without this subservience to our own reason, complaisance to company, and softness and benevolence to all around us, the greatest misery does frequently sprout from the largest stock of fortunes.
It was by ungoverned passions, that
Eustace
murdered his wife and died himself, the most miserable and wretched of all human beings. He might have been the happiest of mortals, if he had conformed to the dictates of reason, and softened his passions, as well for his own ease, as in compliance to a creature formed with a mind of a quite different make from his own. There is a sort of sex in souls; and, exclusive of that love and patience which our religion requires, every couple should remember, that there are things which grow out of their very natures, that are pardonable, when considered as such. Let them not, therefore, be spying out faults, nor find a satisfaction in reproaching; but let them examine to what consequences their ideas tend, and resolve to cease from cherishing them, when they lead to contention and mischief. Let them both endeavour to amend what is wrong in each other, and act as becomes their character, in practising the social duties of married persons, which are so frequently and strongly inculcated by revelation and natural reason; and then, instead of matrimony's being a burthen, and hanging a weight upon our very beings, there will be no appearance of evil in it, but harmony and joy will shed unmixed felicities on them: they will live in no low degree of beatitude in the suburbs of heaven.
This was my case: wedlock to me became the greatest blessing; a scene of the most refined friendship, and a condition to which nothing can be added to complete the sum of human felicity. So I found the holy and sublime relation, and in the wilds of
Westmoreland,
enjoyed a happiness as great as human nature is capable of, on this planet. Sensible to all the ties of social truth and honour, my partner and I lived in perfect felicity, on the products of our solitary farm. The amiable dispositions of her mind, chearfulness, good nature, discretion, and diligence, gave a perpetual dignity and lustre to the grace and loveliness of her person; and as I did all that love and fidelity could do, by practising every rule of caution, prudence, and justice, to prevent variance, soften cares, and preserve affection undiminished, the harmony of our state was unmixed and divine. Since the primitive institution of the relation, it never existed in a more delightful manner. Devoted to each other's heart, we desired no other happiness in this world, than to pass life away together in the solitude we were in. We lived, hoped, and feared but for each other; and made it our daily study to be what revealed religion prescribes, and the concurrent voice of nature requires, in the sacred tie. Do so likewise, ye mortals, who intend to marry, and ye may, like us, be happy. As the instincts and passions were wisely and kindly given us, to subserve many purposes of our present state, let them have their proper, subaltern share of action; but let reason ever have the sovereignty, (the divine law of reason and truth) and be, as it were, sail and wind to the vessel of life.
Our manner of living at
Orion-Lodge.
§. 4. Two years, almost, this fine scene lasted, and during that period, the business and diversions of our lone retreat appeared so various and pleasing, that it was not possible to think a hundred years so spent, in the least degree dull and tedious. Exclusive of books and gardening, and the improvement of the farm, we had, during the sine season, a thousand charming amusements on the mountains, and in the glens and vallies of that sweet silent place. Whole days we would spend in fishing, and dine in some cool grot by the water-side, or under an aged tree, on the margin of some beautiful stream. We generally used the fly and rod; but, if in haste, had recourse to one of the little water-falls, and, by fixing a net under one of them, would take a dozen or two of very large trouts, in a few minutes time.
By a little water-fall, I mean one of those that are formed by some small river, which tumbles there in various places, from rock to rock, about four feet each fall, and makes a most beautiful view from top to bottom of a fall. There are many of these falling waters among the vast mountains of
Westmoreland.
I have seen them likewise in the
Highlands
of
Scotland.
Glencrow
water-falls.
At
Glencrow,
half way between
Dumbarton
and
Inverary,
there are some very fine ones, and just by them one
Campbell
keeps a poor inn. There we were entertained with water and whisky, oat-cakes, milk, butter, and trouts he took by the net, at one of the little falls of a river that descends a prodigious mountain near his lone house, and forms, like what we have at
Orton-Lodge,
a most beautiful scene. Several happy days I passed at this place, with a dear creature, who is now a saint in heaven.
The great age and size of carp and tench, in a fenny water near
Orton-Lodge.
At other times we had the diversion of taking as much carp and tench as we pleased, in a large, standing, fenny water, that lies about two miles from the lodge, in a glen, and always found the fish of this water of an enormous size, three feet long, though the general length of fish of this species is eleven inches in our ponds: this vast bigness must be owing to the great age of these fish; I may suppose, at least, an hundred years; for it is certain, that in garden-ponds, which have, for experiment's sake, been left undisturbed for many years, the carp and tench have been found alive, and grown to a surprizing bigness.
The state of carp and tench put into a pond by a gentleman of my acquaintance.
A gentleman, my near relation, who lived to a very long age, put some fish of these species into a pond, the day that Colonel
Ewer,
at the head of seven other officers, presented to the Commons that fatal remonstrance, which in fact took off the head of
Charles,
that is,
November
20, 1648; and in the year 1727, seventy-nine years after, on his return to that seat, he found them all alive, and near two feet and a half in length. This demonstrates that fish may live to a very great age. It likewise proves that they continue to grow till they are an hundred years old, and then are the finest eating.
Another of our amusements, during the summer's bright day, was the pointer and gun, for the
black cock,
the
moor cock,
and the
cock of the wood,
which are in great plenty on those vast hills.
Charlotte
was fond of this sport, and would walk with me for hours, to see me knock down the game; till, late in the evening, we would wander over the fells, and then return to our clean, peaceful, little house, to sup as elegantly on our birds
The
black cock
is as large as our game cocks,
Description of the black cock.
and flies very swift and strong. The head and eyes are large, and round the eyes is a beautiful circle of red. The beak is strong, and black as the body; the legs robust and red. It is very high eating; more so than any native in
England
except the fen-ortolan; but in one particular it exceeds the fen birds, for it has two tastes; it being brown and white meat: under a lay of brown is a lay of white meat; both delicious: the brown is higher than the black moor cock, and the white much richer than the pheasant.
The moor-cock.
The
moor cock
is likewise very rare, but is to be had sometimes in
London,
as the sportsmen meet with it now and then on the hilly-heaths, not very far from town; particularly on
Hindhead-heath,
in the way to
Portsmouth.
It is as large as a good
Darking
fowl, and the colour is a deep iron-grey. Its eyes are large and fine as the black cock's; but, instead of the red circle round them, it has bright and beautiful scarlet eyebrows.
The cock of the wood.
The
cock of the wood,
(as unknown in
London
as the black cock) is almost as large as a turkey, but flies well. The back is a mixture of black, grey, and a reddish brown; the belly grey, and the breast a pale brown, with transverse lines of black, and a little white at the tips of the feathers. It has a large round head, of the purest black, and over its fine hazle eyes, there is a naked space, that looks like an eye-brow of bright scarlet. It is delicious eating, but far inferior to the black cock.
, as the great could do, and with a harmony and unmixed joy they are for ever strangers to. After supper, over some little nectared-bowl, we sweetly chatted, till it was bed-time; or I played on my flute, and
Charlotte
divinely sung. It was a happy life; all the riches and honours of the world cannot produce such scenes of bliss as we experienced in a cottage, in the Wilds of
Westmoreland.
Even the winter, which is ever boisterous and extreme cold in that part of the world, was no severity to us. As we had most excellent provisions of every kind in abundance, and plenty of firing from the ancient woods, which cover many of those high hills; and two men servants, and two maids, to do whatever tended to being and to well-being, to supply our wants, and to complete our happiness. — This softened the hard rough scene, and the roaring waters, and the howling winds, appeared pleasing sounds. In short, every season, and all our hours, were quite charming, and full of delight. Good
Tom Fleming,
our friend, did likewise enhance our felicity, by coming once or twice a week to see us, and staying sometimes two or three days. In the summer time, we also went now and then to visit him; and, if one was inclined to melancholy, yet it was impossible to be dull while he was by. His humour, and his songs, over a bowl of punch, were enough to charm the most splenetic, and make even rancour throw its face into smiles.
The death of
Charlotte,
my friend
Tom Fleming,
and others. 1727. aetat, 24.
§. 5. Two years, as I have said, this fine scene lasted; and during that soft, transporting period, I was the happiest man on earth. But in came
Death,
when we least expected him, snatched my charming partner from me, and melted all my happiness into air, into thin air. A fever, in a few days, snapt off the thread of her life, and made me the child of affliction, when I had not a thought of the mourner. Language cannot paint the distress this calamity reduced me to; nor give an idea of what I suffered, when I saw her eyes swimming in death, and the throws of her departing spirit. Blest as she was, in the exercise of every virtue that adorns a woman, how inconsolable must her husband be! and, to add to my distress, by the same fever fell my friend
Tom Fleming,
who came the day before my wife sickened to see us. One of my lads likewise died, and the two servant maids. They all lay dead around me, and I sat like one inanimate by the
corps
of
Charlotte,
till Fryer
Fleming,
(the brother of
Tom,
) brought coffins and buried them all. Thus did felicity vanish from my sight, and I remained like a traveller in
Greenland,
who had lost the sun.
A reflexion on death.
§. 6.
O eloquent, just, and mighty death!
(says
Raleigh
) It is thou alone puts wisdom into the human heart, and suddenly makes man to know himself. It is
death
that makes the
conquenor
ashamed of his fame, and wish he had rather stolen out of the world, than purchased the report of his actions, by rapine, oppression, and cruelty; by giving in spoil the innocent and labouring soul to the idle and insolent; by emptying the cities of the world of their ancient inhabitants, and filling them again with so many; and so variable sorts of sorrows. It is
death
tells the
proud
and
insolent,
that they are but
objects,
and humbles them at the instant; makes them cry, complain, and repent; yea, even to hate their former happiness. It is
death
takes the account of the
rich,
and proves him a
beggar,
a naked beggar, which hath interest in nothing but the gravel which fills his mouth. It is
death
holds a glass before the eyes of the most
beautiful,
and makes them see therein their
deformity
and
rottenness;
and they acknowledge it.
Whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded: what none have dared, thou hast done: and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world, and despised. Thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition, of man; all the powerful charms of beauty; and covered it all over with these two narrow words,
Hic jacet.
Nor is this all,
mighty death!
It is thou that leadest to the resurrection of the dead; the dissolution of the world; the judgment day; and the eternal state of men. It is thou that finishes the trial of men, and seals their characters, for happiness or misery for ever.
Be thou then,
death,
our morning and evening meditation: let us learn from thee the vanity of all human things; and that it is the most amazing folly, to melt away time, and mis-apply talents, as the generality of reasonable beings do: that we were not made men, thinking, rational beings, capable of the noblest contemplations, to spend all our thoughts and time in sense and pleasure, in dressing, feeding, and sporting; or, in purchases, building and planting; but to prepare for a
dying hour;
that, when at the call of God, we go out of the body,
not knowing whither we go,
we may, like
Abraham,
travel by
faith,
and trust to the conduct of the Lord of all countries. Since we must die, and thy power, O
death,
we see, is uncontrolable: since to the dust we must return, and take our trial at the bar of Almighty God, as
intelligent and free agents;
(for
under moral government,
and God is a perfectly wise and righteous governor, the
wickedness of the wicked will be upon him,
and the
righteousness of the righteous will be upon him;
) — since we must be numbered with the
dead,
and our
circumstances
and
condition
indicate a
future judgment,
surely we ought to remove our chief concern from this world to the other, and transfer our principal regard to the immortal spirit; that in the
hour of agony,
a
virtuous mind, purity of conscience,
and
good actions,
may procure us the favour of God, and the guidance of his good spirit to the mansions of the blessed, where new pleasures are for ever springing up, and the happiness of the heavenly inhabitants is perpetually increasing. This is the one thing needful.
Death
demonstrates, that this world of darkness and error, changes and chances, is not worth fixing our heart on. To secure our passage into the regions of perfect and eternal day, should be the employment of immortal mortals.
§. 7. Thus did I reflect as I sat among the
dead,
with my eyes fastened on the breathless corps of
Charlotte,
and I wished, if it was possible, to have leave to depart, and in the hospitable grave, lie down from toil and pain, to take my last repose; for I knew not what to do, nor where to go. I was not qualified for the world; nor had I a friend, or even an acquaintance in it, that I knew where to find. But in vain I prayed; it was otherwise decreed: I must go on, or continue a solitary in the wild I was in. The latter it was not possible for me to do, in the state of mind I was in; overwhelmed with sorrow, and without a companion of any kind; and therefore, I must of necessity go to some other place. I sold all the living things I had to Fryar
Fleming,
and locked up my doors. My furniture, linen, clothes, books, liquors, and some salt provisions, instruments of various kinds, and such like things, I left in their several places. There was no one to take them, or probability that any one would come there to disturb them; and perhaps, some time or other, the fates might bring me back again to the lone place. Though it was then a desolate, silent habitation, a striking memento of the vanity and precarious existence of all human good things; yet it was possible, that hearty friendship, festivity, and social life, might once more be seen there. The force and operation of casualties did wonders every day, and time might give me even a relish for the solitude in a few years more. Thus did I settle affairs in that remote place; and, taking leave of my friend, the fryar, with my lad
O Finn,
rode off.
SECTION II.
Collect thy powers divine, and then drive off
That
evil thing
call'd
fear,
that
slavish fiend.
Let
hope,
let
joy,
thy
bosom inmates
be,
Through life still cherish'd, and in death held fast.
A gracious God, loud-speaking to thy heart,
Through all his works, this truth inculcates still,
Nature
's thy
nurse,
and
providence
thy
friend.
Integrity,
with
fearless
heart, ride on:
Undaunted tread the various path through life.
Day Thoughts.
August
4. 1727. The author's departure from
Orton-Lodge,
to try his fortune once more.
§. 1. THE sun was rising, when we mounted our horses, and I again went out to try my fortune in the world; not like the Chevalier of
La Mancha,
in hopes of conquering a kingdom, or marrying some great Princess; but to see if I could find another good country girl for a wife, and get a little more money; as they were the only two things united, that could secure me from melancholy, and confer real happiness. To this purpose, as the day was extremely fine, and
Finn
had something cold, and a couple of bottles at the end of his valife, I gave my horse the rein, and let him take what way his fancy chose. For some time, he gently trotted the path he had often gone, and over many a mountain made his road: but at last, he brought me to a place I was quite a stranger to, and made a full stop at a deep and rapid water, which ran by the bottom of a very high hill I had not been up before. Over this river I made him go, though it was far from being safe, and in an hour's ride from that flood, came to a fine rural scene.
A delightful spot of earth among the fells of
Westmoreland.
§. 2. It was pasture-ground, of a large extent, and in many places covered with groves of trees, of various kinds; walnuts, chesnuts, and oaks; the poplar, the planetree, the mulberry, and maple. There was likewise the
Phoenician
cedar, the larix, the large-leafed laurel, and the cytissus of
Virgil.
In the middle of this place were the ruins of an old seat, over-run with shrubby plants; the
Virginia
creeper, the box-thorn, the jessamine, the honey-suckle, the periwinkle, the birdweed, the ivy, and the climber; and near the door was a flowing spring of water, which formed a beautiful stream, and babbled to the river we came from. Charming scene! so silent, sweet, and pretty, that I was highly pleased with the discovery.
A description of
Basil Groves,
the seat of
Charles Henley,
Esq
§. 3. On the margin of the brook, under a mulberry tree, I dined, on something which
Finn
produced from his wallet, tongue and ham, and potted
black cock;
and having drank a pint of cyder, set out again, to try what land lay right onwards. In an hour, we came to a large and dangerous watery moor, which we crossed over with great difficulty, and then arrived at a range of mountains, through which there was a narrow pass, wet and stony, a long and tedious ride, which ended on the border of a fine country: at four in the afternoon, we arrived on the confines of a plain, about a hundred acres, which was strewed with various flowers of the earth's natural produce, that rendered the glebe delightful to behold, and was surrounded with groves. The place had all the charms that verdure, forest, and vale, can give a country. In the centre of this ground was a handsome square building, and behind it a large and beautiful garden, which had a low, thick, holly-hedge, that encompassed it. As the door of this house was not locked, but opened by a silver spring turner, I went in, and found it was one fine spacious room, filled on every side with books, bound in an extraordinary manner. Globes, telescopes, and other instruments of various kinds, were placed on stands, and there were two fine writingtables, one at each end of the library, which had paper, ink, and pens. In the middle of the room there was a readingdesk, which had a short inscription, and on it leaned the skeleton of a man. The legend said,—
This skeleton was once Charles Henley,
Esq
Amazed I stood, looking on these things, and wondered much at the figure of the bones, tack'd together with wires; once, to be sure, the master of this grand collection of books and manuscripts, and this fine room, so sweetly situated in the centre of distant groves: this skeleton had a striking effect on my mind; and the more so, as it held a scroll of parchment, on which was beautifully written in the
court-hand,
(to appear more remarkable, I suppose) the following lines:
"Fellow-mortal, whoever thou art, whom the fates shall conduct into this chamber, remember, that before many years are passed, thou must be laid in the bed of corruption, in the dark caverns of death, among the lifeless dust, and rotten bones of others, and from the grave proceed to the general resurrection of all. To new life and vigour thou wilt most certainly be raised, to be brought to a great account. Naked and defenceless thou must stand before the awful tribunal of the great God, and from him receive a final sentence, which shall determine and fix thee in an eternal state of happiness or misery.
What an alarm should this be! Ponder, my fellow-mortal; and remember, God now commandeth men every where to repent, because he hath appointed a day, in which he will judge the world in righteousness, by that man, whom he hath ordained; whereof he hath given assurance unto all men, in that he hath raised him from the dead.—
Judge the world!
—
judgment!
— the very found is solemn. Should it not deaden some part, at least, of your concern for things temporal, and quicken your care and industry for the future life; — ought it not to make us condemn, before the dying hour, our vanity, and devotedness to bodily things, and make us employ the greatest part of our time in the acquisition of wisdom, and an improvement in virtue, that when we appear at the sessions of righteousness, a sacred knowledge, a heavenly piety, and an angelic goodness, may secure us from eternal punishment, and entitle us to a glorious eternity? Since a future judgment is most certainly the case, and the consequence eternal damnation or salvation, how contemptible a thing is a long busy life, spent in raking through the mire of trade and business, in pursuit of riches and a large estate; or in sweating up the steep hill of ambition, after fame and ambition; or in living and dressing as if we were
all body,
and sent into time for no other purpose, than to adorn like idols, gratify like brutes, and waste life in sensuality and vanity:—how contemptible and unreasonable is this kind of existence for beings, who were created to no other end, than to be partakers of a divine life with God, and sing hallelujahs to all eternity; to separate the creature from error, fiction, impurity, and corruption, and acquire that purity and holiness, which alone can see God. Away then with a
worldly heart:
away with all those follies, which engage us like fools and madmen; and let the principal thing be, to follow the steps of our great master, by patience and resignation, by a charity and contempt of the world; and by keeping a conscience void of offence, amidst the changes and chances of this mortal life; that at
his second coming,
to judge the world, we may be found
acceptable
in his sight.
What a scene must this second coming be! I saw, (says an apostle) a great white throne, and him that sat on it; from whose face the earth and the heavens fled away, and there was no place found for them; and I saw the dead small and great stand before God; and the books were opened, and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books: and the sea gave up her dead, and death and hell delivered up their dead which were in them, and they were judged every man, according to their works. The
secret wickedness
of men will be brought to light; and
concealed piety
and
persecuted virtue
be acknowledged and honoured. While innocence and piety are set at the right hand of the judge, and the righteous shall shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their father for ever and ever, shame and confusion must sit upon the faces of the sinner and the ungodly.
Damnation
will stand before the brethren in iniquity, and when the intolerable sentence is executed, what inexpressible agonies will they fall into? what amazement and excesses of horror must seize upon them?
Ponder then, in time, fellow-mortal, and chuse to be good, rather than to be great: prefer your baptismal vows to the pomps and vanities of this world; and value the secret whispers of a good conscience more than the noise of popular applause.
Since you must appear before the judgment-seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad, let it be your work from morning till night, to keep Jesus in your hearts; and long for nothing, desire nothing, hope for nothing, but to have all that is within you changed into the spirit and temper of the
holy Jesus.
Wherever you go, whatever you do, do all in imitation of his temper and inclination; and look upon all as nothing, but that which exercises and increases the spirit and life of Christ in your souls.—Let this be your Christianity, your church, and your religion, and the judgment-day will be a charming scene. If in this world, the will of the creature, as an offspring of the divine will,
wills
and
works
with the
will
of
God,
and labours, without ceasing, to come as near as mortals can, to the purity and perfection of the divine nature; then will the
day of the Lord
be a day of great joy, and with unutterable pleasure, you shall hear that tremendous voice:
Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment.
In transports, and full of honour and glory, the wise and righteous, will hear the happy sentence,
Come, ye blessed of my father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.
"
This, and the skeleton, astonished me not a little; and my wonder at the whole increased, as I could find no human creature living, nor discover any house or cottage for an inhabitant. This I though exceeded all the strange things I had seen in this wonderful country. But perhaps, (it occured at last,) there might be a mansion in the woods before me, or somewhere in the groves on either side; and therefore, leaving the library, after I had spent an hour in it, I walked onwards, and came to a wood, which had private walks cut through it, and strewed with sand. They shewed only light enough to distinguish the blaze of day from evening shade, and had feats dispersed, to sit and listen to the chorus of the birds, which added to the pleasures of the soft silent place. For about three hundred yards the walk I was in extended, and then terminated in meadows, which formed an oval of twenty acres, surrounded by groves, like the large plain I came from. Exactly in the middle of these fields, part of which were turned into gardens, there stood a very handsome stone house, and not far from the door of it, a fountain played. On either side of the water was a garden-chair, of a very extraordinary make, curious and beautiful; and each of them stood under an ever-green oak, the broad leaved Ilex, a charming shade.
A description of
John Henley,
Esq
§. 4. In one of these chairs sat an ancient gentleman, a venerable man, whose hair was white as silver, and his countenance had dignity and goodness. His dress and manner shewed him to be a person of fortune and distinction, and by a servant in waiting, it appeared, he was Lord of the seigneurie I was arrived at. He was tall and graceful, and had not the least stoop, tho' he wanted but a year of an hundred. I could not but admire the fine old gentleman.
Description of
Statia Henley,
the granddaughter of
John Henley,
Esq
§. 5. On the same chair, next to him, sat a young Lady, who was at this time just turned of twenty, and had such diffusive charms as soon new fired my heart, and gave my soul a softness even beyond what it had felt before. She was a little taller than the middle size, and had a face that was perfectly beautiful. Her eyes were extremely fine; full, black, sparkling; and her conversation was as charming as her person; both easy, unconstrained, and sprightly.
A conversation between
John Henley,
Esq
and the author.
§. 6. When I came near two such personages, I bowed low to the ground, and asked pardon for intruding into their fine retirement. But the stars had led me, a wanderer, to this delightful solitude, without the least idea of there being such a place in our island, and as their malignant rays had forced me to offend, without intending it, I hoped they would pardon my breaking in upon them.
To this the old Gentleman replied. You have not offended, Sir, I assure you, but are welcome to the
Groves of Basil.
It gives me pleasure to see you here; for it is very seldom we are favoured with any one's company, It is hard to discover or make out a road to this place, as we are surrounded almost by impassable mountains, and a very dangerous morass: Nor can I conceive how you found the way here without a guide, or ventured to travel this country, as there are no towns in this part of the county. There must be something very extraordinary in your case, and as you mentioned your being a wanderer, I should be glad to hear the cause of your journeying in this uninhabited region. But first (Mr.
Henley
said) as it is now near eight at night, and you must want refreshment, having met with no inn the whole day, we will go in to supper. He then arose, and brought me to an elegant parlour, where a table was soon covered with the best cold things, and we immediately sat down. Every eatable was excellent, and the wine and other liquors in perfection. Miss
Henley
sat at the head of the table, her grandfather over-against her, and placed me at her right hand between them both. The young lady behaved in a very easy genteel manner; and the old gentleman, with freedom, chearfulness, and good manners. 'Till nine this scene lasted, and then Mr.
Henley
again requested I would oblige him with an account of my travels in that part of the world. This I said I would do in the best manner I could, and while he leaned back in his easy chair, and the beautiful
Statia
fastened her glorious eyes upon me, I went on in the following words.
A summary of the author's history, from the beginning of his 17th year till his arrival at the groves of
Basil
in 1727, in the 25th year of his age.
§. 7. I am an Englishman, Sir, but have passed the greatest part of my life in
Ireland,
and from the western extremity of it I came. My father is one of the rich men in that kingdom, and was, for many years, the tenderest and most generous parent that ever son was blessed with. He spared no cost on my education, and gave me leave to draw upon him, while I resided in the university of
Dublin
five years, for what I pleased. Extravagant as I was in several articles, he never set any bounds to my demands, nor asked me what I did with the large sums I had yearly from him. My happiness was his felicity, and the glory of his life to have me appear to the greatest advantage, and in the most respected character, that money can gain a man.
But at last, he married his servant maid, an artful cruel woman, who obtained by her wit and charms so great an ascendant over him, that he abandoned me, to raise a young nephew this stepmother had, to what splendor and power she pleased. He had every thing he could name that money could procure, and was absolute master of the house and land. Not a shilling at this time could I get, nor obtain the least thing I asked for, and because I refused to become preceptor to this young man, and had made some alteration in my religion, (having renounced that creed, which was composed, nobody knows by whom, and introduced into the church in the darkest ages of popish ignorance; a symbol, which strongly participates of the true nature and spirit of popery, in those severe denunciations of God's wrath, which it pours so plentifully forth against all those whose heads are not turned to believe it), my father was so enraged that he would not even admit me to his table any longer, but bid me be gone. My mother-in-law likewise for ever abused me, and her nephew, the lad, insulted me when I came in his way.
Being thus compelled to withdraw, I set sail for
England
as soon as it was in my power, and arrived in
Cumberland
by the force of a storm. I proceeded from thence to the mountains of
Stanemore,
to look for a gentleman, my friend, who lived among those hills; and as I journeyed over them, and missed him, I chanced to meet with a fine northern girl, and a habitation to my purpose. I married her, and for almost two years past was the happiest of the human race, till the sable curtain fell between us, and the angel of death translated her glorious soul to the fields of paradise. Not able to bear the place of our residence, after I had lost my heart's fond idol, I left the charming spot and mansion, where unmixed felicity had been for some time my portion, and I was travelling on towards
London,
to see what is ordained there in reserve for me; when by accident I lost my way, and the fates conducted me to the
Groves
of
Basil.
Curiosity led me into the library I found in the plain, without this wood, from whence, in search for some human creatures, I proceeded to the fountain, where I had the pleasure of seeing you, Sir, and this young lady. This is a summary of my past life; what is before me heaven only knows. My fortune I trust with the Preserver of men, and the Father of spirits. One thing I am certain of by observation, few as the days of the years of my pilgrimage have been, that the emptiness, and unsatisfying nature of this world's enjoyments, are enough to prevent my having any fondness to stay in this region of darkness and sorrow. I shall never leap over the bars of life, let what will happen: but the sooner I have leave to depart, I shall think it the better for me.
The old gentleman's reply to the story.
§. 8. The old gentleman seemed surprized at my story, and after some moments silence, when I had done, he said, Your measure, Sir, is hard, and as it was, in part, for declaring against a false religion at your years, you please me so much, that if you will give me leave, I will be your friend, and as a subaltern providence, recompence your loss as to fortune in this world. In what manner you shall know to-morrow, when we breakfast at eight. It is now time to finish our bottle, that we may, according to our custom, betimes retire.
The history of
Ch. Henley,
Esq
and his beautiful daughter
Statia.
At the time appointed I met the old gentleman in the parlour, and just as we had done saluting each other,
Statia
entered, bright and charming as
Aurora.
She was in a rich dress, and her bright victorious eyes flashed a celestial fire. She made our tea, and gave me some of her coffee. She asked me a few civil questions, and said two or three good things on the beauties of the morning, and the charms of the country. She left us the moment we had done breakfast, and then the old gentleman addressed himself to me in the following words.
I do not forget the promise I made you, but must first relate the history of my family. I do it with the more pleasure, as I find you are of our religion, and I cannot help having a regard for you, on your daring to throw up a fortune for truth; for bravely daring to renounce those systems, which have an
outward orthodox roundness
given to them by their eloquent defenders, and
within
are
mere corruption and apostacy.
The
skeleton
you saw in the library was once my son,
Charles Henley,
a most extraordinary man. He had great abilities, and understood every thing a mortal is capable of knowing, of things human and divine.— When he was in his nineteenth year, I took him to
France
and other countries, to see the world, and, on our return to
England,
married him into a noble family, to a very valuable young woman, of a large fortune, and by her he had the young lady you saw sitting on the chair near the table by me. This son I lost, three years after his marriage, and with him all relish for the world: and being naturally inclined to retirement and a speculative life, never stirred since from this country-house. Here my son devoted himself entirely to study, and amused himself with instructing his beloved
Statia,
the young lady you have seen. At his death he consigned her to my care; and as her understanding is very great, and her disposition sweet and charming, I have not only taken great pains in educating her, but have been delighted with my employment. Young as she is,
Aug.
14, 1727.
but in the second month of her one and twentieth year, she not only knows more than women of distinction generally do, but would be the admiration of learned men, if her knowledge in languages, mathematics, and philosophy, were known to them: and as her father taught her music and painting, perhaps there is not a young woman of finer accomplishments in the kingdom.
Her father died towards the end of the year 1723, in the 39th year of his age, when she was not quite sixteen, and, by his will, left her ten thousand pounds, and
Basil-House
and estate; but she is not to inherit it, or marry, 'till she is two and twenty. This was her father's will. As to the
skeleton
in the library, it was my son's express order it should be so, and that the figure should not be removed from the place it stands in, while the library remained in that room; but continue a solemn memorial in his family, to perpetuate his memory, and be a
memento mori
to the living.
Old Mr.
Henley
offers me his granddaughter in marriage.
§. 10. This is the history of
Basil Groves,
and the late owner of this seat, and his daughter
Statia.
We live a happy, religious life here, and enjoy every blessing that can be desired in this lower hemisphere. But as I am not very far from a hundred years, having passed that
ninety-two
which Sir
William Temple
says, he never knew any one he was acquainted with arrive at, I must be on the brink of the grave, and expect every day to drop into it. What may become of
Statia,
then, gives me some trouble to think; as all her relations, except myself, are in the other world. To spend her life here in this solitude, as seems to be her inclination, is not proper; and to go into the world by herself, when I am dead, without knowing any mortal in it, may involve her in troubles and distresses. Hear then, my son, what I propose to you. You are a young man, but serious. You have got some wisdom in the school of affliction, and you have no aversion to matrimony, as you have just buried, you say, a glorious woman, your wife. If you will stay with us here, till
Statia
is two and twenty, and in that time render yourself agreeable to her, I promise you, she shall be yours the day she enters the three and twentieth year of her age, and you shall have with her fortune all that I am owner of, which is no small sum. What do you say to this proposal?
My reply.
§. 11. Sir, I replied, you do me vast honour, much more I am sure than my merits can pretend to. I am infinitely obliged to you, and must be blind and insensible, if I refused such a woman as Miss
Henley,
were she far from being the fortune she is: But I have not vanity enough to imagine, I can gain her affections; especially in my circumstances; and to get her by your authority, or power of disposing of her, is what I cannot think of. I will stay however, a few months here, since you so generously invite me, and let Miss
Henley
know, I will be her humble servant, if she will allow me the honour of bearing that title. This made the old gentleman laugh, and he took me by the hand, saying, This is right. Come, let us go and take a walk before dinner.
My residence at
Basil
Groves for seven months, and manner of living.
§. 12. There I passed the winter, and part of the spring, and lived in a delightful manner. The mornings I generally spent in the library, reading, or writing extracts from some curious MSS. or scarce books; and in the afternoons Miss
Henley
and I walked in the lawns and woods, or sat down to cards. She was a fine creature indeed in body and soul, had a beautiful understanding, and charmed me to a high degree. Her conversation was rational and easy, without the least affectation from the books she had read; and she would enliven it sometimes by singing, in which kind of music she was as great a mistress as I have heard. As to her heart, I found it was to be gained; but an accident happened that put a stop to the amour.
The death. of old Mr.
Henley,
and
Statia
's behaviour thereupon.
§. 13. In the beginning of March, the old gentleman, the excellent Mr.
Henley, Statia
's grandfather and guardian, and my great friend, died, and by his death a great alteration ensued in my affair. I thought to have had Miss
Henley
immediately, as there was no one to plead her father's will against the marriage, and intended to send
O Finn
for Fryar
Fleming;
but when
Statia
saw herself her own mistress, without any superior, or controul, and in possession of large fortunes, money, and an estate, that she might do as she pleased; this had an effect on her mind, and made a change. She told me, when I addressed myself to her, after her grandfather was interred, that what she intended to do, in obedience to him, had he lived, she thought required very serious consideration now she was left to herself: That, exclusive of this, her inclination really was for a single life; and had it been otherwise, yet it was not proper, since her guardian was dead, that I should live with her till the time limited by her father's will for her to marry was come; but that, as she had too good an opinion of me, to imagine her fortune was what chiefly urged my application, and must own she had a regard for me, she would be glad to hear from me sometimes, if I could think her worth remembring, after I had left the
Groves of Basil.
This she said with great seriousness, and seemed by her manner to forbid my urging the thing any further.
My reply to Miss
Henley:
being an apology for matrimony, as it is by the gospel made a memorial of the covenant of grace.
§. 14. I assured her, however, that time only could wear out her charming image from my mind, and that I had reason to fear, she would long remain the torment of my heart. She had a right to be sure to dismiss me from her service; but in respect of her inclination to live a single life, I begged leave to observe, that it was certainly quite wrong, and what she could not answer to the wise and bountiful Father of the Universe, as she was a Christian, and by being so, must believe, that
baptism
was a
memorial
of the
covenant of grace.
The
Catholics,
and the
Vision-mongers
of the protestant side, (the Rev. Mr.
Wm. Law,
and others of his row) may magnify the excellence of
celibacy
as high as they please, and work it into christian perfection, by sounding words and eloquent pens; but most surely,
revelation
was directly against them, and required the
faithful
to
produce
in a
regular way.
Consider, illustrious
Statia,
that when the Most High gave the
Abrahamic covenant
in these words,
I will be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee, and in thy seed shall all the families, or nations of the earth be blessed;
which includes an interest in God, as a God, father and friend for ever, and a share in all the blessings wherewith the
Messiah,
in the gospel, hath inriched the world; these inestimable blessings and promises of life and favour, were designed by the divine munificence for rising generations of mankind; and it was most certainly intended, not only that they should be received with the highest gratitude and duty, but that they should be strongly inculcated upon the thoughts of succeeding generations, by an instituted sign or memorial, to the end of the world.
Circumcision
was the first appointed token or memorial, and at the same time, an instruction in that moral rectitude to which the grace of God obliges: and when the New Testament succeeded the Law, then was the
covenant interest of infants,
or their
right
to the
covenant of grace,
to be confirmed by the
token
or
sign
called
baptism;
that action being appointed to give the expected rising generation an interest in the love of God, the grace of Christ, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit, that is, in all covenant blessings. But what becomes of this great charter of heaven, if christian women, out of an idle notion of perfection, will resolve to lead single lives, and thereby hinder rising generations from sharing in the honours and privileges of the church of Jesus Christ. Millions of the faithful must thereby be deprived of the token instituted by God to convey to them those covenant blessings, which his love and goodness designed for the rising generations of his people. Have a care then what you do, illustrious
Statia,
in this particular. It must be a great crime to hinder the regular propagation of a species, which God hath declared to be under his particular inspection and blessing, and by circumcision and baptism, hath made the special object of divine attention and care. Away then with all thoughts of a virgin life, whatever becomes of me. As God hath appointed matrimony and baptism, let it be your pious endeavour to bare sons and daughters, that may be related to God, their Father; to Jesus, their Redeemer, and first born in the family; and to all the excellent, who are to enjoy, through him, the blessings of the glorious world above. Marry, then, illustrious
Statia,
marry, and let the blessing of
Abraham
come upon us gentiles. Oppose not the gospel covenant; that covenant which was made with that patriarch; but mind the comfortable promises;
I will circumcise thy heart, and the heart of thy seed. I will pour out my spirit upon thy seed, and my blessing upon thine offspring. The seed of the righteous is blessed. They are the seed of the blessed of the Lord, and their offspring with them.
Such is the magna charta of our existence and future happiness; and as infants descending from
Abraham,
in the line of election, to the end of the world, have as good a right and claim as we to the blessings of this covenant, and immense promise,
I will be a God unto thee, and to thy seed after thee, in their generations;
it must be a great crime, to deprive children of this intailed, heavenly inheritance, by our resolving to live in a state of virginity. In my opinion, it is a sin greater than murder. What is murder, but forcing one from his post against the will of providence; and if the virgin hinders a being or beings from coming on the post, against the will of providence, must she not be culpable; and must she not be doubly criminal, if the being or beings she hinders from coming on the stage, or into this first state, were to be a part of the
perpetual generations,
who have a right to the
inheritance,
the
blessing,
and were to be
heirs
according to the
promise
made to
Abraham?
Ponder, illustrious
Statia,
on the important point. Consider what it is to die a maid, when you may, in a regular way, pruduce heirs to that inestimable blessing of life and favour, which the munificence of the Most High was pleased freely to bestow, and which the great Christian mediator, agent, and negociator, republished, confirmed, and sealed with his blood. Marry then in regard to the gospel, and let it be the fine employment of your life, to open gradually the treasures of revelation to the understandings of the little christians you produce.
This I am sure your holy religion requires from you: and if from the sacred oracles we turn to the book of nature, is it not in this volume written, that there must be a malignity in the hearts of those mortals, who can remain unconcerned at the destruction and extirpation of the rest of mankind; and who want even so much good will as is requisite to propagate a creature, (in a regular and hallowed way) tho' they received their own
being
from the meer benevolence of their divine Master? What do you say, illustrious
Statia?
Shall it be a
succession,
as you are an upright Christian? And may I hope to have the high honour of sharing in the mutual satisfaction that must attend the discharge of so momentous a duty?
Of celibacy and marriage.
If
succession
be the main thing, and to prevent the extirpation of the rest of mankind by
junction,
why may it not be carried on as well without marriage, as in that confined way? I answer, that as the author and founder of marriage, was the
Antient of Days,
God himself, and at the creation, he appointed the
institution:
as
Christ,
who was vested with authority to abrogate any laws, or supersede any custom, in which were found any flaw or obliquity, or had not an intrinsic goodness and rectitude in them, confirmed the
ordinance,
by reforming the abuses that had crept into it, and restoring it to its original boundary: As he gave a
sanction
to this amicable covenant, and statuted that men should maintain the dignity of the conjugal state, and by virtue of this primordial and most intimate bond of society, convey down the race of mankind, and maintain its succession to the final dissolution; it is not therefore to be neglected or disregarded. We must not dare to follow our fancies, and in unhallowed mixtures, or an illegal method, have any posterity. As the great God appointed and blessed this institution only, for the continuance of mankind, the race is not to be preserved in another way. We must
marry in the Lord,
to promote his glory, as the
apostle
says, 1
Cor.
vii. 39. The earth is not to be replenished by licentious junction, or the promiscuous use of women. Dreadful hereafter must be the case of all who slight an
institution of God.
I am sensible, the libertine who depreciates and vilifies the dignity of the married state, will laugh at this assertion: The fop and debauchee will hiss it, and still do their best to render wedlock the subject of contempt and ridicule. The
Roman
clergy will likewise decry it, and injuriously treat it as an impediment to devotion, a cramp upon the spiritual serving of God, and call it an instrument of pollution and defilement, in respect of their heavenly
celibacy.
But as God thought marriage was suitable to a paradisaical state, and the scriptures declare it
honourable in all:
as this is the way appointed by heaven to people the earth; and the
inslitution
is
necessary,
in the reason and nature of things, considering the circumstances in which mankind is placed; to prevent confusion, and promote the general happiness; as the bond of society, and the foundation of all human government; sure I am, the
rake
and the
mass-priest,
must be in a dreadful situation at the sessions of righteousness; when the one is charged with libertinism and gallantries, with madness and folly, and with all the evils and mischief they have done by illicit gratification, contrary to reason, and in direct opposition to the
institutes
of God;— and when the other, the miserable
mass-priests,
are called to an account, for vilifying the honour and dignity of the married state, and for striving to seduce mankind into the solitary retirements of celibacy, in violation of the laws of God; and more especially of the primary law or ordinance of heaven.
Wretched priests!
Your institutions are breaches in revealed religion, trespasses upon the common rights of nature, and such oppressive yokes as it is not able to bear. Your
celibacy
has not a grain of piety in it. It is
policy
and
impiety.
Hear me then, ye
libertines
and
mass-priests:
I call upon you of the first row, ye
rakes of genius,
to consider what you are doing, and in time, turn from your iniquities: Be no longer profligate and licentious, blind to your true interest and happiness, but become virtuous and honourable lovers, and in regard to the advantages of this
solemn institution,
called
wedlock,
as well to the general state of the world, as to individuals,
marry in the Lord;
so will you avoid that dreadful sentence,
Fornicators and adulterers God will judge,
that is, punish; and in this life, you may make things
very agreeable,
if you please; though it is in the heavenly world alone, where there shall be all joy and no sorrow. Let there be true beauty and gracefulness in the mind and manners, and these with discretion, and other things in your power, will furnish a fund of happiness commensurate with your lives. It is possible, I am sure, to make marriage productive of as much happiness as falls to our share in this lower hemisphere; as the nature of man can reach to in his present condition. For, as to joy flowing in with a full, constant and equal tide, without interruption and without allay, there is no such thing. Human nature doth not admit of this. "The sum of the matter is this: To the public the advantages of marriage are certain, whether the parties will or no; but to the parties engaging, not so: to them
it is a fountain that sendeth forth both sweet and bitter waters.
To those who mind their duty and obligations
sweet ones;
to those who neglect them
bitter ones.
"
In the next place, ye
monks,
I would persuade you, if I could, to labour no longer in striving to cancel the obligations to marriage by the pretence of religion. The voice of heaven, and the whispers of sound and uncorrupted reason are against it. It is will-worship in opposition to revelation. It is such a presumption for a creature against the author of our nature, as must draw down uncommon wrath upon the head of every
mass-priest,
who does not repent their preaching such wicked doctrine. Indeed I do not know any part of popery that can be called christianity: but this in particular is so horrible and diabolical, that I can consider the preachers for celibacy in no other light than as so many
devils.
May you ponder in time on this horrible affair.
Miss
Henley
's answer.
§. 15. All the smiles sat on the face of
Statia,
while I was haranguing in this devout manner, and her countenance became a constellation of wonders. When I had done, this beauty said, I thank you, Sir, for the information you have given me. I am a Christian. There is no malignity in my heart. You have altered my way of thinking, and I now declare for a
succession.
— Let Father
Flemming
be sent for, and without waiting for my being two and twenty, or minding my father's will, as there's no one to oblige me to it, I will give you my hand. Charming news! I dispatched my lad for the Fryar. The priest arrived the next day, and at night we were married. Three days after, we set out for
Orton Lodge,
at my wife's request, as she longed to see the place. For two years more I resided there; it being more agreeable to
Statia
than the improved
Groves of Basil.
We lived there in as much happiness as it is possible to have in this lower hemisphere, and much in the same manner as I did with
Charlotte
my first wife.
Statia
had all the good qualities and perfections which rendered
Charlotte
so dear and valuable to me; like her she studied to increase the delights of every day, and by art, good humour, and love, rendered the married state such a system of joys as might incline one to wish it could last a thousand years: But it was too sublime and desirable to have a long existence here.
Statia
was taken ill, of the small-pox, the morning we intended to return to
Basil-Groves;
she died the 7th day, and I laid her by
Charlotte
's side. Thus did I become again a
mourner.
I sat with my eyes shut for three days: But at last, called for my horse, to try what air, exercise, and a variety of objects, could do.
SECTION III.
'Twas when the faithful herald of the day,
The village-cock crows loud with trumpet shrill,
The warbling lark soars high, and morning grey
Lifts her glad forehead o'er the cloud-wrapt hill:
Nature's wild music fills the vocal vale;
The bleating flocks that bite the dewy ground;
The lowing herds that graze the woodland dale,
And cavern'd echo, swell the chearful sound.
April
1, 1729, we leave
Orton Lodge
again, and set out for
Harrigate
Spaw. A description of the country we rid over. Aetat. 27.
§. 1. VERY early, as soon as I could see day, the first of
April,
1729, I left
Orton-Lodge,
and went to
Basil-Groves,
to order matters there. From thence I set out for
Harrigate,
to amuse myself in that agreeable place; but I did not go the way I came to Mr.
Henley
's house. To avoid the dangerous morass I had passed, at the hazard of my life, we went over a wilder and more romantic country than I had before seen. We had higher mountains to ascend than I had ever passed before; and some vallies so very deep to ride through, that they seemed as it were descents to hell. The patriarch
Bermudez,
in journeying over
Abyssinia,
never travelled in more frightful Glins
Relation de l'Ambassade, dedica a Don Sebastien, roy de Portugal.
And yet, we often came to plains and vales which had all the charms a paradise could have. Such is the nature of this country.
Through these scenes, an amazing mixture of the terrible and the beautiful, we proceeded from five in the morning till one in the afternoon, when we arrived at a vast water-fall, which descended from a precipice near two hundred yards high, into a deep lake, that emptied itself into a swallow fifty yards from the catadure or fall, and went I suppose to the abyss. The land from this head-long river, for half a mile in length and breadth, till it ended at vast mountains again, was a fine piece of ground, beautifully flowered with various perennials, the acanthus, the aconus, the adonis or pheasant's eye, the purple bistorta, the blue borago, the yellow bupthalmum, the white cacalia, the blue campanula, and the sweet-smelling cassia, the pretty double daisy, the crimson dianthus, the white dictamnus, the red fruximella, and many other wild flowers. They make the green valley look charming; and as here and there stood two or three ever-green trees, the cypress, the larix, the balm of
Gilead,
and the
Swedish
juniper, the whole spot has a fine and delightful effect. On my arrival here, I was at a loss which way to turn.
The inhabitants of this fine valley, a society of married friars.
§. 2. I could not however be long in suspense how to proceed, as I saw near the water-fall a pretty thatched mansion, and
inhabitants in it. I found they were a religious society of married people, ten friars and their ten wives, who had agreed to retire to this still retreat, and form a holy house on the plan of the famous
Ivon,
the disciple of
Labadie,
so celebrated on account of his connection with Mrs.
Schurman,
and his many fanatical writings.
See my 1st volume, p. 347. where you will find a particular account of
Labadie
and
Ivon.
A book called the
Marriage Chretien,
written by this
Ivon,
was their directory, and from it they formed a protestant
La Trappe;
with this difference from the Catholic religious men, that the friars of the reformed monastery were to have wives in their convent; the better to enable them to obtain Christian perfection in the religious life. These Regulars, men and women, were a most industrious people, never idle; but between their hours of prayer always at work: the men were employed in a garden of ten acres, to provide vegetables and fruit, on which they chiefly lived; or in cutting down old trees, and fitting them for their fire: and the women were knitting, spinning, or twisting what they had spun into thread, which they sold for three shillings a pound: they were all together in a large, handsome room: they sat quite silent, kept their eyes on their work, and seemed more attentive to some inward meditations, than to any thing that appeared, or passed by them. They looked as if they were contented and happy. They were all extremely handsome, and quite clean: their linen fine and white: their gowns a black stuff. The women dined at one table: the men at another; but all sat in the same room. The whole house was in bed by ten, and up by four in the morning, winter and summer. What they said at their table I could not hear, as they spoke low and little, and were at a distance from me, in a large apartment: but the conversation of the men, at table, was very agreeable, rational and improving. I observed they had a great many children, and kept four women-servants to attend them, and do the work of the house. The whole pleased me very greatly. I thought it a happy institution.
Some thoughts on the institution of married regulars.
§. 3. As to the
marriage
of the
friars
in this cloystral house, their founder,
Ivon,
in my opinion, was quite right in this notion.
Chaste junction
cannot have the least imperfection in it, as it is the appointment of God, and the inclination to a
coit
is so strongly impressed on the machine by the author of it; and since it is quite pure and perfect; since it was wisely intended as the only best expedient to keep man for ever innocent, it must certainly be much better for a
regular
or
retreating priest,
to have a lawful, female companion with him; and so the woman, who chuses a convent, and dislikes the fashions of the world, to have her good and lawful monk every night in her arms; to love and procreate legally, when they have performed all the holy offices of the day; and then, from love and holy generation, return again to prayer, and all the heavenly duties of the cloystered life; than to live, against the institution of nature and providence, a
burning, tortured nun,
and a
burning, tortured friar;
locked up in walls they can never pass, and under the government of some old, cross, impotent superior. There is some sense in such a
marriage chretien
in a convent.
Ivon's
convent is well enough. A cloyster may do upon his plan, with the dear creature by ones side, after the daily labours of the
monk
are over. It had been better, if that
infallible
man, the
Pope,
had come into this scheme. How comfortable has
Ivon
made it to the human race, who renounce the dress and pageantry, and all the vanities of time. Their days are spent in piety and usefulness; and at night, after the
completorium,
they lie down together in the most heavenly charity, and according to the first great hail, endeavour to increase and multiply. This is a divine life. I am for a cloyster on these terms. It pleased me so much to see these
monks
march off with their smiling partners, after the last psalm, that I could not help wishing for a charmer there, that I might commence the
Married Regular,
and add to the stock of children in this holy house. It is really a fine thing to
monk
it on this plan. It is a divine institution: gentle and generous, useful and pious.
On the contrary, how
cruel
is the
Roman church,
to make
perfection
consist in
celibacy,
and cause so many millions of men and women to live at an eternal distance from each other, without the least regard to the given points of contact! How unfriendly to society! This is abusing christianity, and perverting it to the most pernicious purposes; under a pretence of raising piety, by giving more time and leisure for devotion. For it never can be pious either in design or practice, to cancel any moral obligation, or to make void any command of God: and as to prayer, it may go along with every other duty, and be performed in every state. All states have their intermissions; and if it should be otherwise sometimes, I can then, while discharging any duty, or performing any office, pray as well in my heart,
O God be merciful to me a sinner, and bless me with the blessing of thy grace and providence,
as if I was prostrate before an altar. What
Martha
was reproved for, was on account of her being too Yolicitous about the things of this life. Where this is not the case,
business
and the
world
are far from being a hindrance to piety. God is as really glorified in the discharge of relative duties, as in the discharge of those which more immediately relate to himself. He is in truth more actively glorified by our discharging well the
relative duties,
and we thereby may become more
extensively useful
in the church and in the world, may be more
public blessings,
than it is possible to be in a
single pious
state. In short, this one thing,
celibacy,
(were there nothing else) the making the unmarried state a more holy state than marriage, shews the prodigious
nonsense
and
impiety
of the
Church
of
Rome,
and is reason enough to flee that communion, if we had no other reasons for protesting against it. The tenet is so superstitious and dangerous, that it may well be esteemed a doctrine of those
devils,
who are the seducers and destroyers of mankind: but it is (says
Wallace
Dissertation on the numbers of mankind.
) suitable to the views and designs of a church, which has discovered such an enormous ambition, and made such havock of the human race, in order to raise, establish, and preserve an usurped and tyrannical power.
A further account of the Married Regulars I met with among the fells of
Westmoreland.
§. 4. But as to the
Married Regulars
I have mentioned; they were very glad to see me, and entertained me with great civility and goodness. I lived a week with them, and was not only well fed with vegetables and puddings on their lean days, Wednesdays and Fridays, and with plain meat, and good malt drink, on the other days; but was greatly delighted with their manner and piety, their sense and knowledge. I will give my pious readers a sample of their prayers, as I imagine it may be to edification. These friars officiate in their turns, changing every day; and the morning and evening prayers of one of them were in the words following. I took them off in my shorthand.
A Prayer for Morning.
ALMIGHTY and everlasting God, the creator and preserver of all things, our law-giver, saviour, and judge, we adore thee the author of our beings, and the father of our spirits. We present ourselves, our acknowledgments, and our homage, at the foot of thy throne, and yield thee the thanks of the most grateful hearts for all the instances of thy favour which we have experienced. We thank thee for ever, O Lord God Almighty, for all thy mercies and blessings vouchsafed us; for defending us the past night from evil, and for that kind provision which thou hast made for our comfortable subsistence in this world.
But above all, most glorious Eternal, adored be thy goodness, for repeating and reinforcing the laws and the religion of thy creation, by supernatural revelation, and for giving us that reason of mind, which unites us to thee, and makes us implore thy communications of righteousness, to create us again unto good works in Christ Jesus.
We confess, O Lord, that we have done violence to our principles, and alienated ourselves from the natural use we were fitted for: we have revolted from thee into a state of sin, and by the operation of sense and passion, have been moved to such practices as are exorbitant and irregular: but we are heartily sorry for all our misdoings: to thee in Christ we now make our address, and beseech thee to inform our understandings, and refine our spirits, that we may reform our lives by repentance, redeem our time by righteousness, and live as the glorious gospel of thy Son requires. Let the divine spirit assist and enable us to over-rule, conduct, and employ, the subordinate and inferior powers, in the exercise of virtue, and the service of our creator, and as far as the imperfections of our present state will admit, help us so to live by the measures and laws of heaven, that we may have the humility and meekness, the mortification and self-denial of the holy Jesus, his love of thee, his desire of doing thy will, and seeking only thy honour. Let us not come covered before thee under a
form
of godliness, a
cloke
of creeds, observances and institutions of religion; but with that
inward salvation
and
vital sanctity,
which renounces the spirit, wisdom, and honours of this world, dethrones self-love and pride, subdues sensuality and covetousness, and
opens a kingdom of heaven within
by the spirit of God. O let thy Christ be our Saviour in this world; and before we die, make us fit to live for ever with thee in the regions of purity and perfection.
Since it is the peculiar privilege of our nature, through thy mercy and goodness, that we are made for an eternal entertainment in those glorious mansions, where the blessed society of saints and angels shall keep an everlasting sabbath, and adore and glorify thee for ever, let thy inspiring spirit raise our apprehensions and desires above all things that are here below, and alienate our minds from the customs and principles of this mad, degenerate, and apostate world: mind us of the shortness and uncertainty of time, of the boundless duration, and the vast importance of eternity, and so enable us to imitate the example of the holy Jesus in this world, that we may hereafter ascend, with the greatest ardor of divine love, to those realms of holiness, where our hearts will be filled with raptures of gladness and joy, and we shall remain in the highest glory for ever and ever.
We live, O Lord, in reconciliation and friendship, in love and good will, with thy whole creation, with every thing that derives from thee, holds of thee, is owned by thee; and under the power of this affection, we pray for all mankind; that they may be partakers of all the blessings which we enjoy or want, and that we may all be happy in the world to come, and glorify thee together in eternity. To this end bring all the human race to the knowledge of thy glorious gospel, and let its influence transform them into the likeness of Christ.
But especially, we pray for all who suffer for truth and righteousness sake, and beseech thee to prosper those that love thee. Defend, O Lord, the just rights and liberties of mankind, and rescue thy religion from the corruptions which have been introduced upon it, by length of time, and by decay of piety. Infatuate the counsels, and frustrate the endeavours of the priests of
Rome,
and against all the designs of those, who are enemies to the purity of the gospel, and substitute human inventions in the place of revealed religion; prosper the pious labours of those who teach mankind to worship one, eternal and omnipresent being; in whose understanding, there is the perfection of wisdom; in whose will, there is the perfection of goodness; in whose actions, there is the perfection of power; a God without cause, the great creator, benefactor, and saviour of men:—And that the duty of man is to obey, in thought, word, and deed, the precepts of godliness and righteousness, without regard to pleasure, gain, or honour; to pain, loss, or disgrace; diligently imitating the life of the holy Jesus, and stedfastly confiding in his mediation.
In the last place, O Lord God. Almighty, we beseech thee to continue us under thy protection, guidance, and blessing this day, as the followers and disciples of thy Christ, through whom we recommend our souls and our bodies into thy hands, and according to the doctrine of his religion, say, Our Father,
&c.
In this manner, did these pious
Ivonites
begin their every day; and when the sun was set, and they had finished their supper, they worshipped God again in these words.
A Prayer for Night.
MOST blessed, glorious, and holy Lord God Almighty, who art from everlasting to everlasting, God over all, magnified and adored for ever! we, thy unworthy creatures, humble our souls in thy presence, and confess ourselves miserable sinners. We acknowledge our miscarriages and faults, and condemn ourselves for having done amiss. We deprecate thy just offence and displeasure. We cry thee mercy. We ask thee pardon: and as we are quite sensible of our weakness and inability, and know thou lovest the souls of men, when they turn and repent, we beseech thee to give us true repentance, and endue us with the grace of thy sanctifying spirit, that we may be delivered from the bondage and slavery of iniquity, and have the law of the spirit of life which is in Christ Jesus. Upon thee our God, we call for that help which is never wanting, and beseech thee to give us thy heavenly assistance, that we may recover our reasonable nature, refine our spirits by goodness, and purify ourselves even as the Lord Jesus is pure. O thou Father of Lights, and the God of all comforts, inform our understandings with truth, and give us one ray of that divine wisdom which sitteth on the right hand of thy throne. O let us be always under thy communication and influence, and enable us, through the recommendation of thy Son, our mediator and redeemer, to lay aside all passion, prejudice, and vice, to receive thy truth in the love of it, and to serve thee with ingenuity of mind, and freedom of spirit: that we may pass through a religious life to a blessed immortality, and come to that eternal rest, where we shall behold thy face in righteousness, and adore and bless thee to eternity, for our salvation through him who hath redeemed us by his blood.
We praise and magnify thy goodness, O Lord God Almighty, for our maintenance and preservation; by thy constant providence over us, and we beseech thee to take us into thy special care and protection this night. Defend us from all the powers of darkness, and from evil men and evil things, and raise us in health and safety. Do thou, most great and good God, protect us and bless us this night, and when we awake in the morning, let our hearts be with thee, and thy hand with us. And the same mercies we beg for all mankind; that thy goodness and power may preserve them, and thy direction and influence secure their eternal salvation, through Jesus Christ our Lord, by whom thou hast taught us to call upon thee as our Father,
&c.
An observation on the prayers of the
Ivon
recluses.
§. 5. By the way, I cannot help observing, that these disciples of
Ivon
are much reformed in respect of what his cloystered followers were in his time. It appears from
Ivon
's books, that he was as great a
visionary
and
tritheist
as his master
Labadie,
or any of our modern mystics now are. But these
Regulars
I found among the Fells, tho' on
Ivon
's plan, are as rational Christians as ever adorned the religion of our Master by a purity of faith. You see by their prayers, that their devotions are quite reasonable and calm. There is no rant, nor words without meaning: no feeling instead of seeing the truth; nor expectation of covenant mercy on the belief of a point repugnant not only to the reason and nature of things, but to the plain repeated declarations of God in the Christian religion. Their prayer is a calm address to the great
Maker, Governor,
and
Benefactor
of the universe; and honour and obedience to Christ as
Mediator,
according to the will and appointment of God
the Father.
An answer to a question I asked one of these
Ivonites.
§. 6. Upon my asking one of these gentlemen, how they came to differ so much from
Ivon,
their founder, and cease to be the patrons of vision, and an implicit incomprehensible faith? He told me, they had read all the books on both sides of the question, that had been written of late years, and could not resist the force of the evidence in favour of reason and the divine unity. They saw it go against mechanical impulse, and strong persuasion without grounds, and therefore, they dismissed
Ivon
's notions of believing without ideas, as they became sensible it was the same thing as seeing without light or objects. Without dealing any longer in a mist of words, or shewing themselves orthodox, by empty, insignificant sounds, they resolved, that the object of their worship, for the time to come, should be, that one supreme self-existent being, of absolute, infinite perfection, who is the first cause of all things, and whose numerical identity and infinite perfections are demonstrable from certain principles of reason, antecedent to any peculiar revelation;—and confessed that the
blessing,
with which
Jesus Christ
was
sent
by
God
to bless the world, consists in
turning men from their iniquities.
They now perceived what the
creed-makers,
and
Ivon,
their founder, could not see, to wit, that it is against the
sacred texts,
to ascribe to Each Person of Three the nature and all essential attributes and properties of the One only true God, and yet make the Three the One true God only, when considered conjunctly; for if Each has all possible perfections and attributes, then
Each
must be the
same true God
as if and when
conjoined;
and of consequence, there must then be
Three One true Gods,
or
One Three true Gods;
Three One Supreme Beings, or One Three Supreme Beings, since to
each
of the three must be ascribed (as the orthodox say)
any thing
and
every thing,
that is most
peculiar
and
appropriated
to the
divine nature,
without any difference. In short, by conjobbling matters of faith in this manner, they saw, we had
three distinct selfs,
or intelligent agents, equal in power and all possible perfections, agreeing in one common essence, one sort of species, (like a supreme magistracy of distinct persons, acting by a joint exercise of the same power) and so the
three
are
one,
not by a
numerical
but
specific
identity;
three Omnipotents
and
one Almighty,
in a collective sense. This, (continued this gentleman) on searching the scriptures, we found was far from being the truth of the case. We discovered, upon a fair examination, and laying aside our old prejudices, that there was nothing like this in the New Testament. It appeared to us to be the confused talk of weak heads. In the Bible we got a just idea of One Eternal Cause, God the Father,
almighty, all-wise, unchangeable, infinite;
and are there taught how to worship and serve him. The greatest care is there taken to guard against the ill effects of
imagination
and
superstition;
and in the plainest language, we are ordered to pray to this
blessed and only potentate, the King of kings, and Lord of lords, who only,
(or
alone
)
hath immortality;
and this in imitation of
Jesus,
who
in the morning very early went out into a solitary place, and there prayed
Mark i. 35.
. Who
dismissing his disciples departed into a mountain to pray
Mark vi. 46.
. And
he continued all night in prayer to GOD
Luke vi. 12.
: We are ordered to
glorify and bless this only wise God for ever
Rom. xvi. 27.
.
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ
2 Cor. i. 3.
.
To God and our Father be glory for ever
Phil. iv. 20.
.—And to
love him truly by keeping the commandments.
Cui Jesus sic respondit: primum omnium praeceptorum est:
Mark xii. 29, 30, 31.
audi Israelita. Dominus Deus vester dominus unus est. Itaque dominum Deum tuum toto corde, toto animo, tota mente, totisque viribus amato. Hoc primum est praeceptum.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one Lord. And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength. This is the first Commandment.
Et voicy le second. Vous aimerez vostre prochain comme vous même. And the second is like the first. Hunc simile est alterum, alterum ut teipsum amato. His majus aliud praeceptum nullum est.
Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. There is none other commandment greater than these.
To say it;—we became fully satisfied, that the
supreme God
and
Governor of the world,
who exists by a
prior necessity,
and therefore must be
one,
a perfect moral agent, and possessed of all moral perfections, is the
sole object
of
religious worship:
that
Jesus Christ
was a
temporary minister,
with a legatarian power, to publish and declare the
spiritual laws
of this
Great God:
and that it is incumbent on mankind to yield a perfect obedience to these spiritual laws of this
Supreme Being:
that is, the duty of all, to make the object proposed by Christ, his God and our God, his Father and our Father, the sole object of faith; and to expect happiness or salvation, on the term of being turned from all our
inquities.
This seemed a matter worthy of the Son of God's appearing in the world. Every thing else must be
enthusiasm
and
usurpation.
A reflection on true and false religion.
§. 7. Here the
Ivonist
had done, and I was greatly pleased with his sense and piety. What a heavenly Christianity should we profess (I said) if the notions of our modern enthusiasts were as consistent with
Christ's great design and profession!
We should then set up the Kingdom of God among men, and be diligent and active in promoting the laws of that kingdom. We should then believe, like
Jesus Christ
and his apostles, that there is but
One
God, the
Father Almighty. There is no one good
(so commonly called)
but one, that is God;
or
only the one God
Mark x. 18.
. Nullus est bonus nisi unus Deus.
Castalio.
(And Cant. MS. Clem. Alex. adds, —
My Father who is in Heaven.
)
This is life eternal, to acknowledge thee, O Father, to be the only true GOD
John xvii. throughout.
.
It is one God who will justify
Rom. iii. 30.
.
We know that there is none other Gods but one. For to us there is one GOD the Father
1 Cor. viii. 4.6.
.
There is one GOD and Father of all, who is over all, and through all, and in you all
Eph. iv. 6.
. And we should confess
one Mediator,—the man Christ Jesus.
2 Tim. ii. 5.
We should be consistent, and not throw off those principles upon which christianity was founded, and alone could be first built. We should invite men into our religion, by representing to them the
perfection
of that
primary law
of God,
reason
or
natural religion;
by declaring the plainness and clearness of it to all attentive and well-disposed minds; and then shew them how worthy it was of the Supreme Governor to give such creatures as he has made us the gospel: that by the religion of favour, he has, with glory to himself, displayed his paternal regard for us, by doing much more than what is
strictly necessary
for our eternal good. God, on a principle of love, sends his
Christ,
to advise us and awaken us to a sense of our danger in passing through this world, in case (which he saw would be the thing) we should not constantly attend to the light we might strike out ourselves with some trouble. He calls us in an
extraordinary
manner to forsake vice and idolatry, and practise the whole system of morality. We might expect, that a good God, would once at least, interpose by such an
extraordinary
method as
revelation,
to turn and incline his reasonable creatures, to the study and practice of the
religion of nature.
This was acting like the Father of the Universe, considering the negligence and corruption of the bulk of mankind. The
reason
he gave us, the
law of nature,
was giving us all that was
absolutely necessary.
The
gospel
was an addition of what is
excellently useful.
What, my beloved, (might a rational divine say) can be more paternal, and worthy of the almighty Creator, than to
reveal plainly the motive of a judgment to come,
in order to secure all obedience to the religion of nature? Reason may, to be sure, be sufficient to shew men their duty, and to encourage their performance of it with the assurance of obtaining a reward, if they would duly attend to its dictates, and suffer them to have their due effect upon them: it may guide mankind to virtue, and happiness consequent to it, as God must be a rewarder of all those who diligently seek him, and was enough to bring them to the knowledge, and engage them in the practice of true religion and righteousness, if they had not shut their eyes to its light, and wilfully rejected the rule written in their hearts. But as this was what mankind really did, and now do; as errors and impieties, owing to an undue use or neglect of reason, became universal; (just as the case of Christians is, by disregarding the New Testament); and reason, through men's faults, was rendered
ineffectual,
though still
sufficient,
(which justifies both the
wisdom
and
goodness
of God, in leaving man for so many ages to his natural will, and so great a part of the globe to this day with no other light than the law of nature); and reason, I say, was rendered
ineffectual,
tho' still
sufficient
to teach men to worship God with pious hearts and sincere affections, and to do his will by the practice of moral duties; to expect his favour for their good deeds, and his condemnation of their evil works; then was
revelation
a more
powerful means
of promoting true religion and godliness. The gospel is a
more effectual
light. It is a clearer and more powerful guide: a brighter motive and stronger obligation to universal obedience than reason can with certainty propose. And therefore, though there was not a necessity for God to give a
new rule
in vindication of his providence, and in order to render men accountable to him for their actions; yet the divine goodness was pleased to enforce the principles of reason and morality more powerfully by an express sanction of future rewards and punishments, and by the gospel restore religious worship to the original uncorrupted rational service of the Deity. This displays his paternal regard to his children, with glory to himself. Love was the moving principle of his sending Christ into the world, to reform the corruptions of reason, to restore it to its purity, and most effectually to promote the practice of the rules of it. The gospel-revelation considered in this manner appears to be the pure effect of the divine goodness. It is a conduct accompanied with the greatest propriety and glory.
If this representation of Christianity was as much the doctrine of the church as it is of the
Ivonites
I have mentioned, we might then, with hopes of success, call upon the rational infidels to come in. They could hardly refuse the invitation, when we told them, our religion was the eternal law of
reason
and of God restored, with a few excellently useful additions: that the gospel makes the very
religion of nature,
a main part of what it requires, and submits all that it reveals to the test of the law of reason: that the splendor of God's
original light,
the light of nature, and the revelation of Jesus, are the same; both made to deliver mankind from
evils
and
madness
of
superstition,
and make their religion worthy of God, and worthy of men; to enable them, by the voice of reason in conjunction with the words of the gospel, to know and worship
One God,
the
Maker,
the
Governor,
the
Judge,
of the world; and to practise all that is good and praise-worthy: that we may be blessed as we turn from iniquity to virtue; and by entring cordially into the spirit of the
meritorious example
or
exemplary merits
of
Christ,
be determined dead to sin, and alive to righteousness: in short, my brethren, in the suffering and death of Jesus, his patient, pious and meek, his benevolent and compassionate behaviour, under the most shocking insult, indignity, and torture, we have what we could not learn from the religion of nature, a deportment that well deserves both our admiration and imitation. We learn from the
perfect example
of
Jesus,
recommended in his gospel, to bear patiently illusage, and to desire the welfare of our most unreasonable and malicious enemies. This is improving by religion to the best purpose; and as we resemble the Son of God, the
man Christ Jesus,
in
patience, piety,
and
benevolence,
we become the approved children of the Most High, who is kind and good to the unthankful and to the evil. In this view of the
gospel,
all is fine, reasonable, and heavenly. The gentile can have nothing to object. We have the religion of nature in its original perfection, in the doctrine of the New Testament, enforced by pains and pleasures everlasting; and we learn from the
death
of the
Mediator,
not only an unprecedented patience, in bearing our sins in his own body on the tree; but the divine compassion and piety with which he bore them. We have in this the noblest example to follow, whenever called to suffer for welldoing, or for righteousness-sake; and by the imitation, we manifest such a command of temper and spirit, as can only be the result of the greatest piety and virtue. This added to keeping the commandments must render men the blessed of the Father, and entitle them to the kingdom prepared for the wife, the honest, and the excellent.
But, alas! instead of giving such an account of christianity, the cry of the doctors is, for the most part, Discard reason, and prostrate your understanding before the adorable mysteries. Instead of a Supreme Independent First Cause of all things to believe in and worship, they give Three true Gods in number, Three infinite independent Beings, to be called One, as agreeing in one common abstract essence, or species; as all mankind are one, in one common rational nature, or abstract idea of humanity. Amazing account! A triune no infidel or gentile of sense will ever worship.
Instead of fixing salvation or moral rectitude, and our preferring the will of God, as delineated in the words of the gospel, before all other considerations, we are told of an innocent, meritorious, propitiating blood, spilt by wicked hands, and so made an acceptable sacrifice, to a Being who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. This, we are assured, satisfies all the demands of the law. Here is infinite satisfaction:—and most certainly, I add, a cool indifference as to personal rectitude. When such a faith or credulity becomes the principal pillar of trust and dependance, then mere reliance on such satisfaction to divine justice, may be a stupifying opiate, and make many remiss in the labours of a penitential piety, and that exact rectitude of mind and life, which even reason requires, to render us acceptable to the Deity. Many an appetite and passion are indulged under this subterfuge; and with little fervency or zeal for good works, men expect to partake of the heavenly joys, by trusting to the merits of their Saviour, in their last will and testament. Deplorable case! Alas! how has Christianity suffered by its doctors! The infidel laughs at it as thus preached. It becomes a by-word, and a hissing to them that pass by.
Some remarks on a passage in
Binius;
and a few thoughts in relation to the invocation of saints.
§. 8. As to the library of my friends, the
Ivonites,
it was far from being a grand one, but I saw many curious books in it which had not come in my way before. From them I made several extracts, and to gratify my reader's curiosity a little, I will here favour him with one of them.
The first book I chanced to open in this library, was the second volume of
Severin Bini
's edition of the Councils,
Severin Bini,
or
Binius,
Of councils, and the editors of them.
as he is commonly called, was a doctor of divinity at
Cologne,
in the circle of the
Lower Rhine
in
Germany,
and canon of that archiepiscopal cathedral. He published in that city, in the year 1606, an elegant edition of all the councils in four very large volumes, folio, and by this work, made the editions or collections of
James Merlin, Peter Crabb,
and
Lawrence Surius,
of no value: but the 2d edition published by
Binius
in the year 1618, in nine volumes smaller folio, is far preferable to the first: and the Paris Edition of
Bini
's
Councils
in 1638, in ten large volumes, folio, is enlarged, more correct, and of consequence still better than the 2d edition of
Binius.
This is not however the best edition to buy, if you love to read that
theological stuff
called Councils. The
Louvre
edition des Conciles en 1644, in 37 volumes in folio, is what you should purchase; or, that of 1672,
Paris,
by the Jesuits
Labbé
and
Cossart,
in 18 large volumes in folio. This last is what I prefer, on account of the additions, correctness, and beauty of the impression.
Pere Hardouin
did likewise print a later very fine edition of the
Councils,
with explications and free remarks; an extraordinary and curious work I have been told: but I could not even see it in
France,
as the parliament of
Paris
had ordered the work to be secreted, on account of the remarks.
N. B.
Binius,
whom I have mentioned, was born in the year 1543, and died 1620, aet. 77.
N. B.
James Merlin,
the first editor of the Councils, was a doctor of divinity, and chanoine of
Notre-dame de Paris.
Besides the Councils, two large volumes in folio, he published the works of
Richard de St. Victor, Paris,
1518. — the works of
Peter de Blois, Paris,
1519. — and the works of
Durand de St. Pourçain, Paris,
1515. His own work are,
A Defence of Origen,
in 4 to. a good thing; and,
Six Homilies on Gabriel's being sent to the Virgin Mary,
in 8vo; which homilies are not worth half a farthing.—
Merlin
was born in the year 1742, and died 1541, aged 69.
N. B.
Peter Crabb,
the 2d editor of the councils, was a Franciscan friar. He published two volumes in folio of Councils, at
Cologne,
in 1538; and a third volume in 1550.—Was born 1470; died 1553; aet. 83.
N. B.
Lawrence Surius,
the third editor of the Councils, a monk of the
Charireux,
published his edition of them, in four large volumes in folio, 1560; and a few years after printed his Lives of the Saints, in six tomes. He writ likewise a short
History of his own Time;
and,
An Apology for the Massacre of St. Barthelemi.
He was the most outragious, abusive bigot that ever writ against the Protestants. The great men of his own church despised him; and Cardinal
Perron,
in particular, calls him
bête
and
l'ignorant.
He was born 1522; died 1578, aet. 56.
N. B.
Philip Labbée,
the
Jesuit,
the 5th editor of the councils, and the next after
Binius,
was born in 1607; died 1667, aet. 60. He lived only to publish 11 vols. of the Councils, the 11th came out the year he died; and the other seven were done by
Cossart. Labbé
was a man of learning, and besides his collection of
Councils,
writ several other pieces. The best of them are,
Bibliotheca bibliothecarum: Concordia chronologica: Bellarmini philologica:
and
The Life of Galen.
Gabriel Cossart,
the continuator, published the other seven volumes in 1672, and died at
Paris,
the 18th of
December,
1674, aet. 59.
N. B. 1.
Richard de St. Victor
(whose works I said were published by
Merlin,
at
Paris,
1518) was a
Scotchman,
and
prior
of the
abbey
of
St. Victor
in
Paris.
He died the 10th of
March,
1173, aet. 91.—He was the author of
Three critical and historical dissertations on the Tabernacle; two on the Temple; three on the harmony of the chronology of the kings of Judea and Israel; Commentaries on the Psalms, Canticles, the Epistles of St. Paul, and the Revelation; Some treatises in divinity;
and
Several disquisitions relating to spiritual life.
There have been four editions of these pieces, and the best of them is that of
Rouen
in 1650, in two volumes, by
Father John de Toulouse,
who writ the life of
Richard,
and added it to his edition. The three other editions are that of
Paris,
1518; of
Venice,
1592; of
Cologne,
1621.
Richard de Victor
has been highly commended by several celebrated writers, by
Henri de Grand, Trithem, Bellarmine,
and
Sixte de Sienne.
There are many curious and fine things in his writings, it must be allowed: but in general, he is too subtil, too diffuse, and too full of digressions. His commentaries, for the most part, are weak. I am sure he did not understand
St. Paul.
But, for the 12th century, he was an extraordinary man.
But who was
St. Victor,
to whom the
abbey
of
Chanoines Regulieres
in
Paris,
and the greater
abbaye
of
Chanoines
in
Marseilles,
are dedicated? He was a
Frenchman,
who fought under the Emperors.
Dioclesian
and
Maximian
with great applause, in the most honourable post; but in the year 302, suffered martyrdom for refusing to sacrifice to the idols. He was executed on the spot where the abbey of
St. Victor
in
Marseilles
now stands, and there they have his reliques,
a la reserve du piée,
that is, except his foot, which lies in the
Abbaye de St. Victor de Paris. William Grimaud, abbot
of
St. Victor de Marseille,
on his being made
Pope Urban
the 5th, A. D. 1362, took the foot of
St. Victor
from his abbey, when he left it, and made a present of it to
John,
Duke of
Berry,
(one of the sons of
John▪
the first king of
France,
who was taken prisoner by
Edward
the Black Prince, in the battle of
Poitiers, Sept.
19, 1356): and this
duke
of
Berry
gave the
inestimable foot
to the
monks
of
St. Victor
in
Paris.
There it remains to this day; and tho' so small a part of the blessed
Victor,
sheds immense benefits on the pious Catholics who adore it. Happy Catholics!
2. As to
Peter de Blois,
he was arch deacon of
Bath,
in the reign of
Henry
the second, and died. in
London,
in the year 1200, aet. 71. His works are 183 letters on various subjects, 20 sermons, and 17 tracts of several kinds. They were first printed at
Mayence
in 1500.— Then by
Merlin, Paris,
1519, as before mentioned.— Afterwards,
John Busée,
the
Jesuit,
gave an edition of them in 1600, which is far preferable to that of
Merlin.
But the most valuable edition is that of
Peter de Goussainville,
in folio,
Paris,
1667: to this edition is prefixed the
life
of
Peter de Blois,
and very learned remarks on
Peter
's
writings,
and the subjects he writ on, are added, by
Goussainville. De Blois
's works contain many excellent things, and his life is a curious piece. Some of his notions relating to the scriptures are very good, and he writes well against vice. He is a good author for the age he lived in. His letters are well worth reading; especially such of them as relate to his own time. King
Henry
the second ordered him to make a collection of them for his (the king's) use.
3.
Durand de St. Pourçain,
was
bishop
of
Meux,
in 1326, and died the 13th of
September,
1333, in the 89th year of his age. His works are,
Liber de origine jurisdictionum,
(a learned piece); and
Commentaries on the four books of sentences.
(The book called,
The Sentences,
was written by the famous
Peter Lombard,
bishop of
Paris,
who died in the year 1164. aet. 82. In the
Sentences,
one of the propositions argued on is this:
Christus secundum quod est homo, non est aliquod.
Some call these
Sentences
excellent, which is what I cannot think them: but in
Durand's Commentary
on them, there are several excellent things.)
As to the
Jesuit, Jean Busée,
(who published the 3d edition of
Peter de Blois
) he died at
Mayence
the 30th of
May,
1611, aged 64, and was the author of many books not worth mentioning.
The learned
Goussainville
(who printed the last edition of
De Blois,
with notes, and the life) died in the year 1683, extremely poor and miserable. He likewise published the works of
St. Gregory,
the first pope of that name, with many valuable remarks and notes. There are four editions of this pope's works; that of
Tussiniani,
bishop of
Venice,
by order of pope
Sixtus
the 5th: the
Paris
edition, 1640:
Goussainville
's edition: and the late
Benedictine
edition: but
Goussainville
's is, in my opinion, the most valuable.
N. B. The
Sermons
in the first and second editions of
Peter de Blois
' works, are not his, but
Peter Comestor's. De Blois
' sermons are only to be found in
Goussainville
's edition of this arch-deacon's works. Note,
Peter Comestor
was a regular canon of
St. Victor
's in
Paris,
and died in the year 1198, aet. 65.—Besides the sermons published by mistake as the work of
De Blois,
he writ a large
scholastic history,
which comprehends the sacred history from
Genesis
to the end of the
Acts.
This is reckoned a good thing; and has been abridged by one
Hunter,
an
Englishman.
Of councils.
But as to
Councils;
we have the following account of the eighteen general ones in the
Vatican
library, and are told, that the several
inscriptions
affixed to them were made by pope
Sixtus
the 5th; the famous
Felix Peretti,
who was born the 13th of
December,
1521, and died the 27th of
August,
1590, in the 69th year of his age.
1 st
Council,
which is that of
Nice
in 325. St.
Sylvester
being
pope,
and
Constantine
the great
emperor,
Jesus Christ the Son of God is declared consubstantial with his Father; the impiety of
Arius
is condemned; and the emperor, in obedience to a decree of the council, ordered all the books of the
Arians
to be burnt.
2d
Council,
which is that of
Constantinople
in 38
. The holy
Damasus
being
pope,
and
Theodosius
the elder emperor, the divinity of the Holy Ghost is defended against the impious
Macedonius,
and his false doctrine is anathematized.
3d
Council,
which is that of
Ephesus
in 431. St.
Celestin
being
pope,
and
Theodosius
the younger
emperor, Nestorius,
who divided
Jesus Christ
into two persons, is condemned; and the Holy Virgin is decreed to be the mother of God.
4th
Council,
which is that of
Chalcedonia
in 451. St.
Leo
being
pope,
and
Marcian
emperor, the unhappy
Eutychius
is anathematized, for maintaining that
Jesus Christ
had but one nature.
5th
Council,
which is the
second
of
Constantinople
in 553.
Vigilius
being
pope,
and
Justinian, emperor,
the debates relating to the doctrine of
Theodore,
bishop of
Mopsueste, Ibas,
bishop of
Edessa,
and
Theodoret,
bishop of
Cyr,
are suppressed, and the errors of
Origen
are separated from the holy doctrine.
6th
Council,
which is the
third
of
Constantinople
in 680. St.
Agatho
being
pope,
and
Constantine Pagonatus, emperor,
the heretics called
Monothelites,
who admitted but one will in
Jesus Christ,
are condemned.
7th
Council,
which is the
second
of
Nice
in 784.
Adrian
being
pope,
and
Constantine,
the son of
Irene,
being
emperor,
the impiety of the image-breakers is condemned, and the worship of the holy images is established in the church.
8th
Council,
which is the
fourth
of
Constantinople
in 689.
Adrian
the second being
pope,
and
Basil, emperor, Ignatius,
patriarch of
Constantinople,
is re-established in his see, and
Photius,
the usurper, is with ignominy driven away.
9th
Council,
which is the
first
of
Lateran
in 1122.
The canons of these two councils are wanting, and they have no inscription in the Vatican.
10th
Council,
which is the
second
of
Lateran
in 1139.
The canons of these two councils are wanting, and they have no inscription in the Vatican.
11th
Council,
which is the
third
of
Lateran
in 1179.
Alexander
the third being
pope,
and
Frederick
the first
emperor,
the errors of the
Vandois
are condemned.
12th
Council,
which is the
fourth
of
Lateran
in 1215.
Innocent
the third being
pope,
and
Frederick
the second,
emperor,
the false opinions of the abbot
Joachim
are condemned; the holy war, for the recovery of
Jerusalem,
is resolved; and the croisades are appointed among christians.
13th
Council,
which is the
first
of
Lyons
in 1245. Under the pontificate of
Innocent
the 4th, the emperor
Frederick
is declared an enemy to the church, and deprived of the empire; they deliberate on the recovery of the Holy Land; St.
Lewis,
king of
France,
is declared chief of that expedition. The cardinals are honoured with red hats.
14th
Council,
which is the
second
of
Lyons
in 1274.
Gregory
the tenth being
sovereign pontiff,
the
Greeks
are reunited to the church of
Rome;
St.
Bonaventure
does signal service to the church in this council; Friar
Jerome
brings the king of the
Tartars
to the council, and that prince receives, in the most solemn manner, the blessed water of baptism.
15th
Council,
which is that of
Vienne
in 1311. Under the
pontificate
of
Clement
the fifth, the
Decretals,
called the
Clementines
from the name of this pope, are received and published; the procession of the holy sacrament is instituted throughout
Christendom;
and professors of the oriental languages are established in the four most famous universities in
Europe,
for the propagation of the christian faith in the
Levant.
16th
Council,
which is that of
Florence
in 1439. The
Greeks,
the
Armenians,
and the
Ethiopians,
are reunited to the catholic church, under the
pontificate
of
Eugene
the fourth.
17th
Council,
which is the
fifth
of
Lateran,
began in the year 1517. They declared war against the
Turks,
who had seized the island of
Cyprus,
and possessed themselves of
Egypt,
on the death of the sultan: the emperor
Maximilian
the first, and
Francis
the first, king of
France,
are appointed generals of this war, under the the popes
Julius
the second, and
Leo
the tenth.
18th
Council,
which is that of
Trent,
the last of the oecumenical or general councils: held from the year 1545 to the year 1563.
Paul
the third,
Julius
the third, and
Pius
the fifth, reigning at
Rome,
the
Lutherans
and other heretics are condemned, and the ancient discipline of the church is re-established in her exact and regular practice.
These, reader, are the
eighteen famous General Councils;
and if you will turn to the third volume of a work, called,
Notes relating to Men, and Things, and Books,
you will find my observations on them; my remarks on the
popes,
the
princes,
and the
fathers,
assembled; their
unchristian immoralities,
and
sad acts
against the laws of Christ, in order to establish for ever, that
very senseless,
and
very wicked religion,
called
Popery;
that is,
a composition of sin and error
so
base
and
abominable,
that we might expect such a thing from the
devil;
but it is impossible it could come from heavenly-inspired fathers. In that book, you will find many thoughts on the
religion
delivered to the world by those
Councils,
and by them established, though it is in reality a disgrace to christianity; a dishonour to the religion of nature; and a faction against the common rights of mankind: what ought to be the
just object
of
universal contempt
and
abhorrence;
whether we consider it as a
system
of
idolatry, impiety,
and
cruelty;
or, as a
political scheme,
to
destroy
the
liberties,
and
engross
the
properties
of
mankind.
Of these things, particularly and largely, in the piece referred to.
Here I have only further to observe, that in the large collections of the
Councils,
it is not only the
eighteen oecumenical
the collectors have gathered, but so much of all the
councils
as they could find, their
acts, letters, formularies of faith,
and
canons,
from the first
council
at
Jerusalem,
A. D. 49, to the
last council
in the 18th century; which was convoked by the
archbishop
of
Ambrun
against
Jean de Soanem, bishop
of
Senez.
These amount to above 1600
councils.
Note, Reader, the
condemnation,
the
banishment
of old
John de Soanem
(in the 80th year of his age) the most learned and excellent prelate in
France,
of his time, by
Firebrand Tartuff,
archbishop of
Ambrun,
and his
council,
(A. D. 1727,
September
21) was on account of the bishop's admirable
pastoral instruction
against the
execrable constitution unigenitus,
and the antichristian
formulary
of pope
Alexander
the seventh; and because he recommended the reading of
Pere Quesnel
's very pious and fine
Reflections Morales.
— This famous
Jansenist,
and father of the oratory,
Psaquier Quesnel,
was the author of many books, (some of them very good) and lived to a great age. He was born in 1636, and diet at last in prison (if I mistake not) a sufferer for religion. He was severely persecuted for many years.
(edit.
Paris,
1630) and over-against a very remarkable passage from
Cyril,
(p. 548) I found several written leaves, bound up in the volume, and these leaves referred to by an asterisk. The passage I call
remarkable,
is part of a
homily
pronounced by the
Alexandrian Patriarch
before the
council
of
Ephesus
on St.
John
's day, in a church dedicated to his names. In rehearsing his discourse to the
Holy Fathers,
the
Saint
cites
Heb.
i. 6. and then addresses himselfe to the
apostle.
. —
"When he bringeth in the first-begotten into the world, he saith, Let all the angels of God worship him."
—
,
&c.
—O blessed
John
the Evangelist, explain this mystery: Who is this first-begotten—how came he into the world? Mysterium hoc aperi, effare etiam nunc, qui voces habes immortales. Resera nobis puteum vitae. Da, ut nunc quoque de salutis fontibus hauriamus.
This passage of
Cyril
I have heard several learned Roman Catholic gentlemen call a
prayer,
and affirm it was a
proof
of the
Father's Invocation of saints,
in the beginning of the 5th century; for St.
Cyril
succeeded his uncle
Theophilus
in the see of
Alexandria, October
16, 412. But to this it may be answered,—
1. That
Binius,
though a zealous pleader for the
catholic cause,
(as the
monks
of
Rome
miscall it) was of another opinion, for he takes no notice of this passage in his notes (in calce part. 3, Concil, Ephesini, tom. 2. p. 665,
&c.
) and most certainly, he would not have failed to urge it, if he had considered it as a prayer, and believed it did prove the invocation of saints.
2. Nor does
Bellarmine,
in his treatise de sanctorum beatitudine,
Henricus Vicus,
de sanctorum invocatione,
Gabriel Vasquez,
de adoratione, or
Gregorius de Valentia,
de oratione, make use of this passage of
Cyril,
tho' they do,
ex professo,
and datâ, diligently quote all the councils and fathers they can, to prove
invocation of saints.
3. As
rhetorical apostrophes,
or
prosopopaeias,
are usual in all authors, sacred or civil, this may be one in
Cyril,
and it seems very plain from the passage, that it was intended for no more. It appears to be a
rhetorical figure,
and not a
prayer;
such a figure as the Greek fathers were wont very frequently to use in their orations and poems.
Cyril
intending, as appears by the sequel, to answer his own question with a passage in St.
John
's gospel, makes a long
rhetorical apostrophe
to the
apostle,
as if he were there present, then adds, Annon dicentem audimus,
?
But do we not hear him saying?
Or, as
Binius
has the reading,
,
let us hear what St. John saith,
audiamus itaque dicentem, as if they had heard
John
giving his answer, and then concludes with the first verse of the first chapter of his gospel,
,
&c. In the beginning was the word,
&c.
It is therefore very plain, that this passage of
Cyril
is only a part of his homily or sermon, and that in a rhetorical manner, he quotes a text from a gospel written by
John
about 330 years before, in answer to his own question, who the word was? For
Cyril
to pray to
John
to tell them what he had told them long before, were senseless and ridiculous; but to desire the apostle to do it in a
rhetorical apostrophe,
was allowable. It amounts to no more than the figurative expression in our liturgy,
Hear what comfortable words our Saviour saith. Hear what St. Paul saith.
But if
Cyril
did in this passage truly pray to St.
John,
that could be no argument for
popish invocation
of
saints;
for, if an
hundred fathers
in the beginning of the
fourth
century, had preached up, and practised
invocation of saints,
yet that could not make it lawful and right, since we are taught by the
scriptures
to direct our prayers neither to
saint no angel,
but to
God only,
and in the name and
mediation of Jesus Christ only.
We are not only positively ordered by the
apostles
to make all our addresses and prayers ot
God only,
and by the
mediation and intercession of Jesus Christ;
but are told, that God is
omniscient,
and so
able to hear all our prayers; — all-sufficient,
and therefore
able to supply all our necessities;
—and that his
mercies in Jesus Christ are infinite.
This makes
our way sure
in this particular.
On the contrary, the
papists
have no
precept
to
pray
to
saints;
nor
any promise
that they shall be
heard;
nor any
practice
of the primitive church, for 300 years after Christ, to
encourage
them; and therefore, such
popish invocation
is a
novel, groundless,
and
impious error.
Some remarks on the doctrine of invocation of saints.
We are told by St. Peter, (
Acts
v. 31.) that
God had exalted the Lord Jesus Christ to be a Prince and Saviour,
that is, an
intercessor.
— By St.
Paul,
(
Heb.
vii. 25.) that
Christ is able to save to the uttermost all that come to God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them;
(chap. ix. 24.) that
he is gone to haven
(for this very end) to
appear in the presence of God for us:
(1
Tim.
ii.5.) that there is not other
mediator betwixt God and men but the man Christ Jesus,
that is, whose
prerogative
it is to
intercede
for sinners to the Divine Majesty; being an
honour
and
dignity
God hath exalted him unto, after his sufferings, and as a
reward
thereof:—Thus are we informed by the divine oracles, and yet, notwithstanding this, to make prayers and supplications to the
Virgin Mary,
and a thousand other
saints,
for
aid
or
help;
and to have by their
merit
and
intercession,
the
gists
and
graces
they pray for
conferred
upon them;—this is a doctrine of such dangerous consequence, as it is a
depriving
of
Christ Jesus
of that grand
dignity
and
prerogative
he is now in heaven exalted to, as much as in men lies, that I should have admired how it ever came to be embraced by such as profess christianity, had not the spirit of God foretold (1
Tim.
iv. 4.) that
some should depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits,
(that is, seducing men) and
doctrines of devils,
that is to say, doctrines concerning
demons,
or
souls of famous men departed this life;
which the heathens called
demons;
and to whom they gave the worship of prayer or invocation, as intercessors or inferior divinities. This prophecy hinders my wondering at the thing: but then I must call such modern invocation
gentilism christianized;
a
deplorable corruption.
Ponder then, ye
Catholics,
in time, and think not to excuse yourselves by arguing from the
command Christians have here on earth to require each others prayers to God for them:
—For, we have no command to supplicate any in heaven but only God. (
Matt.
vi. 8.) We have no reasonable assurance that the
saints in heaven do hear our prayers,
and of consequence have not the same
reasons
to request
their
prayers to God for us that we have to request the prayers of
saints on earth:
nor is this all: our
prayers
to each other in this life are only christian
requests
to recommend our conditions to God:
offices
only of
kindness:
no
acts of religious worship.
When St.
Paul
was on earth, had any one on
bended knees,
with
hands
and
eyes lifted up to heaven,
in time of
public prayer,
and amidst the
solemn prayers to God,
beseeched him for
aid
and
help,
and for the
conference
of
gifts
and
graces,
he would have
rent his cloathes,
and said,
Why do ye these things?
and can we suppose, that now in heaven, the apostle is less careful to preserve entire
God's prerogative.
Beside, there is a great deal of difference betwixt St.
Paul
's saying,
Brethren, pray for us,
or our requesting the prayers of the faithful here on earth for us, and
praying to saints in heaven,
as
practised
in the
Roman church. Our
's, are only
wishes
and
requests; their
's,
solemn prayers
on bended knees, made in the
places
and proper seasons of
divine worship,
and joined with the
prayers
they make
to God.
They use the same
postures
and
expressions
of devotions they use to God himself. They pray to them for
help
and
aid,
and make them
joint-petitioners
with Christ; relying on
their merits
as the
merits of Christ.
In sum, in the
tabernacle
of
this world,
we are to request the prayers of every good christian for us: but in the
tabernacle
of
heaven,
we are to
call on none
but
Him
in
whom we believe.
As in the
outward court
of the
Jewish tabernacle,
every
priest
was permitted to officiate, to receive and present the devotions of the people to the divine majesty; but in the
holy place, within the vail,
none but the
high-priest
was to do any
office
or
service:
even so in the
tabernacle
of
this world,
every christian being a
priest
to
God,
has this honour conferred upon him; but in the
holy of holies,
in
heaven,
none but
Christ,
our
high-priest,
is to
officiate.
He only is there to
appear in the presence of God for us.
It is
his prerogative alone
to receive our prayers, and present them to the divine majesty. As none but the
high-priest
was to offer
incense
in the
holy of holies,
so none in heaven but
Christ
our
high-priest
is to
offer
our prayers to
God his father.
He alone is that
angel
to whom
much incense was given, that he should offer it with the prayers of all saints, upon the golden altar that was before the throne.
(Rev. viii. 3.) Which alludes to the
altar
that was before the
mercy-seat,
on which the
high-priest
only was to offer
incense.
But the
catholic
may say perhaps, that as on earth, men do not presently run to
kings
to
present
their
requests,
but obtain his favours by the
mediation
of
courtiers
and
favourites;
even so, it is fitting we have recourse to saints, who are
favourites
in heaven, that we may obtain
access
to God, and have our
suits
accepted of him. Thus have I heard some learned men of the church of
Rome
argue. They should consider, however, in the first place, that if an
earthly prince
had declared he would have no
sollicitor
but his
son,
and that all
favours
and
royal graces
should come to his
subjects through his hands,
and by means of his
mediation;
such subjects could deserve no favour, if they make their application to
other favourites,
contrary to their prince's command.—In the next place, if the
sollicitor,
the
son,
was out of the question, and no such one had been declared by the king, yet as we petition earthly princes by such as enjoy their presence, because they cannot give audience to all their subjects, nor do they know the worthy; but
God
is
omnipresent,
his
ears always open,
and his
head bowed down
to the
prayers
of his people; is no
respecter
of
persons,
but gives a like
access
to the
beggar
as to the
prince,
and promises to cast out none that make their application to him; it follows of consequence, that we ought to address ourselves
immediately
to
God,
and
ask from him.
If an
earthly prince
should thus invite his subjects to petition him for the supply of their wants, I should account the man no better than a
fool
or a
madman,
who would
apply
himself to any of the
king's favourites.
The conclusion is; O thou that hearest prayer, unto thee shall all flesh come. (
Ps.
lxv. 2.) Since
God,
who is infinite in mercy, omnipresent, and omnipotent in wisdom and action, admits every man to the
throne of grace,
bids him ask in the
name
of
Jesus Christ,
and promises, whatever we ask in his Son's name, he will do it.—Since the practice of
praying to saints
is
injurious
to
Christ,
and doth manifestly
rob
him of his
royal prerogative,
which is to be the
one,
and
only mediator
betwixt God and man; for in this
office,
he hath no
sharers
or
partners,
according to the scripture account: As
God
is but
one,
and there is
no other;
so the
mediator
(by the appointment of God) is but
one,
and there is, there can be
no other
Quid tam proprium Christi quam advocatum apud deum patrum adstare populorum. (Ambros. in Psal. 39.)—Pro quo nullus interpellat sed ipse pro omnibus, hic unus verusque mediator est. (Aug. Cont. Parmen. l. 2. c. 8.
— And since, exclusive of these unalterable things, the
Roman doctors
cannot be certain,
that saints in heaven hear the requests of suppliants on earth,
or
know whether our prayers are fit to be accepted of God
The
Roman doctors
say, the
saints
know the transactions that are done here below, by
revelation
or
intuition.
—To this I answer, if it is by
revelation,
that they know our requests and prayers to them, then it must be either
from God
or
from angels;
of which there is not the least assurance or certainty to be any where found; but if we could be sure of it, then, in my opinion, we ought to pray to
God
or
angels
to make known our prayers to
saints;
which would be strange religion. —If it be by
intuition,
as the greatest part of the
doctors
say, and that the
saints see
the requests in the
divine essence,
as men see things in a corporeal glass; then, (exclusive of answering that the scriptures say no such thing) the
saints
must see
all things
in the
divine essence,
or only such things as God is pleased to
permit them to see:
if
all things,
they would be
omniscient:
if only the
things permitted to be seen,
how is it possible for us to know whether God is pleased to permit them to see therein our prayers, or to know the requests we make to them, unless he had told us so. Let it be
revelation
or
intuition,
it is
sad stuff.
; let us reject that
unlawful
practice, the
invocation of saints,
and
pray
for
pardon
and
grace
(as the
gospel
directs) to
God the judge of all,
through
Jesus Christ the mediator of the new covenant.
This do, and thou shalt live.
N. B. Who was the author of these good remarks, these friars could not tell me; as they were in the book when they bought it. If I mistake not, they are an abstract from a letter of Bishop
Barlow
to Mr.
Evelyn,
with several additions. I have not Bishop
Barlow
's works by me; but I think I have seen something to this purpose, written by this prelate about one hundred years ago.
SECTION III.
Say why was man so eminently rais'd
Amid the vast creation; why ordain'd
Through life and death to dart his piercing eye,
With thoughts beyond the limits of his frame;
But that th' omnipotent might send him forth
In sight of mortal and immortal powers,
As on a boundless theatre, to run
The great career of justice; to exalt
His gen'rous aim to all diviner deeds;
To shake each partial purpose from his breast;
And thro' the mists of passion and of sense,
And thro' the tossing tide of chance and pain,
To hold his course unfault' ring, while the voice
Of truth and virtue, up the steep ascent
Of nature, calls him to his high reward,
Th' applauding smile of heav'n? Else wherefore burns
In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope,
That breathes from day to day sublimer things,
And mocks possession? Wherefore darts the mind
With such resistless ardor to embrace
Majestic forms; impatient to be free,
Spurning the gross controul of wilful might;
Proud of the strong contention of her toils;
Proud to be daring?
April
8, 1729, we leave the religious, and proceed in the journey.
§. 1. THE eighth of
April,
1729, I bid the
Ivonites
adieu, and by their directions walked up a very steep and stony mountain, which took me two hours, and then arrived at what I had often seen before in this part of the world, a great lake, the water of which was black as ink to look at as it stood, though very bright in a cup, and must be owing, as I suppose, to its descending to the abyss: by the side of this water, under the shade of oak-trees, many hundred years old, we rid for an hour, on even ground, and then came to a descent so very dangerous and dark, through a wood on the mountain's side, that we could hardly creep it down on our feet, nor our horses keep their legs as we led them to the bottom. This declivity was more than a mile, and ended in a narrow lane between a range of precipices that almost met at top. This pass was knee-deep in water, from a spring in the bottom of the mountain we had come down, which ran through it, and so very stony, that it took us three hours to walk the horses to the end of it, though it was not more than two miles: but at last we came to a fine plain, over which we rid for an hour and a half, and arrived at a wood, which seemed very large, and stood between two very high unpassable hills. In this forest was our way, and the road so dark, and obstructed by the branches of trees, that it was dismal and uneasy to go. On however we went for a long time, and about the middle of it came to a circular opening of about four acres, in which four very narrow roads met; that we had travelled, another before us, and one on each hand. The way strait on we were cautioned by my friends not to go, as it was a terrible ride; but whether to turn to the right or left, we had forgot. I thought to the right; but my lad was positive, he remembered the directions was to take the lefthand road. This caused a stop for some time, and as I was a little fatigued, I thought it best while we paused to dine.
Finn
brought immediately some meat, bread, and a bottle of cyder, from his valise, and under a great oak I sat down, while our horses fed on the green. One hour we rested, and then went on again, to the left, as
O Finn
advised. For several hours we rid, or rather, our horses walked, till we got out of the wood, and then arrived at the bottom of a steep mountain; one side of which is in the northern extremity of
Westmoreland,
and the other in the north end of
Stanemore-Richmondshire.
This vast hill we ascended, and came down the other side of the fell into a plain, which extends south-east for near half a mile to the river
Teese,
that divides the north end of
Stanemore
from Bishoprick, or the county of
Durham. Yorkshire
here ends in an obtuse angle, between two mountains, and the angle, for a quarter of a mile, is filled with that beautiful tall ever-green tree, the broadleaved
alaternus,
intermixed here and there in a charming manner, with the fir tree, the
Norway
spruce, and the balm of
Gilead.
It is as fine a grove as can in any part of the world be seen.
A description of a little country seat, in the northern extremity of
Stanemore.
§. 2. Just at the entrance of it, by the side of a plentiful spring, which runs into the
Teese,
there stood the prettiest little house I had ever beheld, and over it crept the pretty rock-rose, the cassine, the sea-green coromilla, and other ever-green shrubs. Before the house, was a large garden, seven or eight acres of land, under fruit-trees, and vegetables of every kind; very beautifully laid out; and watered in a charming manner by the stream that murmured a thousand ways from the spring by the house-door. I have not seen a sweeter thing. It appeared so beautiful and useful, so still and delightful a place, so judiciously cultivated, and happily disposed, that I could not help wishing to be acquainted with the owner of such a lodge.
A description of a sleeping parlour in a grove.
§. 3. As there was no other fence to this fine spot of ground but a ditch like a
ha
to keep cattle out, I leaped into the gardens, and roamed about for some time, to look at the curious things. I then went up to the house, in hopes of seeing a human creature either high or low. I knocked at the door, but no one could I find, though the mansion did not look like an uninhabited place. I then sauntered into the grove behind, and in a winding way of three hundred yards, that had been cut through the perennial wood, and was made between banks of springing flowers, beautiful exotics, and various aromatic shrubs, crept on till I arrived at a sleeping parlour, which stood in the middle of a circular acre of ground, and was surrounded and shaded with a beautiful grove; the larix, the phoenician cedar, and the upright savin. There was a little falling water near the door, that was pleasing to look at, and charmed the ear. Entring this room, I found the walls painted by some masterly hand, in baskets of flowers, and the finest rural scenes. Two handsome couches were on either side the chamber, and between these
lits de repos
was as curious a table for wood and workmanship as could be seen. Pretty stools stood near it, and one arm-chair. It was a sweet filent place, and in every respect, far beyond the sleeping parlour in the gardens at
Stow.
Lord
Cobham
's, now Earl
Temple
's seat in
Buckinghamshire,
59 miles from
London.
Pass'd the night in the sleeping parlour in the wood.
§. 4. On one of the couches, as it was then evening, and I knew not what to do, I threw myself down, and very soon fell fast asleep. I lay the whole night without waking, and as soon as I could perceive any day, went to see what was become of
Finn
and the horses. The beasts I found feeding on very good grass in the green; and my lad still snoaring under a great tree: but he was soon on his legs, and gave me the following account.
Finn
's story.
§. 5. About an hour after my departure from him, he saw a poor man pass over the plain, who had come down the mountain we descended, and was going to cross the
Teese
in a small skiff of his own, in order to go to his cottage on the other side in
Bishoprick:
that he lived by fishing and fowling, and sold what he got by land and water to the quality and gentlefolk, twenty miles round him. And on asking who lived in the house before us, on the skirts of the grove, he said, it belonged to a young lady of great fortune, Miss
Antonia Cranmer,
whose father had been dead about a year, (died in the house I saw): that she was the greatest beauty in the world, and only nineteen, and for one so young, wise to an astonishing degree: that she lived mostly at this seat, with her cousin,
Agnes Vane,
who was almost as handsome as she: that Miss
Cranmer
had no relish for the world, being used to still life, and seldom stirred from home, but to visit an old lady, her aunt, who lived in
Cumberland:
that she was at present there, about twenty miles off, and would soon return: that she kept four young gentlewomen (who had no fortunes) to attend her and Miss
Vane;
two old men servants, a gardner, and a cook; and two boys: that whenever she went from her house, she took her whole family with her, and left every place locked up as I faw.
Finn
's account surprised me. It set me a thinking if it was possible to get this charming girl. I paused with my finger in my mouth for a few minutes, and then bid him saddle the horses.
The author's manner of living for several days, in the cottage of a poor fisherman in
Bisheprick.
§. 6. As soon as it was possible, I went over the river to the fisherman's house, determining there to wait, till I could see the beautiful
Antonia,
and her fair kinswoman, another
Agnes de Castro,
to be sure. My curiosity could not pass two such glorious objects without any acquaintance with them.
The poor fisherman gave me a bed very readily for money, as he had one to spare for a traveller, and he provided for me every thing I could desire. He brought bread and ale from a village a few miles distant, and I had plenty of fish and wild-fowl for my table. Every afternoon I crossed the water, went to the sleeping parlour, and there waited for the charming
Antonia.
— Twenty days I went backwards and forwards, but the beauties in that time did not return. Still however I resolved to wait; and, to amuse myself till they came, went a little way off to see an extraordinary man.
A description of a charming little country seat, where a solitary gentleman lived.
§. 7. While I resided in this cottage,
Christopher
informed me, that about three miles from his habitation, there lived, in a wild and beautiful glin, a gentleman well worth my knowing, not only on account of his pretty lodge, and lone manner of spending his time, but as he was a very extraordinary man. This was enough to excite my curiosity, and as soon as it was light, the first of
May,
I went to look for this solitary. I found him in a vale, romantic indeed, among vast rocks, ill-shaped and rude, and surrounded with trees, as venerable as the forest of
Fontainbleau.
His little house stood on the margin of a fountain, and was encompassed with copses of different trees and greens. The pine, the oak, the ash, the chesnut tree, cypresses, and the acasia, diversified the ground, and the negligent rural air of the whole spot, had charms that could always please. Variety and agreeableness were every where to be seen. Here was an harbour of shrubs, with odoriferous flowers: and there, a copse of trees was crowned with the enamel of a meadow. There was a collection of the most beautiful vegetables in one part; and in another, an assembly of ever-greens, to form a perpetual spring.
Pan
had an altar of green turf, under the shade of elms and limes: and a
water-nymph
stood by the spring of a murmuring stream. The whole was a fine imitation of nature; simple and rural to a charming degree.
The history of
Dorict Watson,
the hermit.
§. 8. Here lived
Dorick Watson,
an
English
gentleman, who had been bred a
catholic
in
France,
and there married a sister of the famous
Abbé le Blanc.
But on returning to his own country, being inclined by good sense and curiosity, to see what the protestants had to say in defence of their
reformation,
he read the best books he could get on the subject, and soon perceived, that
Luther, Melancthon, Calvin, Zuinglius, Bucer,
and other ministers of Christ, had said more against the Romish religion than the
pretended catholics
had been able to give a solid answer to. He saw, that
barbarity, policy,
and
sophistry,
were the main props of
popery;
and that, in doctrine and practice, it was one of the
greatest visible enemies
that
Christ
has in the world. He found that even
Bellarmine
's
notes
of his church were so far from being a clear and necessary proof that the
church of Rome
is the body of Christ, or true church, that they proved it to be the
Great Babylon,
or that
great enemy
of God's church, which the
apostles
describe.
The hermit's observations on
Bellarmine
's notes of the church.
He saw, in the first place, that there has not been, since the writing of the New Testament, any empire, but that of the
church
of
Rome,
so universal for 1260 years together, as to have all that dwell upon earth, peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues, to worship it; which is St.
John
's description of the
new power
that prevailed on the inhabitants of the earth to receive his idolatrous constitutions, and yield obedience to his tyrannical authority.
And all that dwell on the earth shall worship him,
except those who are enrolled in the registers, as heirs of eternal life, according to the promises of the mediator of acceptance and blessing. (
Rev.
xiii. 8.)
The waters which thou sawest, where the whore sitteth, are peoples, and multitudes, and nations, and tongues.
(Rev. xvii. 15.)
Bellarmine
's
Universality
then is directly against him.
The Cardinal's second note, (continued
Dorick
) is antiquity, and his
third
a
perpetual and uninterrupted duration.
But on examination, I could find no
ruling power,
except
Rome papal,
so
ancient,
as to have the blood of prophets, and saints, and of all that were slain upon earth, of that kind for that space of time, to be found in it. (
Rev.
xviii. 24.) And what
Rule
but
papal Rome
had ever so long a duration upon seven hills, so as to answer the whole length of the time of the
Saracen
and
Turkish
empires.
The Cardinal's
fourth note
is
amplitude,
and it is most certain, that never had any other church such a multitude and variety of believers, as to have all nations drink of the wine of her fornication, and to gain a blasphemous power over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.
The
fifth note
is the
Succession of its bishops;
and the
sixth, Agreement with the doctrine of the antient church:
Now it is most true, that none but
Rome
was ever so eminently conspicuous for so long a time for the
succession of its bishops
under one supreme patriarch, as to be the
living image
of all the civil dignities of the empire, where it was under one
supreme church-head exercising all the power
of the civil head: nor did ever any enemy of God's church act for so long a time like the
red dragon
in its
bloody laws
against the followers of the lamb: and yet so far agree with the
primitive church
in fundamental
doctrines,
as to answer the character of a false prophet with the horns of the lamb, that is, Christ, but speaking like the
red dragon
to his followers, as the
church
of
Rome
has done.
An abstract of Dr.
Chandler
's observations on
Bellarmine
's sixth note of the church.
Reader, it is well worth your while to turn to the first volume of that admirable work, the
Salter's-hall Sermons against Popery,
and there see how the
Cardinal's notes
of his church are considered by that learned and excellent man, Dr.
Samuel Chandler.
His consideration of the 6th note more immediately concerns me here, and therefore I give you an abstract of it.
The writings of the apostles are allowed even by our adversaries to be the oldest records of christianity, and therefore to this antient and infallible rule we ought to appeal, to determine the controversy between us and the
papists,
that is, to see how far this antiquity favours their doctrine and practices, or is in agreement with ours.
1. The protestants renounce the Pope, and acknowledge one law-giver, the Lord Jesus Christ, for these reasons,—That the Pope is not mentioned in the New Testament; that Christ says,
one is your master, even Christ;
and St.
Paul
says,
there is but one Lord, and one Faith: the whole family in heaven and earth is named of the Lord Jesus Christ.
2. Protestants do not pay any worship at all to saints and angels, but as St.
Paul
directs, consider
Jesus Christ
as their
sole mediator
and
advocate;
for
there is but one God, and one mediator between God and man, the man Jesus Christ.
They say, such veneration and prayer to saints and angels is superstition and will-worship, and only worship God with all their hearts and souls, with the most raised affections, and the highst degrees of love and fear, faith and confidence; for it is written,
Thou shalt worship the Lord God, and him only shalt thou serve:
And the angel in the
Revelation
said to
John,
who fell down at his feet to worship him,
See thou do it not, for I am thy fellow-servant.
3. We affirm, that in the sacrament of the Lord's Supper, after consecration, there is nothing existent but bread and wine; for St.
Paul
says,
Whosoever shall eat this bread and drink this cup,
and
as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup.
4. We affirm the eucharist is only a memorial of Christ's death; for Christ says,
do this in remembrance of me;
and St.
Paul
assures the
Corinthians
from Christ himself, (1
Cor.
xi. 24) that they were to receive the elements with this view only: and in his epistle to the
Hebrews
he tells us, that
by one offering Christ hath for ever perfected those who are sanctified;
and that because there
is remission of sins under the new covenant, there is no more offering for sin;
which proves; the eucharist is not a propitiatory sacrifice.
5. We renounce the doctrine of purgatory, and affirm that the future state is no state of probation; for at death,
the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it.
And St.
Paul
declares, that at the judgment-seat of Christ every one
shall receive the things done in the body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.
6. Protestants affirm, that the worship of God ought to be performed in a language which all men understand; and that they have a right to search the scriptures: For,
if I speak with tongues;
(says the
apostle) in such a language as those I speak to cannot understand, what shall I profit you? Let all things be done to edifying.
And
Christ
bids us
search the scriptures:
And how could the word of Christ dwell richly in us in all wisdom, teaching and admonishing one another in psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, if we had not the word of Christ, and the scriptures of truth to read and consult for ourselves.
These are the protestant doctrines, and we see they were taught by Christ and by his apostles. We have the sanction of the most venerable antiquity on our side, and this note of the true church of Christ belongeth to us in the highest perfection.
When the
papists
then scornfully say,
Where was your church
before
Luther
and
Calvin?
The answer is obvious: the doctrine of our church was in the
writings
of the
inspired apostles,
where the church of
Rome
is never to be found;—the same that was taught by
Christ
himself, whom they have forsaken, and whose faith they have corrupted. As to our
predecessors
and
professors,
they were the
persecuted disciples
of the
crucified Jesus,
those
martyrs
and
confessors,
whose blood the church of
Rome
hath cruelly spilt. This is the genuine antiquity the
protestants
have to boast of. Their
doctrines
are the
word
of
Christ,
and their
fathers
were
put to death
by
papists
for the
testimony of Jesus.
But the
papists
on the contrary, exclusive of the example of the
devil,
who was a murderer from the beginning, and
Antiochus Epiphanus, Nero, Domitian,
and other monsters of mankind, who went before them in the measures of persecution, cruelty, and blood; and excepting the
idolatrous nations
of the earth, and the
false prophets
and deceivers among the Jews, by whose authority and example they may vindicate their own idolatries, they have no genuine antiquity to plead. Many of their doctrines were unknown to, or abhorred by the primitive church, and are mere novelties and innovations, that were originally introduced by superstition, and then maintained by cruelty and blood.
The
seventh note
of
Bellarmine's holy Roman catholic church,
is the
Union of the members among themselves, and with the head:
And sure it is, that no where else but in
Rome papal,
has there been such an
union of head and members
for that length of time, as to apply the one mind of the ten kings for their
agreement
together,
to give their power, and strength, and their
whole
kingdoms
to the beast.
The
eighth note
produced by Cardinal
Bellarmine,
is
Sanctity;
and
Watson
saw it fairly proved by the protestant writers, that no church but
Rome
did ever appear so long together with such a medley of
sanctity,
in some
doctrines,
and outward appearances of a strict
holiness of life,
joined with the most abominable doctrines, and practices, to qualify it for the horns of the lamb, and the speech of the dragon for the idolatrous and cruel commands of the image; or, for having the form of godliness in the latter times, and yet denying the power thereof.
In short,
Dorick
not only found, on a careful enquiry, that the
system
of the
church of Rome
was
error
and
turpitude, abomination, gain,
and
cruelty,
—and her
great design
the
very reverse
of the gospel revelation, which came down from heaven to prepare men, by the practice of universal holiness and virtue, for eternal life; but likewise, that even her
Cardinal's notes
prove, this church cannot be, in any sense, the true church of Christ; and
Bellarmine
was perfectly infatuated to make choice of such things for the marks of his church, as make it the very picture of
Babylon
the Great. He resolved then to come out of
Rome.
He determined to forsake a
church,
which had
altered
the
institutions
of
Christ,
and is therefore
guilty
of
heresy
as well as
schism.
This change in religion gave
Dorick
the highest satisfaction, (as he told me) and it was doubled by his being able to convert his beloved
Adelaide
from popery to the
church
of
Christ.
But this joy had soon after some mitigation, by losing one of the most agreeable women in the world. Death robbed him of his heart's fond idol, and by that stroke he was so wounded, that he could not heal himself for a long time. He became the real
mourner.
He kept the reasons of his anguish continually before him, and was more intent upon spending his spirits, than his sorrows. He grew fond of solitude and silence, that he might indulge his passion, and provoke the emotion of that grief that was ready to devour him. In short, he retreated to the silent place I found him in, which was a part of his own estate, and turned
hermit.
He built the little villa I saw by the water-side, and formed the ground into the natural garden I beheld.
Le Blanc
mentions it in his letters, as an extraordinary thing, and very justly prefers it to the laboured and expensive Gardens at
Chiswick,
the work of the late Lord
Burlington,
Here
Watson
laid in every thing he had a mind for, and filled his closet with books. He amused and kept himself healthy by working in his garden, and when he had done abroad, went in to read. His principal study was the contemplation of the best learning, which is the true christian; and from that he went to know what the
Greeks
and
Romans
have resolved and taught. In some things, I found he was a learned agreeable man, and wondered greatly at his whim in turning hermit. I said a great deal against it, as we sat over a bottle of claret; told him he might employ his time and talents more usefully in the world, by mixing and conversing with his fellow creatures, and by a mutual participation and conveyance of the common blessings of nature and providence; and as he was not forty yet, advised him to go over the
Teese,
and make his addresses to Miss
Cranmer
or Miss
Vane,
both of them being most glorious girls, as I was told, and capable of adding greatly to the delights of philosophy. You have not seen two finer creatures, soul and body, than they are, if I have been rightly informed; and I think, it would be a nobler and more religious act to get one of them with child, in the state of holy wedlock, than to write the best book that was ever printed. For my own part, I had rather marry, and double-rib one of these dear creatures, than die with the character of a father of the desarts. But in vain did I remonstrate to this anchoret. Contemplation was become his
Venus,
from the hour he lost his
Adelaide;
and he had lived so very happy in his lone state for seven years past, that he could not think of hazarding felicity by a change of life. He had all he desired. If at any time, and thing was wanting,
Christopher
the fisherman, who came to see him once or twice a week, very quickly got him whatever he required. This was
Watson
's answer to my advice, and seeing it was to no purpose to say any more, I wished my hermit health, and bid him adieu.
A few remarks relating to the Abbé
Le Blanc,
and his letters.
§. 9. Having, in the preceding article, mentioned the famous
Abbé le Blanc,
I think I ought to say something of him in this place, by adding a few remarks in relation to this extraordinary man. He was in
England
in the year 1735, and writ two volumes of letters in octavo, which were translated into English, and printed for
Brindley
in 1747. In this account of
England,
the
French monk
pretends to describe the natural and political constitution of our country, and the temper and manners of the nation; but, as is evident from his epistles, knew nothing at all of any of them.
Voltaire,
however, (that wonderful compound of a man,
half infidel, half papist;
who seems to have no regard for
christianity,
and yet compliments
popery,
at the expence of his understanding
Voltaire
's words are,—And notwithstanding all the troubles and infamy which the church of
Rome
has had to encounter, she has always preserved a greater decency and gravity in her worship than any of the other churches; and has given proofs, that when in a state of freedom, and under due regulations, she was formed to give lessons to all others.—Is not this facing the world, and contradicting truth with a bold front?
Decency
and
gravity
in the church of
Rome!
The
licentious whore.
And
formed to give lessons! Lessons, Voltaire!
—Is not her
wisdom,
in every article of it,
earthly, sensual, devilish;
—and her zeal, that
bitter, fierce,
and
cruel
thing, which for ever produces
confusion
and
every evil work?
With a just abhorrence, and a manly indignation, we must look upon this
mystery of iniquity,
and never let that
horror
decay, which is necessary to guard us against the gross corruptions of the
Roman
church; the
idolatry
of her worship,—the absurdity and impiety of her doctrines,—the
tyranny
and
cruelty
of her principles and practices. These are her lessons,
Voltaire;
and you ought to ask the world pardon for daring to recommend a
church,
whose
schemes
and
pieties
bid
defiance
to
reason,
and are
inconsistent
with the
whole tenor
of
revelation.
This is the more incumbent on you, as you say you are a
philosopher,
and let us know in more places than one in your writings, that by that word, you mean a man who believes nothing at all of any revelation.
; who writes the history of
England
with a
partiality
and
malevolence
almost as great as
Smollet
's, and pretends to describe the
Britannic
constitution, though it is plain from what he says, that he has not one true idea of the
primary institutions
of it, but taking this nation to be just such another kingdom of slaves as his own country,
rails
at the
Revolution,
and like all the
Jacobite dunces,
prates against the
placing
the
Prince of Orange
on the
throne,
and the
establishment
of the
succession
in the
present protestant heirs;
though most certain it be, that
these things
were the
natural fruit and effect of our incomparable constitution,
and are
de jure:
—In short, that
Zoilus
and
plagiary,
—that
carping superficial critic,
(as a good judge calls him); who
abuses
the
English nation
in his
letters,
and denies
Shakespear
almost every dramatic excellence; though in his
Mahomet,
he pilfers from
Macbeth
almost every capital scene: (
Shakespear,
who furnishes out more elegant, pleasing, and interesting entertainment, in his plays, than all the other dramatic writers, antient and modern, have been able to do; and, without observing any one unity but that of character, for ever diverts and instructs, by the variety of his incidents, the propriety of his sentiments, the luxuriancy of his fancy, and the purity and strength of his dialogue):
Voltaire,
I say, speaking of this
Abbé le Blanc,
wishes he had travelled through all the world, and wrote on all nations, for it becomes only a wise man to travel and write. Had I always such cordials, I would not complain any more of my ills. I support life, when I suffer. I enjoy it, when I read you. This is
Voltaire
's account of the
Abbé.
How true and just it is, we shall see in a few observations on what this reverend man says of our
religion
and
clergy.
Some observations on the
Abbé Le Blanc
's fifty-eighth letter to the President
Bouhier,
in which he misrepresents and blackens the reformation of
England,
and abuses the
English
clergy.
The substance of what this
French monk
reports, vol. II. from p. 64 to p. 75, in his letter to the President
Bouhier,
Of Mons.
Bouhier,
president of the
French
academy.
Reader—
Bouhier,
president of the
French
academy, (to whom
Le Blanc
inscribes his 58th letter) died in 1746. He was a scholar.
L'Abbé de Olivet,
(from whom he had the late fine edition of
Cicero
in seven volumes 4 to) speaks of him in the following manner;—Je me suis preté à ce nouveau travail, & d'autant plus volontiers, que M. le Président
Bouhier
a bien voulu le partager avec moi.—On sera, sans doute, charmé de voir Cicéron entre les mains d'un traducteur aussi digne de lui, que Cicéron lui-même étoit digne d'avoir traducteur un savant du premier ordre.
Tusc. tome
1.
p.
13.—And again;—Feu M. Le Président
Bouhier,
le Varron de notre siecle, & l'homme le plus capable de bien rendre les vraies beautez d'un original Grec ou Latin, avoit tellement retouché ses deux Tusculanes, qu'on aura peine à les reconnoître dans cette nouvelle édition.
Tusc. tome
2.
p.
1.
This is
Olivet
's account of
Bouhier;
and I have heard some gentlemen who knew him say, that he was a very fine genius; but, they added, a popish bigot to the last degree, and therefore,
Le Blanc
chose him as the fittest person of his acquaintance, to write an epistle to, that abused the reformation, and the
English
divines. Great is the prejudice of education! When so bright a mind as
Bouhier
's cannot see the
deformity
of
Popery,
and the
beauty
of the
reformation;
but, on the contrary, with pleasure reads the
despicable defamation
in
Le Blanc
's letter.
N. B. The two
Tusculans,
so finely translated by
Bouhier,
are the 3d, De aegritudine lenienda: and the 5th, Virtutem ad beatè vivendum seipsa esse contentam. De la vertu: Qu'elle suffit pour vivre heureux.—See likewise, M.
Bouhier
's curious and useful remarks on the three books, De Natura Deorum; the five
Tusculans; Scipio
's dream; and on the
Catilinaires,
or three orations against
Catiline.
These remarks are the third volume.
is this:
1. That
Cranmer,
and the other doctors, who introduced the reformation into
England,
were downright
enthusiasts,
and compassed their designs by being seconded by those, who were animated by a spirit of irreligion, and by a greedy desire of seizing the possessions of the monks. It was the desire of a change established the reformation. The new doctors seduced the people, and the people having mistaken darkness for light, quitted the road of truth, to walk in the ways of error.
2. As to morals, that this boasted reformation produced no change in that respect; for the people are not purer than they were in former times, and the ecclesiastics are despised and hated for the badness of their lives. The bishops sacrifice every thing to their ambition; and the clergy of the second rank have no respect for their office. They spend the whole day in public places in smoaking and drinking, and are remarkable for drunkenness, so dishonourable to ecclesiastics. Their talk is the most dissolute, and the vice that degrades these professors, sets a bad example to sober people, and makes them the jest of libertines.
3. The only remarkable change produced by the reformation was the marriage of priests; and, exclusive of this being against the decisions of the catholic church, it is contrary to sound policy and experience. The marriage of priests diminishes the respect we should have for them. The misconduct of a woman makes the clergyman fall into contempt. The lewdness of the daughter makes the priest, her father, the object of the most indecent jests; and for the most part, the daughters of the clergy turn whores after the death of their father; who, while living, spent more of his income in maintaining himself and children in pleasure and luxury, than in works of charity. He lived profusely, and dies poor.
Beside, if the
English
clergy were the greatest and most excellent men, yet a great man in the eyes of the world, loses of the respect which is due to him, in proportion as he has any thing in common with the rest of mankind. A
Madam Newton,
and a
Madam Fontenelle,
would injure the illustrious men whose name they bore. Nor is this all. Those who by their disposition cannot fix that secret inclination, which induces us to love, on one person, are more humane and charitable than others. The unmarried ecclesiastics are more animated with that charitable spirit their function requires, as they have no worldly affections to divert it. People very rarely (as Lord
Bacon
says) employ themselves in watering plants, when they want water themselves. —In short, the
English
divines are the worst of men, and there is hardly any religion in
England.
—Thus does this
French
Abbé revile the
English
reformation and divines. He misrepresents the whole nation, and with a falshood and outrage peculiar to
popery
and
mass-priests,
that is, to devils and the most execrable religion, screams against the pure religion of the gospel, and dishonestly blackens some of the finest characters that ever adorned human nature. So very virulent is this reverend
French
papist against the clergy of
England,
that he is even positive there is not a divine in the nation knows how to behave like a gentleman.
In answer to the first article of impeachment, I observe, that it is so far from being true, that
Cranmer,
and the other
English
divines,
our reformers,
were enthusiasts, and compassed their designs by the assistance of those who were animated by a spirit of irreligion, and by a greedy desire of seizing the possession of the monks, (as this
mass-priest
asserts); that it is most certain, on the contrary,
Cranmer,
and the other
reformers,
were wise and upright christians, who, from a good understanding of religion, opposed the
false pretensions
of the
church
of
Rome.
They saw that popery was contrary to the true genius of christianity; its spirit insolent and cruel; and its worship, not only a jumble of the most ridiculous fopperies and extravagancies, borrowed from heathen customs and superstitions; but the impurest that ever appeared in the world: that the
designs
of
popish Rome
were contrary to all the
principles
of
humanity;
its
doctrines abominable
and
sinful;
and its
offices cursed
and
diabolical:
it was evident, I say, to the conception of these great men, (I mean
Cranmer,
and the other
English reformers
) that the
Romish church
was
treacherous
and
inhuman, blood-thirsty
and
antichristian;
that her devotions were horrible and impious; her ministers
false prophets
and
liars,
covered and decked with the livery of Christ, but in every thing acting contrary to the salvation wrought by Jesus; and therefore these wise and excellent
reformers
renounced
popery,
and bravely declared for that religion, which promotes the good of all mankind, and inspires men to
worship the Father only in spirit
and
in truth.
They threw off the cloak and garments of antichrist: they gloriously separated from him, and joined together in
purity
and
simplicity,
to
please the Lord Jehovah.
There was no enthusiasm in the case, (as
Le Blanc,
the
mass-priest,
has the front to say) but, when the light of the gospel was obscured, and darkness had overspread the earth; when ignorance and superstition universally prevailed, and the
immoralities
of the
Church
of
Rome
were made to pass for christianity in the world; then did these
reformers
call the people out of
Rome,
and preach to them the essential truths of the faith. They called them from an idolatrous religion, and all its train of direful effects; from that sin of the first rank, which strikes at the being of a God, and ravishes from him the greatest honour that is due to him from his creature, man; they called them from the horrible service of the mass, from their addresses to angels and saints, and their worship of images; to the inward knowledge of one true God, and the worship due to him only; to the sanctification and honour, which is due to him above all things, and above every name; to the living hope in God through Christ; to regeneration, and inward renovation by faith, hope, and charity; to a holy conversation, and a faithful performance of all the commandments; to true repentance, perseverance to the end, and life eternal. To these
truths,
(not to be found in the religion of our travelling
mass-priest
) did the great, the glorious
English
reformers call mankind. They laboured to establish them in every thing tending to a pure faith, and good life. In this, there is not, there cannot be any enthusiasm.
And as to their being assisted by those who were animated by a spirit of irreligion, and by a greedy desire of seizing the possessions of the monks, it does not appear to be the truth of the case. Supposing there were such irreligious men, the assistance the
reformers
had from any great men in
Henry
the eighth's time, when the abbeys were destroyed, was so very little, that malice only could mention it as an objection to the reformation. Popery, in that monarch's reign, was still the established religion of
England,
and both sides blame this king's
persecutions.
If
papists
were put to death for denying the
supremacy
of
Harry, protestants
were no less sufferers, for opposing the adoration of the host, and other religious impieties. And after the short reign of his son,
Edward
the sixth, what assistance had the
reformers
under
bloody Mary?
Did she not do all that
infernal popery
could suggest, to destroy
Cranmer,
his brethren, and their reformation? And did not they, without any other assistance than what they received from the spirit of God, continue to vindicate the
truth as it is in Jesus,
and teach the pure doctrines of the gospel, in opposition to the
frauds
and
vile inventions
of
papal Rome.
Without minding the indignities, the torments, and the cruel death prepared for them, the
brave honest men
went on with their heavenly work, and till, the flames made them silent, endeavoured to destroy the
Romish artifices
and
immoralities,
and to spread the
pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father.
They were zealous, with the truth of religion on their side, and laboured to convert, out of a pure and friendly regard to the eternal welfare of mankind. They did the work, by the blessing of God, and therefore the malicious
Le Blanc,
the
mass-priest,
reviles and blackens them.
What he says of
usurpation,
in respect of church lands, does not deserve any notice. The reforming clergy were not the actors in that scene. It was the king and his council. And as the Pope had shewed them the way, by granting
bulls for the dissolution of the lesser monasteries,
they thought, since the Pope's power was taken away by a general consent of the nation, the king, the church, and the people concurring, they might, with as little
sacrilege,
dissolve the rest. The king and parliament (says Bishop
Burnet
) could not discern the difference between greater and lesser as to the point of
sacrilege.
And although some uses might cease by the doctrines of the reformation, as masses for souls departed, and monks to pray the dead out of purgatory; yet there were others to employ the church lands about, as some of them were in founding
new bishopricks.
And if in this case, the reformers had been guilty of some wilful errors, that could be no crime of the reformation. The culpable must answer it. For the satisfaction of conscience about the reformation, there can be but three questions fairly proposed. Was there sufficient cause for it? Was there sufficient authority? And whether the proceedings of our reformation were justifiable by the rule of scripture, and the ancient church? Upon these points we ought to join issue, and I am sure the conclusion must be in the affirmative.
As to
Le Blanc
's second observation in relation to the
marriage of priests,
which our
reformation
he says produced, it may be answered, that the doctrine of a
priest's marriage being unlawful,
was borrowed by the church of
Rome
from the antient heretics; especially from the
Manichees,
who allowed marriage to their hearers, as the church of
Rome
doth to laymen; but forbad it to their
elect,
as that church doth to her
priests.
St.
Augustin
charges the
Manichees
wth this error. Hic non dubito vos esse clamaturos invidiamque factures, castitatem perfectam vos vehementer commendare atque laudare, non tamen nuptias prohibere; quandoquidem auditores vestri quorum apud vos secundus est gradus ducere atque habere non prohibentur uxores.
De moribus manichaeorum, Lib.
2.
c.
18.
The first
pope
we read of that condemned the
marriage
of
priests,
was
Syricius,
the
Roman,
A. D. 384—398. And upon this account, I wonder
Baronius
had not a regard to his memory: but it has been the misfortune of his
holiness
since his death to fall under the displeasure of the
Cardinal
to that degree, that he has struck him out of his catalogue of his
Romish
saints. He does not tell us for what reason. Perhaps it was because this pope rather dissuaded priests from marriage than peremptorily forbad it, as appears by his letters. (Syr. epist. 1. & 4. apud Binium.)
The next
pope,
who distinguished himself against the
marriage
of
priests,
was the son of
Bald-head,
count of
Burgundy,
(whose granddaughter was consort to
Lewis
the 6th, king of
France
); I mean the celebrated
Guy,
archbishop of
Vienne,
who succeeded
Gelasius,
A. D. 1119, and had for successor in the year 1124,
Lambert
of
Bononia,
commonly called
Honorius
the second.
Calixtus
the second, pope and prince of
Burgundy,
was the first who absolutely forbad
priests marriage,
and in case they were married, commanded them to be separated. (Grat. dist. 27. c. 8.) This was in the beginning of the twelfth century. And towards the end of it, A. D. 1198, the renowned son of Count
Trasimund,
I mean
Innocent
the third, the ever memorable Cardinal
Lotharius,
pronounced all the
marriages
of
priests null.
And afterwards came on the
council
of
Trent,
A. D. 1545—1563, which anathematizes those who say such marriages are valid. (Sess. 24. can. 9.)
But one would think, that God sufficiently declared his approbation of such marriages, in that the whole world hath by his appointment been twice peopled by two married priests; first by
Adam,
secondly by
Noah.
And we are sure, the holy
scripture
tells us,
That marriage is honourable in all;
(Heb. xiii. 4) and places it among the qualifications of a bishop,
That he be the husband of one wife, having faithful children.
(Tit. i. 6.)
This,
saith St.
Chrysostom, the apostle prescribed to this end, that he might stop the mouths of hereticks, who reproached marriage; declaring thereby that marriage is no unclean thing, but so honourable, that a married man may be exalted to the sacred throne of a bishop.
(Chrysost. hom. 2. in c. 1. ad tit.) What do you say to this,
Le Blanc?
I fancy you never read this
homily
of
Chrysostome.
— And well might this saint think it not unbecoming a
bishop
to
marry,
when our
Lord
thought it not
unbecoming
an
apostle,
no not the prince of the apostles (as the
Romanists
will have him), for it is without doubt, that St.
Peter
was married; in that the scripture makes mention of his wife's mother. (
Matt.
viii. 14.) And
Clemens
of
Alexandria
tells us, that it was certainly reported, that when he saw his wise led to death, he rejoiced; and having exhorted her and comforted her, he called her by her name, and bid her remember the Lord. (
Clemens Alex. Stromat.
l. 7. p. 736. lut. 1629.) And that he was not only married, but begat children, the same
Clemens
in another place affirms, (
Stromat.
l. 3. p. 448.) Yea that St.
Philip
and St.
Jude
were also married, and had children,
Eusebius
is witness. (
Euseb.
eccles. hist. l. 3. c. 20—31.) And in like manner we find, that many of the primitive bishops were married.
Charemon
bishop of
Nilus,
St.
Spiridion,
St.
Gregory Nazianzen,
St.
Gregory Nyssen,
St.
Hilary,
and many more, were married men.
Nor can it be said, that they took wives while they were laymen, and after they took upon them the sacred ministry, were separated from them; since the
canons,
commonly called the apostles, did prohibit either bishop, priest, or deacon, to put away his wife upon pretence of religion. (See canon 5.) And if any such shall abstain from marriage, as in itself abominable, command that he be corrected, or deposed, and cast out of the church. (Canon 50.)
Now supposing these
canons
notwithstanding all that
Whiston
has said) were not made by them whose name they bear, yet they are allowed by all to be of much greater antiquity than the first
Nicene
council. And when in that council it was moved, that
bishops
and
priests, deacons
and
sub-deacons,
might not cohabit with their wives, which they had taken before ordination, the
motion
was presently dashed by the famous
Paphnutius,
who was himself a single person. (
Socrat.
eccles. hist. l. 1. c. 11.) Yea a long time after this council, we meet with many
popes,
who were
sons
of
bishops
and
priests.
Pope
Theodorus, Silverius,
and
Gelasius
I. were the sons of bishops: pope
Boniface
I.
Felix
II. and
Agapetus
II. were the sons of priests. (
Gratian.
dist. 56. c. 2.) and that we may not think this strange,
Gratian
himself informs us, that the marriage of priests was in those days lawful in the Latin church. (Dist. 56. c. 12.)
Nor is this doctrine to be rejected only as contrary to scripture, and to primitive and apostolical practice, but because of the abominable fruits produced in the church of
Rome
by it. For when the clergy might not have wives, (which God allowed), instead of them they took whores; and that wickedness so far prevailed in the church, that the Cardinal of
Cambray
informs us, (De reform. eccles.) many clergymen were not ashamed publickly, in the face of the world, to keep concubines. And the gloss upon
Gratian
says, A priest may not be deposed for simple fornication, because there are few priests to be found without that fault. This made
Pius
the second say, that though priests were by the western church forbid to marry for good reason, yet there was stronger reason to restore marriage to them again. (Hist. Council Trent. l. 7. p. 680.) And many in that council, were so sensible of this, that they alledged the great scandal given by incontinent priests, and that there was want of continent persons fit to exercise the ministry. (
Paoli,
p. 679. &c.) The Emperor and the Duke of
Bavaria
did therefore require, that the marriage of priests might be granted. (
Paoli,
p. 680. &c.) And many bishops desired that married persons might be promoted to holy orders; but this request was not granted, because, as the fathers observed, if the clergy once come to be married, they will no longer depend on the Pope, but on their prince.
To conclude this article, (and I shall do it in the words of a great man, a prelate of the church of
England,
now living); To make war against the very Being of their species, they, (the
Romish priests
) devote themselves to a single life, in blasphemous opposition to that first great command and blessing,
increase and multiply.
As to
Le Blanc
's third observation, relating to the immoralities and bad behaviour of the
English
clergy; I answer, if there are several bad men among so large a body as the protestant divines are, which is not strange, as it is the common case of all societies, yet the majority of them, orthodox and other dox, are as worthy men as can be found among the human race. I am very sure my acquaintance among them has been much larger than
Le Blanc
's could possibly be; and I can affirm from my own knowledge, that there are very many of this order of men, not only as fine gentlemen as I have ever conversed with; but, a clergy holy in heart; superior to pride, to anger, to foolish desires; who walk as
Christ
also walked, and by their
example
and
doctrine,
labour to make the people what the
gospel
requires they should be; that is, pious and useful, pure and honest, meek and charitable; to walk by faith, and not by sight; and so pass through things temporal, that they may be sure of obtaining the things eternal. This I can say of many
English
divines of my acquaintance: and I may add, that this testimony from me, who am not over-fond of the clergy, (as the main of the christianity of too many of them lies in their opinion; decked with a few outward observances, says Mr.
Wesley
very truly, in his letter to Bishop
Warburton
) and only upon occasion, endeavour now to do them justice, is certainly of more weight in their favour, than the calumny and abuse of a
furious bigot
and mass-priest, can be to make the world have as bad an opinion of them, as
popery,
and its wretched emissaries, would have the public entertain. Consider this then when you read
Le Blanc
's letters.
On the other hand, I have had a very large and intimate acquaintance with
mass-priests
in my time, in many parts of the world; and, a few excellent ones excepted, I can affirm, that more wicked and more worthless men than these
Romish
monks, I have never seen. If adultery, fornication, drunkenness, and swearing, are crimes, then the greatest criminals I could name in these respects, are
Roman-catholic
priests. Let this assertion of mine be set over-against the character the
Ahbé Le Blanc
gives the
English
protestant ministers. Consider all I have said, when you read this
mass-priest
's fifty-eighth letter, and then judge of our reformation and clergy.
A word or two relating to transubstantiation.
Note, reader, in the fourth volume of a work, called,
Notes relating to Men, and Things, and Books,
you will find some more of my remarks on the
Abbé Le Blanc
's epistles. You will see, among other observations on this
monk,
a vindication of Archbishop
Tillotson.
The
Abbé
rails at one of this prelate's fine sermons, with great malice and impudence, and has the vanity to think his
miserable declamation
an answer. This wretched and despicable
Romish apsstate
has the impudence and impiety to defend the worship of his
God of dough,
and would, if it were in his power, persuade the readers of his letters, to adore the
tiny cake
he prostrates himself before. For this the reader will find the
mass-priest
well chastised in the work I have referred to; and see the doctrine of the
Lord's Supper
set in a true light. You will find there a curious history of the
mass,
from the time the
popish doctors
first drew it out of the
bottomless pit;
and see it made quite evident, that in this abominable article of their faith, as well as in every other part of their execrable religion, they
make void the law of God,
and sink the human race into the
vilest slavery
and
idolatry.
Beware then, Christians, of
popery.
Still bravely dare to
protest
against her
infernal schemes
and
inventions,
and draw your religion from the
book of God,
that holy volume of inestimable treasure. It is our light in darkness,—our comfort under affliction,—our direction to heaven,—and let us die in defence of it, if ever there should be occasion, rather than suffer the
blood-thirsty papists,
the
red-handed idolaters,
to snatch it out of our hands. They will give us for it the despicable legends of fictitious saints and false miracles;—a history of diseases cured instantly by relicks;—accounts of speaking images;—stories of travelling chapels;—wonders done by a
Madona;
—and the devil knows what he has crowded into their wretched heads. Down with
popery
then, the
religion of hell,
and may that happy state be erected, when
truth
and
love
shall embrace and reign.
Come Lord Jesus, come quickly.
—But it is time to return to the cottage of
Christopher
the fisherman, and see what happened to
Antonia
and
Agness.
The beginning of my acquaintance with Miss
Cranmer,
and how it ended in a marriage.
§. 10. When I came back to the poor man's cottage, he told me the ladies were come home, and as he had given Miss
Cranmer
some account of me, as a traveller who had journeyed into that remote corner of the world, in search of antiquities and curiosities, he did not think this lady would be averse to seeing me and hearing me too, if I contrived any plausible pretence to throw myself in her way.
Immediately then I crossed the water, went up to the house, and as I saw her and the fair
Agness,
her cousin, walking in the garden, near the
ha,
leaped it over immediately, broad as it was, and with my hat in my hand, made her a low bow, began an apology for presuming to introduce myself to her presence in such a manner, and concluded with my being in love with her charming character, before I had the honour and happiness of seeing her. What a condition then must I be in, when a heaven-born maid, like her, appeared! Strange pleasures filled my soul, unloosed my tongue, and my first talk could not be any thing but love. A deal I said on the subject, not worth repeating to the reader; and the issue of the matter was, that I became so well acquainted with this
innocent beauty,
that, on taking my leave, I had an invitation to breakfast with her the next morning. I was there by eight, and really and truly quite charmed with her. She was pretty as it was possible for flesh and blood to be, had a beautiful understanding; and as she had very little notion of men, having seen very few, except the two old servants who lived with her, she had not a notion of any danger that could come from conversing freely with a man she knew nothing of, and who might be an enemy in disguise.
After breakfast, I offered to go, but she asked me to stay and dine; and to sum up the matter, I did dine, sup, and breakfast with her every day, for a month, till my good priest,
Friar Fleming,
arrived, on a letter I had sent him, and we were married before the end of six weeks. We loved to excess, and did enhance human happiness to a high degree. She was good as an angel; and for two years we lived in unspeakable felicity. For the greatest part of that time, we were at
Orton-Lodge,
as she liked the wild place. There she likewise died of the small-pox, in the first month of the third year, and left me the most disconsolate of men. Four days I sat with my eyes shut, on account of this loss, and then left the
Lodge
once more, to live if I could, since my religion ordered me so to do, and see what I was next to meet with in the world. As grief sat powerfully on my spirits, and if not dislodged, would have drank them all up very soon, I resolved to hasten to
Harrogate,
and in the festivities of that place forget my departed partner as soon as I could. I laid my
Antonia
by my
Charlotte
and my
Statia,
and then rode off. What happened at the
Wells,
and all the observations I made there, and thereabout, the reader will find in my fifth section.
N. B. As I mention nothing of any children by so many wives, some readers may perhaps wonder at this, and therefore, to give a general answer, once for all, I think it sufficient to observe, that I had a great many, to carry on the
succession;
but as they never were concerned in any extraordinary affairs, nor ever did any remarkable things, that I heard of; — only rise and breakfast, read and saunter, drink and eat, it would not be fair, in my opinion, to make any one pay for their history.
SECTION V.
As once, ('twas in
Astraea
's reign)
The vernal powers renew'd their train,
It happened that immortal
Love
Was ranging thro' the spheres above,
And downward hither cast his eye
The year's returning pomp to spy;
He saw the radiant God of day
Lead round the globe the rosy
May;
The fragrant
airs
and genial hours
Were shedding round him dews and flow'rs;
Before his wheels
Aurora
past,
And
Hesper
's golden lamp was last.
But, fairest of the blooming throng,
When HEALTH majestic mov'd along,
All gay with smiles, to see below
The joys which from her presence flow,
While earth inliven'd hears her voice,
And fields, and flocks, and swains rejoice;
Then mighty
Love
her charms confess'd,
And soon his vows inclin'd her breast;
And known from that auspicious morn,
The pleasing CHEARFULNESS was born.
Thou, CHEARFULNESS, by heav'n design'd
To rule the pulse, that moves the mind,
Whatever fretful passion springs,
Whatever chance or nature brings
To strain the tuneful poize within,
And disarrange the sweet machine,
Thou,
Goddess,
with a master-hand,
Dost each attemper'd key command,
Refine the soft, and swell the strong,
'Till all is concord, all is song.
The author goes to
Harrogate.
§. 1. IN the year 1731, I arrived at
Harrogate,
in the West-riding of
Yorkshire,
in order to amuse my mind with the diversions and company of the place.
An account of the place, the wells, and company.
It is a small straggling village on a heath, two miles from
Knaresborough,
which is thirteen miles from
York,
and 175 from
London.
The sulphur wells are three, on the north side of the town, about 500 yards east of the bog. They rise out of a little dry hill. The second is a yard from the first, and the third is five yards and a half from the second. The water rises into stone-basons, which are each inclosed in a small neat building of stone and lime a yard square on the insides, and two yards high, covered over with thick flagstones laid shelving.
The soil out of which these springs rise is, first, corn-mould, then a marle lime-stone, and a stratum of plaister: the lime-stone is so abraded by the salt in the water, that when dried, it swims: and where the water stagnates between the basons and the brook, the earth is ink black, and has a dry white scum, which smells like sulphur, and burns with a blue flame. The water does likewise throw up much candied sea salts, that is, salts to which sulphur adheres, and the pigeons resort from all parts to pick them up. In moist or rainy weather, these waters send forth a strong smell at a distance, and before rain, they bubble up with an impetuous force; yet neither rain nor drought increases or decreases the springs.
From the large quantities of fine flower of brimstone which these waters throw off, it is plain, that sulphur is the principal thing in them; but experiment likewise proves, that besides sulphur, the stinking well has vitriol, nitre, copper, and salt: These lie
in solutis principiis
in earth from which the water comes, and may be separated by operation: some, I know, deny there is any copper in these waters; but they do not consider that the glittering glebes of a gold colour found here, can be nothing else than glebes gilt with copper.
As to the diseases wherein this strong
sulphur-water
is proper, it is good for every thing, except a consumption. For this I recommend the
Scarborough purging-chalybeate
above all waters. But if, reader, you have obstructions in your liver and other viscera, and are tormented with vicious humours in your intestines; if your bowels are full of worms, the ascarides, or the broad round worm, or the worms called the dog and the wolf, from their likeness to these animals; or if, from a venereal cause, (the malady of many a priest and layman) you have an ulcer in the
anus,
or in the neck of your bladder, go to
Harrogate;
drink the stinking-water, live temperate, and you will be cured. For the scurvy, that universal disease, it is better than all other medicines. It is excellent in the jaundice, though of many years standing. It cures the asthma, the scotomia, and palsy, and in many other deplorable cases gives wonderful relief. Whatever ails you, (the consumption excepted) fly to
Harrogate,
and the water will do you good, if your hour be not come: and if you are well, the waters will promote long life, and make you the more able to dance with the ladies.
Four pints of water are enough for a patient, to be taken from half an hour to two hours after sun -rising, upon an empty stomach. You should take some preparatory medicine; and walk drinking the waters to warm the body a little, and make the passage the easier. Some people I have known drink their dose in bed, and it does well enough: but exercise and the thin open air do better, and contribute not a little to the patient's recovery: and there is no finer fresher air in
England
than at this place.
In short, these wells are the strongest sulphur-water in
Great-Britain,
and, from the superior strength of the impregnating sulphur, it does not lose but retain the sulphureous smell, even when exposed to a scalding, and almost a violent heat; and, in distilling it, when three pints had been taken off from a gallon of it, the last was as strong as the first, and stunk intolerably.
Make haste then to
Harrogate,
if you are sick, and have money, and in all probability you will find the waters efficacious, unless thy distemper be a
consumption,
or in its nature incurable, which is the case of many, as death is the common fate of mankind.
Some advice to the drinkers of
Harrogate
waters.
§. 2. But when you are there, let me advise you to exercise as much as you can bear, without fatiguing yourself,—and in the next place, to be regular in meats and drinks, and as temperate as possible. Without these things, you will lose the benefit of the waters. No good can be expected, if men will indulge during a course of drinking the
spaw,
and be not only excessive in quantity, but indiscreet as to the quality, of meats and liquors.
Some observations on spaw-waters, and advice to the drinkers in a mineral course.
I have known some worn-out hard drinkers come to the
Wells
for relief, and at the same time increase by intemperance what they had contracted by the same measure. I have likewise seen some in a diabetes drink white wine; in a cachexy, ale; in the stone and gravel, claret. I have known a man in a dropsy, eat nothing but cooling, insipid, mucilaginous foods, and drink malt-drink plentifully:—a man in a jaundice, eat nothing but flesh meat and claret:—in a scurvy, prefer the pungent, saline diet:—in obstinate obstructions, and a chronic hyppo, feed on thickning, hardning, and drying meats:— and in a hectic, vomiting, and spitting of blood, chuse only such things as increase the blood's momentum and velocity. I have known some gentlemen, who sat up late, never exercised, could not eat a dinner, and therefore would indulge in a flesh supper. — All these, and many other irregularities, have I known expect surprising effects from the waters, and when they received no benefit, say, there were no sanative principles in them. Unreasonable, unhappy men! Be
temperate: regular: exercise: keep the passions within bounds:
and you may expect very astonishing cures; provided your bodies are not become
irreparable,
and
no longer tenantable:
that your juices are not to the last degree glutinous and acrimonious: that the corrosiveness of your blood is not bringing on mortifications; —nor inflammations, filling, dilating, and breaking your vessels into suppuration and putrefactions. Then, live how you will, the
waters
can be of no use. You must pay the debt of nature by an incurable disease. Neither mineral waters, nor physic, can create and enliven new bodies, or make and adapt particular members to the old. But if you are only hurt a little, and the disease is curable, the
waters
will certainly be
efficacious,
and recover you, if you use
moderate exercise
(riding especially) and
diversion,
a
strict regularity,
and
great temperance.
Conclusion of the author's advice.
O temperance! Divine temperance! Thou art the support of the other virtues, the preserver and restorer of health, and the protracter of life! Thou art the maintainer of the dignity and liberty of rational beings, from the wretched inhuman slavery of sensuality, taste, custom, and examples; and the brightner of the understanding and memory! Thou art the sweetner of life and all its comforts, the companion of reason, and guard of the passions! Thou art the bountiful rewarder of thy admirers and followers: thine enemies praise thee: and thy friends with rapturous pleasure raise up a panegyric in thy praise.
O hunger, hunger, immortal hunger! Thou art the blessing of the poor, the regale of the temperate rich, and the delicious gust of the
plainest morsel.
Cursed is the man that has turned thee out of doors, and at whose table thou art a stranger! Yea, thrice cursed is he, who always thirsts, and hungers no more!
The company and manner of living at
Harrogate.
§. 3. As to the company at these wells, I found it very good, and was pleased with the manner of living there. In the day-time we drank the waters, walked or rid about, and lived in separate parties; lodging in one or other of the three inns that are on the edge of the common: but at night, the company meet at one of the
public-houses,
(the
inns
having the benefit of the meeting in their turn), and sup together between eight and nine o'clock on the best substantial things, such as hot shoulders of mutton, rump-stakes, hot pigeon pies, veal-cutlets, and the like. For this supper, ladies and gentlemen pay eight-pence each, and after sitting an hour, and drinking what wine, punch, and ale, every one chuses, all who please get up to country-dances, which generally last till one in the morning; those that dance, and those who do not, drinking as they will. The ladies pay nothing for what liquor is brought in, either at supper or after, and it costs the gentlemen five or six shillings a man. At one the ladies withdraw, some to their houses in the neighbourhood, and some to their beds in the inns. The men who are temperate, do then likewise go to rest.
In short, of all the wells I know,
Harrogate
is in my opinion the most charming. The waters are incomparable, no air can be better: and with the greatest civility, chearfulness, and good humour, there is a certain rural plainness and freedom mixed, which are vastly pleasing. The lady of pleasure, the well-drest taylor, and the gamester, are not to be found there. Gentlemen of the country, and women of birth and fortune, their wives, sisters, and daughters, are for the most part the company. There were at least fourscore ladies in the country-dances every night, while I was there, and among them many fine women.
The author meets at
Harrogate
six gentlemen of his acquaintance from
Dublin.
§. 4. Among the company I found at this agreeable place, were six
Irish
gentlemen, who had been my contemporaries in Trinity-College,
Dublin,
and were right glad to see me, as we had been
Sociorums,
(a word of
Swift
's) at the conniving-house at
Ringsend,
for many a summer's evening, and their regard for me was great. They thought I had been long numbered with the dead, as they could not get any account of me for so many years; and when they saw me, at their entring the public room, sitting by a beauty, in deep discourse, God-zounds, (says one of them,) there he is, making love to the finest woman in the world. These gentlemen were Mr.
Gollogher,
Mr.
Gallaspy,
Mr.
Dunkley,
Mr.
Makins,
Mr.
Monaghan,
and Mr.
O'Keefe,
descended from the
Irish
kings, and first cousin to the great
O'Keefe,
who was buried not long ago in
Westminster
Abby. They were all men of large fortunes, and, Mr.
Makins
excepted, were as handsome, fine fellows as could be picked out in all the world.
Makins
was a very low, thin man, not four feet high, and had but one eye, with which he squinted most shockingly. He wore his own hair, which was short and bad, and only drest by his combing it himself in the morning, without oyl or powder. But as he was matchless on the fiddle, sung well, and chated agreeably, he was a favourite with the ladies. They preferred ugly
Makins
(as he was called) to many very handsome men. I will here give the public the character of these
Irish
gentlemen, for the honour of
Ireland,
and as they were curiosities of the human kind.
The characters of six
Irish
gentlemen.
O'Keefe
's character.
§. 5.
O'Keefe
was as distinguished a character as I have ever known. He had read and thought, travelled and conversed, was a man of sense, and a scholar. He had a greatness of soul, which shewed a pre-eminence of dignity, and by conduct and behaviour, the faithful interpreters of the heart, always attested the noblest and most generous sentiments. He had an extreme abhorrence of meanness of all kinds, treachery, revenge, envy, littleness of mind, and shewed in all his actions the qualities that adorn a man.— His learning was of the genteel and useful kind; a sort of agreeable knowledge, which he acquired rather from a sound taste and good judgment than from the books he had read. He had a right estimation of things, and had gathered up almost every thing that is amusing or instructive. This rendered him a master in the art of pleasing: and as he had added to these improvements the fashionable ornaments of life, languages and bodily exercises, he was the delight of all that knew him.
Character of Mr.
Makins.
Makins
was possessed of all the excellent qualities and perfections that are within the reach of human abilities. He had received from nature the happiest talents, and he made singular improvements of them by a successful application to the most useful and most ornamental studies. Music, as before observed, he excelled in. His intellectual faculties were fine, and, to his honour I can affirm, that he mostly employed them, as he did his great estate, to the good of mankind, the advancement of morality, and the spread of
pure theism,
the worship of God
our Saviour,
who raised and sent Christ to be a Redeemer. This gentleman was a zealous
Unitarian,
and, though but five and twenty, (when we met at
Harrogate
) a religious man: but his religion was without any melancholy; nor had it any thing of that severity of temper, which diffuses too often into the hearts of the religious a morose contempt of the world, and an antipathy to the pleasures of it. He avoided the assemblies of fools, knaves, and blockheads, but was fond of good company, and condemned that doctrine which taught men to retire from human society to seek God in the horrors of solitude. He thought the Almighty may be best found among men, where his goodness is most active, and his providence most employed.
Character of Mr.
Gallaspy.
Gallaspy
was the tallest and strongest man I have ever seen, well made, and very handsome. He had wit and abilities, sung well, and talked with great sweetness and fluency, but was so extremely wicked, that it were better for him, if he had been a natural fool. By his vast strength and activity, his riches and eloquence, few things could withstand him. He was the most prophane swearer I have known: fought every thing, whored every thing, and drank seven in a hand; that is, seven glasses so placed between the fingers of his right hand, that in drinking, the liquor fell into the next glasses, and thereby he drank out of the first glass seven glasses at once. This was a common thing, I find from a book in my possession, in the reign of
Charles
the Second, in the madness that followed the restoration of that profligate and worthless prince. But this gentleman was the only man I ever saw who could or would attempt to do it; and he made but one gulp of whatever he drank; he did not swallow a fluid like other people, but if it was a quart, poured it in as from pitcher to pitcher. When he smoaked tobacco, he always blew two pipes at once, one at each corner of his mouth, and threw the smoak of both out of his nostrils. He had killed two men in duels before I left
Ireland,
and would have been hanged, but that it was his good fortune to be tried before a Judge, who never let any man suffer for killing another in this manner. (This was the late Sir
John St. Leger.
) He debauched all the women he could, and many whom he could not corrupt, he ravished. I went with him once in the stage-coach to
Kilkenny,
and seeing two pretty ladies pass by in their own chariot, he swore in his horrible way, having drank very hard after dinner, that he would immediately stop them, and ravish them: nor was it without great difficulty that I hindered him from attempting the thing; by assuring him I would be their
protector,
and he must pass through my heart before he could proceed to offer them the least rudeness. In sum, I never saw his equal in impiety, especially when inflamed with liquor, as he was every day of his life, though it was not in the power of wine to make him drunk, weak, or senseless. He set no bounds or restrictions to mirth and revels. He only slept every third night, and that often in his cloaths in a chair, where he would sweat so prodigiously as to be wet quite through; as wet as if come from a pond, or a pail of water had been thrown on him. While all the world was at rest, he was either drinking or dancing, scouring the bawdy-houses, or riding as hard as he could drive his horse on some iniquitous project. And yet, he never was sick, nor did he ever receive any hurt or mischief. In health, joy, and plenty, he passed life away, and died about a year ago at his house in the county of
Galway,
without a pang or any kind of pain. This was
Jack Gallaspy.
There are however some things to be said in his favour, and as he had more regard for me than any of his acquaintance, I should be ungrateful if I did not do him all the justice in my power.
He was in the first place far from being quarrelsome, and if he fought a gentleman at the small-sword, or boxed with a porter or coachman, it was because he had in some degree been ill used, or fancied that the laws of honour required him to call an equal to an account, for a transaction. His temper was naturally sweet.
In the next place, he was the most generous of mankind. His purse of gold was ever at his friend's service: he was kind and good to his tenants: to the poor a very great benefactor. He would give more money away to the sick and distressed in one year, than I believe many rich pious people do in seven. He had the blessings of thousands, for his charities, and, perhaps, this procured him the protection of heaven.
As to
swearing,
he thought it was only criminal, when it was false, or men lyed in their affirmations: and for
whoring,
he hoped there would be mercy, since men will be men while there are women.
Ravishing
he did not pretend to justify, as the laws of his country were against it; but he could not think the woman was a sufferer by it, as she enjoyed without sinning the highest felicity. He intended her happiness; and her saying
No,
kept her an
innocent.
How far all this can excuse Mr.
Gallaspy,
I pretend not to determine: but as I thought it proper to give the world the picture of so extraordinary a man, it was incumbent on me, as his friend, to say all I could, with truth, in his vindication.
Character of Mr.
Dunkley.
Dunkley
had an extensive capacity, an exquisite taste, and a fine genius. Besides an erudition which denominates what we call a man of learning, he happily possessed a social knowledge, which rendered him agreeable to every body. He was one of the men that are capable of touching every note. To all the variety of topics for conversation, the diversity of occurrences and incidents, the several distinctions of persons, he could adapt himself. He would laugh like
Democritus:
weep like
Heraclitus.
He had the short, pert trip of the affected; the haughty, tragic stalk of the solemn; and the free, genteel gait of the fine gentleman. He was qualified to please all tastes, and capable of acting every part. He was grave, gay, a philosopher, and a trifler. He had a time for all things, relative to society, and his own true happiness, but none for any thing repugnant to honour and conscience. He was a surprising and admirable man.
Character of Mr.
Monaghan.
Monaghan
had genius and knowledge, had read many books, but knew more of mankind. He laughed at the men who lost among their books the elegancy of mind so necessary in civil society. He had no relish but for nice studies and fine literature, and despised too serious and abstruse sciences. This was reckoned a fault in him by several judges: but with me it is a quere, if he was much to blame. Politeness is certainly preferable to dry knowledge and thorny enquiries. This gentleman's was such as rendered him for ever agreeable and engaging. He was continually an improving friend, and a gay companion. In the qualities of his soul, he was generous without prodigality, humane without weakness, just without severity, and fond without folly. He was an honest and charming fellow. This gentleman and Mr.
Dunkley
married ladies they fell in love with at
Harrogate
Wells:
Dunkley
had the fair
Alcmena,
Miss
Cox
of
Northumberland;
and
Monaghan, Antiope
with haughty charms, Miss
Pearson
of
Cumberland:
They lived very happy many years, and their children I hear are settled in
Ireland.
Character of Mr.
Gollogher.
Gollogher
was a man of learning and extraordinary abilities. He had read very hard for several years, and during that time, had collected and extracted from the best books more than any man I ever was acquainted with. He had four vast volumes of commonplace, royal paper, bound in rough calf, and had filled them with what is most curious and beautiful in works of literature, most refined in eloquent discourses, most poignant in books of criticism, most instructive in history, most touching and affecting in news, catastrophes, and stories; and with aphorisms, sayings, and epigrams. A prodigious memory made all this his own, and a great judgment enabled him to reduce every thing to the most exact point of truth and accuracy. A rare man! Till he was five and twenty, he continued this studious life, and but seldom went into the mixed and fashionable circles of the world. Then, all at once, he sold every book he had, and determined to read no more. He spent his every day in the best company of every kind; and as he had the happy talent of manner, and possessed that great power which strikes and awakens fancy, by giving every subject the new dress and decoration it requires; — could make the most common thing no longer trivial, when in his hand, and render a good thing most exquisitely pleasing; — as he told a story beyond most men, and had, in short, a universal means towards a universal success, it was but natural that he should be every where liked and wished for. He charmed wherever he came. The specific I have mentioned made every one fond of him. With the ladies especially he was a great favourite, and more fortunate in his amours than any man I knew. Had he wanted the fine talents he was blest with, yet his being an extremely handsome man, and a master on the fiddle, could not but recommend him to the sex. He might, if he had pleased, have married any one of the most illustrious and richest women in the kingdom. But he had an aversion to matrimony, and could not bear the thought of a wife. Love and a bottle were his taste. He was however the most honourable of men in his amours, and never abandoned any woman to distress, as too many men of fortune do, when they have gratified desire. All the distressed were ever sharers in Mr.
Gollogher
's fine estate, and especially the girls he had taken to his breast. He provided happily for them all, and left nineteen daughters he had by several women a thousand pounds each. This was acting with a temper worthy of a man; and to the memory of the
benevolent Tom Gollogher
I devote this memorandum.
Having said above, that too many men of fortune abandon the girls they have ruined, I will here relate a very remarkable story, in hopes it may make an impression on some rake of fortune, if such a man should ever take this book in his hand.
The history of the unfortunate Miss
Hunt.
§. 6. As I travelled once in the county of
Kildare
in
Ireland,
in the summer-time, I came into a land of flowers and blossoms, hills, woods, and shades: I saw upon an eminence a house, surrounded with the most agreeable images of rural beauties, and which appeared to be on purpose placed in that decorated spot for retirement and contemplation. It is in such silent recesses of life, that we can best enjoy the
noble
and
felicitous
ideas, which more immediately concern the attention of man, and in the
cool hours
of reflection, secreted from the fancies and follies, the business, the faction, and the pleasures of an engaged world, thoroughly consider the wisdom and harmony of the works of nature, the important purposes of providence, and the various reasons we have to adore that ever glorious
Being,
who formed us for rational happiness here, and after we have passed a few years on this sphere, in a
life
of
virtue
and
charity,
to translate us to the realms of endless bliss. Happy they who have a taste for these silent retreats, and when they please, can withdraw for a time from the world.
The picture of Miss
Hunt.
The owner of this sweet place was Mr.
Charles Hunt,
a gentleman of a small estate and good sense, whom I knew many years before fortune led me to his house. His wife was then dead, and he had but one child left, his daughter
Elizabeth.
The beauties of this young lady were very extraordinary. She had the finest eyes in the world, and she looked, she smiled, she talked with such diffusive charms, as were sufficient to fire the heart of the morosest woman-hater that ever lived, and give his soul a softness it never felt before. Her father took all possible pains to educate her mind, and had the success to render her understanding a wonder, when she was but twenty years old. She sung likewise beyond most women, danced to perfection, and had every accomplishment of soul and body that a man of the best taste could wish for in a wife or a mistress. She was all beauty, life, and softness.
Mr.
Hunt
thought to have had great happiness in this daughter, though it was not in his power to give her more than five hundred pounds for a fortune, and she would have been married to a country-gentleman in his neighbourhood of a good estate, had not death carried off both her father and lover in a few days, just as the match was agreed on. This was a sad misfortune, and opened a door to a long train of sorrows. For two years however after the decease of her father, she lived very happily with an old lady, her near relation, and was universally admired and respected. I saw her many times during that term, at the old lady's villa within a few miles of
Dublin,
and took great delight in her company. If I had not been then engaged to another, I would most certainly have married her.
In this way I left
Eliza
in
Ireland,
and for several years could not hear what was become of her. No one could give me any information: but, about a twelvemonth ago, as I was walking in
Fleet-street,
I saw a woman who cleaned shoes, and seemed to be an object of great distress. She was in rags and dirt beyond all I had ever seen of the profession, and was truly skin and bone. Her face was almost a scull, and the only remaining expression to be seen was despair and anguish. The object engaged my attention, not only on account of the uncommon misery that was visible; but, as her eyes, though sunk, were still extraordinary, and there were some remains of beauty to be traced. I thought I had somewhere seen that face in better condition. This kept me looking at her, unnoticed, for near a quarter of an hour; and as I found she turned her head from me, when she saw me, with a kind of consciousness, as if she knew me, I then asked her name, and if she had any where seen me before? — The tears immediately ran plentifully from her eyes, and when she could speak, she said, I am
Elizabeth Hunt.
—What, Mr.
Hunt
's daughter of
Rafarlin!
I replied with amazement, and a concern that brought the tears into my eyes. I called a coach immediately, and took her to the house of a good woman, who lodges and attends sick people: ordered her clean cloaths, and gave the woman a charge to take the greatest care of her, and let her want for nothing proper, till I called next day.
When I saw her again, she was clean and whole, and seemed to have recovered a little, though very little, of what she once was: but a more miserable spectacle my eyes have not often seen. She told me, that soon after I went to
England,
Mr.
R.
a gentleman of my acquaintance of great fortune, got acquainted with her, courted her, and swore in the most solemn manner, by the supreme power, and the everlasting gospel, that he would be her husband, and marry her as soon as a rich dying uncle had breathed his last, if she would consent, in the mean while, to their living in secret as man and wife; for his uncle hated matrimony, and would not leave him his vast fortune, if he heard he had a wife; and he was sure, if he was married by any of the church, some whisperer would find it out, and bring it to his ear. But notwithstanding this plausible story, and that he acted the part of the fondest and tenderest man that ever lived, yet, for several months, she would not comply with his proposal. She refused to see him any more, and for several weeks he did not come in her sight.
The fatal night however at last arrived, and from the Lord Mayor's ball, he prevailed on her, by repeated vows of sincerity and truth, to come with him to his lodgings. She was undone, with child, and at the end of two months, she never saw him more. When her relations saw her big belly, they turned her out of doors; her friends and acquaintance would not look at her, and she was so despised, and ashamed to be seen, that she went to
England
with her little one. It fortunately died on the road to
London,
and as her five hundred pounds were going fast by the time she had been a year in the capital, she accepted an offer made her by a great man to go into keeping. Three years she lived with him in splendor, and when he died, she was with several in high life, 'till she got a cancer in her breast; and after it was cut off, an incurable abscess appeared. This struck her out of society, and as she grew worse and worse every day, what money she had, and cloaths, were all gone in four years time, in the relief she wanted and in support. She came the fifth year to a garret and rags, and at last, to clean shoes, or perish for want. She then uncovered the upper part of her body, which was half eaten away, so as to see into the trunk, and rendered her, in the emaciated condition she was in, an object shocking to behold. She lived in torment, and had no kind of ease or peace, but in reflecting, that her misery and distress might procure her the mercy of heaven hereafter, and in conjunction with her true repentance bring her to rest, when she had passed through the grave and gate of death.
Such was the case of that
Venus
of her sex, Miss
Hunt.
—When first I saw her, it was rapture to be in her company: her person matchless, and her conversation as charming as her person: both easy, unconstrained, and beautiful to perfection.—When last I saw her, she was grim as the skeleton, horrid, loathsome, and sinking fast into the grave by the laws of corruption. What a change was there! She lived but three months from the time I put her into a lodging, and died as
happy a penitent
as she had lived an
unhappy woman.
I gave her a decent private funeral; a
hearse,
and one
mourning-coach,
in which I alone attended her
remains
to the
earth;
the great
charnel-house,
where all the
human race
must be
deposited.
Here ends the story of Miss
Hunt.
A word or two to Mr.
R.
who debauched Miss
Hunt.
And now a word or two to the man who ruined her.
Bob R.
is still living, the master of thousands, and has thought no more of the
wretched Eliza,
than if her ruin and misery were a trifle. He fancies his riches and and power will screen him from the hand of justice, and afford him lasting satisfaction: but,
cruel man,
after this short day, the present life, the night of death cometh, and your unrelenting soul must then appear before a judge, infinitely knowing and righteous; who is not to be imposed upon, and cannot be biassed. The sighs and groans of
Eliza
will then be remembred, and
confound
and
abash
you for your
falshood
and
inhumanity
to this
unhappy woman.
In your last agony, her
ghost
will haunt you, and at the sessions of righteousness appear against you, execrable
R. R.
The author falls in love with Miss
Spence.
§. 7. But to return to
Harrogate.
While I was there, it was my fortune to dance with a lady, who had the head of
Aristotle,
the
heart
of a
primitive christian,
and the
form
of
Venus de medicis.
This was Miss
Spence,
of
Westmoreland.
I was not many hours in her company, before I became most passionately in love with her. I did all I could to win her heart, and at last asked her the question. But before I inform my readers what the consequence of this was, I must take some notice of what I expect from the critical reviewers. These gentlemen will attempt to raise the laugh. Our
Moralist,
(they will say) has buried three wives running, and they are hardly cold in their graves, before he is dancing like a buck at the Wells, and plighting vows to a fourth girl, the beauty, Miss
Spence.
An
honest fellow,
this
Suarez,
as
Pascal
says of that
Jesuit,
in his provincial letters.
An apology for the author's marrying so often.
To this I reply, that I think it unreasonable and impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and proper tribute of tears and sorrow, humanity requires; but when that duty has been payed, we must remember, that to lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife. A wife must be a living woman. The wife we lose by death is no more than a sad and empty object, formed by the imagination, and to be still devoted to her, is to be in love with an idea. It is a mere chimerical passion, as the deceased has no more to do with this world, than if she had existed before the flood. As we cannot restore what nature has destroyed, it is foolish to be faithful to affliction.—Nor is this all. If the woman we marry has the seven qualifications which every man would wish to find in a wife, beauty, discretion, sweetness of temper, a sprightly wit, fertility, wealth, and noble extraction, yet death's snatching so amiable a wife from our arms can be no reason for accusing fate of cruelty, that is, providence of injustice; nor can it authorise us to sink into insensibility, and neglect the duty and business of life. This wife was born to die, and we receive her under the condition of mortality. She is lent but for a term, the limits of which we are not made acquainted with; and when this term is expired, there can be no injustice in taking her back: nor are we to indulge the transports of grief to distraction, but should look out for another with the seven qualifications, as it is not good for man to be alone, and as he is by the
Abrahamic
covenant bound to carry on the
succession,
in a regular way, if it be in his power.—Nor is this all; if the woman adorned with every natural and acquired excellence is translated from this gloomy planet to some better world, to be a sharer of the
divine favour,
in that peaceful and happy state which God hath prepared for the
virtuous
and
faithful,
must it not be senseless for me to indulge melancholy and continue a mourner on her account, while she is breathing the balmy air of paradise, enjoying pure and radiant vision, and beyond description happy?
In the next place, as I had forfeited my father's favour and estate, for the sake of
christian-deism,
and had nothing but my own honest industry to secure me daily bread, it was necessary for me to lay hold of every opportunity to improve my fortune, and of consequence do my best to gain the heart of the first rich young woman who came in my way, after I had buried a wife. It was not fit for me to sit snivelling for months, because my wife died before me, which was, at least, as probable, as that she should be the survivor; but instead of solemn affliction, and the inconsolable part, for an event I foresaw, it was incumbent on me, after a little decent mourning, to consecrate myself to virtue and good fortune united in the form of a woman. Whenever she appeared, it was my business to get her if I could. This made me sometimes a dancer at the Wells, in the days of my youth.
Miss
Spence
's reply to my addresses.
§. 8. As to Miss
Spence,
she was not cruel, but told me at last, after I had tired her with my addresses and petitions, that she would consider my case, and give me an answer, when I called at her house in
Westmoreland,
to which she was then going: at present however, to tell me the truth, she had very little inclination to change her condition: she was as happy as she could wish to be, and she had observed, that many ladies of her acquaintance had been made unhappy by becoming wives. The husband generally proves a very different man from the courtier, and it is luck indeed, if a young woman, by marrying, is not undone—During the
mollia tempora fandi,
as the poet calls it, the man may charm, when, like the god of eloquence, he pleads, and every word is soft as flakes of falling snow; but when the man is pleased to take off the mask, and play the domestic hero; Gods! What miseries have I seen in families ensue! If this were my case, I should run stark mad.
Miss
Spence
's mentioning the memorable line from
Virgil,
surprised me not a little, as she never gave the least hint before, (though we had conversed then a fortnight) of her having any notion of the Latin tongue, and I looked at her with a raised admiration, before I replied in the following manner.— What you say, Miss
Spence,
is true. But this is far from being the case of all gentlemen. If there be something stronger than virtue in too many of them, something that masters and subdues it; a passion, or passions, rebellious and lawless, which makes them neglect some, high relations, and take the throne from God and reason; gaming, drinking, keeping; yet there are very many exceptions, I am sure. I know several, who have an
equal affection
to goodness, and were my acquaintance in the world larger than it is, I believe I could name a large number, who would not prefer indulgence to virtue, or resign her for any consideration. There are men, madam, and young men, who allow a partial regard to rectitude is inconsistent and absurd, and are sensible, it is not certain, that there is absolutely nothing
at all
in the evidences of religion: that if there was but even a chance for obtaining blessings of
inestimable worth,
yet a chance for
eternal
bliss is worth securing, by acting as the spotless holiness of the Deity requires from us, and the reason and fitness of things makes necessary, in respect of every kind of relation and neighbour. This is the case of many men. They are not so generally bad as you seem to think.
On the other hand, I would ask, if there are no unhappy marriages by the faults of women? Are all the married ladies
consistently
and
thoroughly
good, that is,
effectually
so? Do they all yield themselves
intirely
and
universally
to the government of conscience, subdue every thing to it, and conquer every adverse passion and inclination? Has reason always ways the sovereignty, and nothing wrong to be seen? Are truth, piety, and goodness, the settled
prevailing
regard in the hearts and lives of all the married ladies you know? Have you heard of no unhappy marriages by the passions and vices of women, as well as by the faults of men? I am afraid there are too many wives as subject to ill habits as the men can be. It is possible to name not a few ladies who find their virtuous exercises, the duties of piety, and the various offices of love and goodness, as distasteful and irksome to them as they can be to a libertine or a cruel man. I could tell some sad stories to this purpose: but all I shall say more is, that there are faults on both sides, and that it is not only the ladies run a hazard of being ruined by marrying. I am sure, there are as many men of fortune miserable by the manners and conduct of their wives, as you can name ladies who are sufferers by the temper and practice of their husbands. This is the truth of the case, and the business is, in order to avoid the miseries we both have seen among married people, to resolve to act well and wisely. This is the thing to be sure, Miss
Spence
replied. This will prevent faults on either side. Such a course as virtue and piety require must have a continued tendency to render life a scene of the greatest happiness; and it may gain infinitely hereafter.—Call upon me then at
Cleator
as soon as you can, (Miss
Spence
concluded, with her face in smiles) and we will talk over this affair again. Thus we chatted as we dined together in private, and early the next morning Miss
Spence
left the
Wells.
May
12, a remove to
Oldfield-Spaw,
for a week, on account of an indisposition.
§. 9. Miss
Spence
being gone from
Harrogate,
and finding myfelf very ill from having drank too hard the preceding night, I mounted my horse, and rid to
Oldfield-Spaw,
a few miles off, as I had heard an extraordinary account of its usefulness after a debauch. There is not so much as a little ale-house there to rest at, and for six days I lodged at the cottage of a poor labouring man, to which my informer directed me. I lived on such plain fare as he had for himself. Bread and roots, and milk and water, were my chief support; and for the time, I was as happy as I could wish.
A reflection at solitary
Oldfield-Spaw,
after a night's hard drinking.
O nature! nature! would man be satisfied with thee, and follow thy wife dictates, he would constantly enjoy that true pleasure, which advances his real happiness, and very rarely be tormented with those evils, which obstruct and destroy it: but, alas! instead of listening to the voice of reason, keeping the mind free of passions, and living as temperance and discretion direct, the man of pleasure will have all the gratifications of sense to as high a pitch, as an imagination and fortune devoted to them can raise them, and diseases and calamities are the consequence. Fears and anxieties and disappointments are often the attendants; and too frequently the ruin of health and estate, of reputation and honour, and the lasting wound of remorse in reflexion, follow. This is generally the case of the voluptuary. Dreadful Case! He runs the course of pleasure first, and then the course of produced evils succeed. He passes from pleasure to a state of pain, and the pleasure past gives a double sense of that pain. We ought then surely, as reasonable beings, to confine our pleasure within the bounds of just and right.
A description of
Oldfield-Spaw.
§. 10. As to the place called
Oldfield-Spaw,
it is seven miles from
Harrogate,
and four from
Rippon,
lies on a rising ground, between two high hills, near an old abbey, about five yards from a running stream, and in a most romantic delightful situation, which resembles
Matlock
in
Derbyshire,
(ten miles beyond
Derby
in the
Peak
) so very much, that one might almost take it for the same place, if conveyed there in a long deep sleep. The same kind of charms and various beauties are every where to be seen; rocks and mountains, groves and vallies, tender shrubs and purling currents, at once surprize and please the wandering eye.
An account of
Oldfield-Spaw
-water.
As to the mineral water at
Oldfield-Spaw,
it is an impetuous spring, that throws out a vast quantity of water, and is always of the same height, neither affected by rain or drought. It is bright and sparkling, and when poured into a glass, rises up in rows like strings of little beads. It has an uncommon taste, quite different from all other mineral waters that ever came in my way; but it is not disagreeable. What impregnates it I know not. Dr.
Rutty
I suppose never heard of this water, for it is not in his valuable quarto lately published; and Dr.
Short,
in his excellent history of mineral waters, (2 volumes 4 to.
London,
1734) says little more than that there is a
medicinal spring
there. What I found upon trial is, that two quarts of it, swallowed as fast as I could drink it in a morning, vomits to great advantage; and that four quarts of it, drank by degrees, at intervals, works off by siêge or stool, and urine, in a very beneficial manner. I was apprehensive of a high fever from my night's hard drinking at
Harrogate,
(which I could not avoid) and the
Oldfield-water,
operating as related, carried off the bad symptoms, and restored me to sanity in two day's time. This is all I can say of this fine water. It is very little in respect of what it deserves to have said of it.
An observation on our people of fortune going to other countries to drink mineral waters.
§. 11. By the way, it is to me a matter of great admiration, that so many of our rich and noble not only endure the fatigues and hazards of sailing and travelling to remote countries, but waste their money, to drink
spaw-waters
abroad, when they can have as good of every kind in
England,
by fiding a few miles to the most delightful places in the world, in summer time. Our own country has healing waters equal to the best in
France, Italy,
and
Westphalia. Harrogate-water,
in particular, has all the virtues of the famous baths of
Aponus,
within a mile of
Padua
in
Italy,
and is in every respect exactly alike. See the
analysis
of
Aponus-water
by
Fallopius
and
Baccius,
and the
analysis
of the
English sulphur-spaw
by Dr.
Rutty.
It is injustice then to our country to visit foreign nations upon this account.—
Moffat-waters
likewise are as good as any in all the world.
Of
Moffat-Wells.
N. B.
Moffat
is a village in
Annandale,
35 miles S.W. of
Edinburgh.
The mineral waters called
Moffat-waters,
lie at the distance of a long mile northward from the village, and are 36 miles from
Edinburgh.
The springs are situated on the declivity of a hill, and on the brow of a precipice, with high mountains at a distance, and almost on every side of them. The hill is the second from
Hartfield,
adjoining the highest hill in
Scotland.
A vein of spar runs for several miles on this range of hills, and forms the bottom and lower sides of the wells. It is a greyish spar, having polished and shining surfaces of regular figures, interspersed with glittering particles of a golden colour, which are very copious and large.
There are two medicinal springs or wells, which are separated from one another by a small rock: the
higher well
lies with its mouth south east. 'Tis of an irregular square figure, and is about a foot and a half deep. The
lower well
is surrounded with naked rocks: it forms a small arch of a circle. Its depth is four foot and a half, and by a moderate computation, the two springs yield 40 loads of water in 24 hours, each load containing 64 or 68
Scotch
pints; a
Scotch
pint is two
English
quarts.—The higher shallow well is used for bathing, as it is not capable of being kept so clean as the lower well, on account of the shallowness and the looseness of its parts.
These waters are strongly sulphureous, and resemble the scourings of a foul gun, or rotten eggs, or a weak solution of
sal polychrestum,
or
hepar sulphuris.
The colour of the water somewhat milky or bluish.
N. B. The soil on every side of the wells is thin, and the hills rocky, only just below the wells there is a small moss, caused by the falling of water from the hill above it.
Virtues of these waters.
Great is the medicinal virtue of these waters, in relieving, inwardly, cholics, pains in the stomach, griping of the guts, bilious and nephritic colics; nervous and hysteric colics; the gravel, by carrying off the quantities of sand, (but does not dissolve the slimy gravel) clearing the urinary passages in a wonderful manner; in curing ischuries, and ulcerated kidneys; the gout, the palsy, obstructions of the menses, old gleets, and barrenness: it is a sovereign remedy in rheumatic and scorbutic pains, even when the limbs are monstrously swelled, useless, and covered with scales.—Outwardly, ulcers, tumors, itch, St.
Anthony
's fire, and king's evil.
The waters are used by bathing and drinking: to drink in the morning three chopins, six pints or a
Scotch
quart, four
English
quarts, at most: between the hours of six and eleven. After dinner to drink gradually.
Medicines commonly used during the drinking of the waters are, an emetic or two at first, and a few cathartic doses. The doses
sal Glauberi
and
polychrestum:
syrup of buckthorn, and sulphur, is used along with the water.
But the cathartic prescription most in use, which was given by an eminent physician, for a general recipe, to be taken by all who should at any time use the water, is, pills that are a composition of gambozia, resin of jalop, aloes, and scammony: these to all intents are a strong hydragogue.
The large vein of spar three feet thick, runs in one direction for six miles to the wells, and crosses obliquely the rivulet at the bottom of the precipice, and ascends the hill on the opposite side. Small veins of the same spar which appears on the precipices, are on the side of the rivulet, and six small gushes of water of the mineral kind proceed from them. The rocks and stones about the tops of the wells, and in other parts of the hill and precipices, differ not from common stones, no more than the water of the small springs in the neighbourhood with the common water.
The virtue of this water was discovered by Miss
Whiteford,
daughter of Bishop
Whiteford,
in 1632. She was married in 1633. She had been abroad, and all over
England,
drinking mineral waters for the recovery of her health, but found little benefit, till by accident she tasted these waters in her neighbourhood, and finding they resembled those she had used elsewhere, made a trial of them, and was cured of all her disorders.
Upon this she recommended the use of them to others, and employed workmen to clear the ground about the springs, (their overflowing having made a small morass) that the poor and the rich might come, and make use of a medicine, which nature had so bounteously offered to them.
The author leaves
Oldfield-Spaw,
and sets out for
Knaresborough,
but arrives at another place,
May
19, 1731.
§. 12. The 19th of
May,
at that hour, when a fine day-break offers the most magnificent sight to the eyes of men, (though few who have eyes will deign to view it,) I mounted my horse again, and intended to breakfast at
Knareshorough,
in order to my being at
Harrogate
by dinner time, with my friends again; but the land I went over was so inchantingly romantic, and the morning so extremely beautiful, that I had a mind to see more of the country, and let my horse trot on where he pleased. For a couple of hours, he went slowly over the hills as his inclination directed him, and I was delightfully entertained with the various fine scenes, till I arrived at a sweet pretty country seat.
A morning thought on the rising sun.
The rising sun, which I had directly before me, struck me very strongly, in the fine situation I was in for observing it, with the power and wisdom of the author of nature, and gave me such a charming degree of evidence for the deity, that I could not but offer up, in silence, on the altar of my heart, praise and adoration to that
sovereign
and
universal mind,
who produced this glorious creature, as the bright image of his benignity, and makes it travel unweariedly round; not only to illustrate successively the opposite sides of this globe, and thereby enliven the animal world, support the vegetable, and ripen and prepare matter for all the purposes of life and vegetation; but, to enlighten and cheer surrounding worlds, by a perpetual diffusion of bounties, to dispel darkness and sorrow, and like the presence of the deity, infuse secret ravishment into the heart. This cannot be the production of
chance.
It must be the work of an
infinitely wise and good Being.
The nature, situation, and motion of this sun, bring the
Deity
even within the reach of the methods of sense assisted by reason, and shews such constant operations of his power and goodness, that it is impossible to consider the present disposition of the system, without being full of a sense of love and gratitude to the almighty creator; —
the Parent of Being and of Beauty!
By this returning minister of his beneficence, all things are recalled into life, from corruption and decay; and by its, and all the other heavenly motions, the whole frame of nature is still kept in repair. His name then alone is excellent, and his glory above the earth and heaven. It becomes the whole system of rationals to say,
Hallelujah.
SECTION VI.
Come, CHEARFULNESS, triumphant Fair,
Shine thro' the painful cloud of care.
O sweet of language, mild of mien,
O virtue's friend, and pleasure's queen!
Fair guardian of domestic life,
Best banisher of home-bred strife;
Nor sullen lip, nor taunting eye
Deform the scene where thou art by:
No sick'ning husband damns the hour,
That bound his joys to female power;
No pining mother weeps the cares,
That parents waste on hopeless heirs:
Th' officious daughters pleas'd attend;
The brother rises to the friend:
By thee our board with flowers is crown'd,
By thee with songs our walks resound;
By thee the sprightly mornings shine,
And evening hours in peace decline.
May
19, 1731. A description of a beautiful spot of ground, and a sweet pretty country seat in the west-riding of
Yorkshire.
§. 1. WHILE I was thinking in this manner of the sun, and the author of it, I came into a silent unfrequented glade, that was finely adorned with streams and trees. Nature there seemed to be lulled into a kind of pleasing repose, and conspired as it were to soften a speculative genius into solid and awful contemplations. The woods, the meadows, and the water, formed the most delightful scenes, and the charms of distant prospects multiplied as I travelled on: but at last I came to a seat which had all the beauties that proportion, regularity, and convenience, can give a thing. The pretty mansion was situated in the midst of meadows, and surrounded with gardens, trees, and various shades. A fountain played to a great height before the door, and fell into a circular reservoir of water, that had foreign wildfowl swimming on its surface. The whole was very fine.
Here I walked for some time, and after roaming about, went up to the house, to admire the beauties of the thing. I found the windows open, and could see several ladies in one of the apartments. How to gain admittance was the question, and I began to contrive many ways; but while I was busied in this kind of speculation, a genteel footman came up to me, and let me know, his lady sent him to inform me I might walk in and look at the house, if I pleased. So in I went, and passed through several grand rooms all finely furnished, and filled with paintings of great price. In one of those chambers the servant left me, and told me, he would wait upon me again in a little time. This surprized me, and my astonishment was doubled, when I had remained alone for almost an hour.
An account of two wonderful figures, which played on the
German
flute.
No footman returned: nor culd I hear the sound of any feet. But I was charmingly entertained all the while. In the apartment I was left in, were two figures, dressed like a shepherd and shepherdess, which amazed me very much. They sat on a rich couch, in a gay alcove, and both played on the
German
flute. They moved their heads, their arms, their eyes, their fingers, and seemed to look with a consciousness at each other, while they breathed, at my entring the room, that fine piece of music, the masquerade minuet; and afterwards, several excellent pieces. I thought at first, they were living creatures; but on examination, finding they were only wood, my admiration increased, and became exceeding great, when I saw, by shutting their mouths, and stopping their fingers, that the music did not proceed from an organ within the figures. It was an extraordinary piece of clock-work, invented and made by one
John Nixon,
a poor man.
The history of Miss
Wolf.
§. 2. At length however, a door was opened, and a lady entred, who was vastly pretty, and richly drest beyond what I had ever seen. She had diamonds enough for a queen. I was amazed at the sight of her, and wondered still more, when, after being honoured with a low courtesy, on my bowing to her, she asked me in
Irish,
how I did, and how long I had been in
England.
My surprize was so great I could not speak, and upon this, she said, in the same language, I see, Sir, you have no remembrance of me. You cannot recollect the least idea of me. You have quite forgot young
Imoinda,
of the county of
Gallway
in
Ireland;
who was your partner in country dances, when you passed the Christmas of the year 1715, at her father's house. What (I said) Miss
Wolf
of
Balineskay? O my Imoinda!
And snatching her to my arms, I almost stifled her with kisses. I was so glad to see her again, and in the situation she appeared in, that I could not help expressing my joys in that tumultuous manner, and hoped she would excuse her
Valentine,
as I then remembred I had had that honour when we were both very young.
This lady, who was good humour itself in flesh and blood, was so far from being angry at this strange flight of mine, that she only laughed excessively at the oddness of the thing; but some ladies who came into the apartment with her seemed frightened, and at a loss what to think, 'till she cleared up the affair to them, by letting them know who I was, and how near her father and mine lived to each other in the country of
Ireland.
She was indeed extremely glad to see me, and from her heart bid me welcome to
Clankford.
Our meeting was a vast surprize to both of us. She thought I had been in the
Elysian
fields, as she had heard nothing of me for several years: and I little imagined, I should ever find her in
England,
in the rich condition she was in. She asked me by what destiny I was brought to
Yorkshire;
and in return for my short story, gave me an account of herself at large. Till the bell rung for dinner, we sat talking together, and then went down to as elegant a one as I had ever seen. There were twelve at table, six young ladies, all very handsome, and six gentlemen. Good humour presided, and in a rational delightful chearfulness, we passed some hours away. After coffee, we went to cards, and from them to country dances, as two of the footmen played well on the fiddle. The charming
Imoinda
was my partner, and as they all did the dances extremely well, we were as happy a little set as ever footed it to country measure. Two weeks I passed in this fine felicity. Then we all separated, and went different ways. What became of Miss
Wolf
after this — the extraordinary events of her life — and the stories of the five ladies with her, — I shall relate in the second volume of my
Memoirs of several Ladies of Great Britain.
Four of them were Mrs.
Cheslin,
Mrs.
Fanshaw,
Mrs.
Chadley,
and Mrs.
Bissel;
the fifth was Miss
Farmor;
all mentioned in the Preface to the first volume of my Memoirs aforesaid.
May
25, 1731. An account of
Oliver Wincup,
Esq
§. 3. A fortnight, as said, I stayed with Miss
Wolf,
that was; but, at the time I am speaking of, the relict of Sir
Loghlin Fitzgibbons,
an old
Irish
knight, who was immensely rich, and married her when he was creeping upon all-fours, with snow on his head, and frost in his bones, that he might lie by a naked beauty, and gaze at that awful spot he had no power to enjoy. I did intend, on leaving this lady, to be at
Knaresborough
at night; but the fates, for a while, took me another way. At the inn where I dined, I became acquainted with a gentleman much of my own age, who was an ingenious agreeable man. This was
Oliver Wincup,
Esq
who had lately married Miss
Horner
of
Northumberland,
a fine young creature, and a great fortune. This gentleman, by his good humour, and several good songs, pleased me so much, that I drank more than I intended, and was easily prevailed on to go with him, in the evening, to
Woodcester,
the name of his seat; which was but ten miles from the house we had dined at. We came in just as they were going to tea. There was a great deal of company, at least a dozen ladies, besides half a score gentlemen, and all of them as gay and engaging as the best-bred young mortals could be.
A description of
Woodcester
House.
§. 4. The vill here was very odd, but a charming pretty thing. The house consisted of several ground rooms, (ten I think) detached from one another, and separated by trees and banks of flowers. They were intirely of wood, but finely put together, and all disposed with the greatest symmetry and beauty. They were very handsome without side, and the inside furnished and adorned with the finest things the owner could get for money. Easy hills, little vallies, and pretty groves, surrounded the sweet retreat, and the vallies were watered with clear streams. The whole had a fine appearance. The varied scenes for ever pleased.
The manner of living at
Woodcester.
§. 5. At this delightful place I stayed ten days, and was very happy indeed. We drank, we laughed, we danced, we sung, and chatted; and when that was done, 'twas night. But country dances were the chief diversion; and I had a partner, who was not only a wonder in face and person, (divinely pretty) but did wonders in every motion. This was Miss
Veyssiere
of
Cumberland:
the dear creature! Reader, when I was a young fellow, there were few could equal me in dancing. The famous
Paddy Murphy,
an
Irish
member of the house of commons, commonly called the
Little Beau,
well known at
Lucas
's coffee-house,
Dublin:
(He danced one night, in 1734, that I was at the castle, before the late Duke of
Dorset
and his Duchess, at their grace's request:) this gentleman, and
Langham,
the miller, who danced every night at the renowned
Stretch
's puppet-shew, before the curtain was drawn up, were both deservedly admired for their performance in the hornpipe; yet were nothing to me in this particular: but Miss
Veyssiere
out-did me far: her steps were infinite, and she did them with that amazing agility, that she seemed like a dancing angel in the air. Eight nights we footed it together, and all the company said, we were born for each other. She did charm me, and I should have asked her the question, to try her temper, if
Wincup
had not told me, her father intended to sacrifice her to a man old enough to be her grandfather, for the sake of a great jointure; and in a week or two she was to dance the
reel of Bogee
with an
old monk.
— Poor Miss
Veyssiere!
I said; What connexion can there be between the
hoary churl
and you,
While side by side the blushing maid
Shrinks from his visage, half afraid?
I do not wish you may feather him, but may you bury him very quickly, and be happy.
An account of a company of stroling players at
Woodcester.
§. 6. Another of our diversions at
Woodcester,
was a little company of singers and dancers Mr.
Wincup
had hired, to perform in a sylvan theatre he had in his gardens. These people did the
mime,
the
dance,
the
song,
extremely well. There was among them one Miss
Hinxworth,
a charming young creature, who excelled in every thing; but in singing especially, had no equal I believe in the world. She was a gentleman's daughter, and had been carried off by one
O Regan,
an
Irishman,
and dancing-master, the head of this company. He was the most active fellow upon earth, and the best harlequin I have ever seen. Every evening we had something or other extraordinary from these performers. He gave us two pieces which so nearly resembled the two favourite entertainments called
Harlequin Sorcerer,
and the
Genii,
(tho' in several particulars better) that I cannot help thinking Mr.
Rich
owed his
Harlequin Sorcerer
to
O Regan:
and that the
Genii
of
Drury-Lane
was the invention of this
Irishman.
You know, reader, that in the first scene of
Harlequin Sorcerer,
there is a group of witches at their orgies in a wilderness by moon-light, and that harlequin comes riding in the air between two witches, upon a long pole: Here
O Regan
did what was never attempted at
Covent-Garden
house, and what no other man in the world I believe did ever do. As the witches danced round and round, hand in hand, as swift as they could move,
O Regan
leaped upon the shoulder of one of them, and for near a quarter of an hour, jumped the contrary way as fast as they went, round all their shoulders. This was a fine piece of activity. I think it much more wonderful, than to keep at the top of the outwheel of a water-mill, by jumping there, as it goes with the greatest rapidity round. This
Mun. Hawley,
An account of Mr.
Hawley
of
Loch-Gur.
of
Loch-Gur
in the county of
Tipperary,
could do. He was a charming fellow in body and mind, and fell unfortunately in the 22d year of his age. In a plain field, by a trip of his horse, he came down, and fractured his skull. He did not think he was hurt: but at night as soon as he began to eat, it came up. A surgeon was sent for to look at his head. It was cracked in several places, and he died the next day. He and I were near friends.
June
1, 1731. The author leaves
Woodcester,
and rides to a lone silent place called
Lasco.
§. 7. The first of
June,
1731, at five in the morning, I took my leave of honest
Wincup,
as chearful and worthy a fellow as ever lived, and set out for
Knaresborough;
but lost my way, went quite wrong, and in three hours time, came to a little blind alehouse, the sign of the Cat and Bagpipe, in a lone silent place. The master of this small inn was one
Tom Clancy,
brother to the well-known
Martin Clancy
in
Dublin.
He came to
England
to try his fortune, as he told me, and married an old woman, who kept this public-house, the sign of the Cat, to which
Tom
added the Bagpipe. As he had been a waiter at his brother's house, he remembred to have seen me often there, and was rejoiced at my arrival at the Cat and Bagpipe. He got me a good supper of trouts, fine ale, and a squib of punch, and after he had done talking of all the gallant fellows that used to resort to his brother
Martin
's, such as the heroes of Trinity-college,
Dublin,
Captain
Maccan
of the county of
Kerry,
and many more, he let me go to sleep.
The history of the two beauties in the wood.
§. 8. The next morning, betimes, I was up, and walked into a wood adjoining to
Clancy
's house. I sauntered on for about an hour easily enough, but at last came to a part of the forest that was almost impenetrable. Curiosity incited me to struggle onwards, if possible, that I might see what country was before me, or if any house was to be found in this gloomy place: this cost me a couple of hours, much toil, and many scratches; but at length, I arrived at the edge of a barren moor, and beyond it, about a quarter of a mile off, saw another wood. Proud to be daring, on I went, and soon came to the wood in view, which I found cut into walks, and arrived at a circular space surrounded with a forest, that was above a hundred yards every way. In the center of this was a house, enclosed within a very broad deep mote, full of water, and the banks on the inside, all round, were so thick planted with trees, that there was no seeing any thing of the mansion but the roof and the chimnies. Over the water was one narrow drawbridge, lifted up, and a strong door on the garden side of the mote. Round I walked several times, but no soul could I see: not the least noise could I hear; nor was there a cottage any where in view. I wondered much at the whole; and if I had had my lad
O Finn
with me, and my pole, I would most certainly have attempted to leap the foss, broad as it was, and if it was possible, have known who were the occupants of this strange place. But as nothing could be done, nor any information be had, I returned again to the Cat and Bagpipe.
Character of Mr.
Jeremiah Cock,
an old lawyer.
It was ten by the time I got back, and at breakfast I told
Clancy,
my landlord, where I had been, and asked him if he knew who lived in that wonderful place. His name (he replied) is
Cock,
an old lawyer and limb of the devil, and the most hideous man to behold that is upon the face of the earth. Every thing that is bad and shocking is in his compound: he is to outward appearance a monster: and within, the miser, the oppressor, the villain. He is despised and abhorred, but so immensely rich, that he can do any thing, and no one is able to contend with him. I could relate, says
Tom,
a thousand instances of his injustice and cruelty; but one alone is sufficient to render his memory for ever cursed. Two gentlemen of fortune, who had employed him several years in their affairs, and had a good opinion of him, on account of a canted uprightness and seeming piety, left him sole guardian of a daughter each of them had, and the management of fifty thousand pounds a-piece, the fortune of these girls, with power to do as he pleased, without being subject to any controul, 'till they are of age. These ladies, as fine creatures as ever the eye of man beheld, he has had now a year in confinement in that prison you saw in the wood; and while he lives, will keep them there to be sure, on account of the hundred thousand pounds, or till he dispose of them to his own advantage, some way or other. He intends them, it is said, for two ugly nephews he has, who are now at school, about fourteen years old, and for this purpose, or some other as bad, never suffers them to stir out of the garden surrounded by the mote, nor lets any human creature visit them. They are greatly to be pitied, but bear the severe usage wonderfully well. One of them, Miss
Martha Tilston,
is in her twentieth year; and the other, Miss
Alithea Llansoy,
in her nineteenth. They are girls of great sense, and would, if any kind of opportunity offered, make a brave attempt to escape: but that seems impossible. They are not only so strictly confined, and he for ever at home with them, except he rides a few miles; but are attended continually in the garden, when they walk, by a servant who is well paid, and devoted to the old man her master. This makes them think their state is fixed for life, and to get rid of melancholy, they read, and practice music. They both play on the fiddle, and do it extremely fine.
Here
Clancy
had done, and I was much more surprized at his relation than at the place of their residence which I had seen. I became very thoughtful, and continued for some time with my eyes fixed on the table, while I revolved the case of these unfortunate young ladies. But is all this true? (at last I said): Or only report? How did you get such particular information?—I will tell you,
Tom
answered. Old
Cock
is my landlord, and business often brings me to his house in the wood, to pay my rent, or ask for something I want. Besides, I sometimes bring a fat pig there, and other things to fell. My daughter likewise has sometimes a piece of work in hand for the ladies, and she and I take a walk with it there by a better and shorter way than you went. You cannot think how glad they are to see us, and they let me into all their perplexities and distress.
On hearing this, a sudden thought of being serviceable to these ladies came into my head, and I was going to ask a question in relation to it, when two horsemen rode up to the door, and one of them called
House!
This, says my landlord, is old
Cock
and his man; and immediately went out to him, to know his will. He told him, he came for the ride-sake himself, to see if any letters were left for him by that day's post at his house, and would dine with him if he had any thing to eat. That I have, (the man replied), as fine a fowl, bacon and greens, as ever was served up to any table, and only one gentleman, a stranger and traveller, to sit down to it.
Cock
upon this came into the room I was sitting in, and after looking very earnestly at me, said, Your servant, Sir. I told him I was his most humble, and right glad to meet with a gentleman for society in that lone place. I immediately began a story of a cock and a bull, and made the old fellow grin now and then. I informed him among other things, that I was travelling to
Westmoreland,
to look after some estates I had there, but must hurry back to
London
very soon, for my wife was within a few weeks of her time. You are a married man then, Sir, he replied. Yes, indeed, and so supremely blest with the charms and perfections, the fondness and obedience of a wife, that I would not be unmarried for all the world: few men living so happy as I am in the nuptial state.—Here dinner was brought in, and to save the old gentleman trouble, I would cut up the fowl. I helped him plentifully to a slice of the breast, and the tips of the wings, and picked out for him the tenderest greens. I was as complaisant as it was possible, and drank his health many times. The bottle after dinner I put about pretty quick, and told my old gentleman, if affairs ever brought him up to
London,
I should be glad to see him at my house in
Golden-Square,
the very next door to Sir
John Heir
's; or, if I could be of any service to him there, he would oblige me very much by letting me know in what way. In short, I so buttered him with words, and filled him with fowl and wine, that he seemed well pleased, especially when he found there was nothing to pay, as I informed him it was my own dinner I had bespoke, and dined with double pleasure in having the satisfaction of his most agreeable company. He was a fine politician, I said, and talked extremely well of the government and the times: that I had received more true knowledge from his just notions, than from all I had read of men and things, or from conversing with any one. The glass during this time was not long still, but in such toasts as I found were grateful to his Jacobite heart, drank brimmers as fast as opportunity served, and he pledged me and cottoned in a very diverting way. He grew very fond of me at last, and hoped I would spare so much time, as to come and dine with him the next day. This honour I assured him I would do myself, and punctually be with him at his hour. He then rid off, brim full, and I walked out to consider of this affair. But before I proceed any farther in my story, I must give a description of this man.
A description of old
Cock
the lawyer.
Cock,
the old lawyer and guardian, was a low man, about four feet eight inches, very broad, and near seventy years old. He was humped behind to an enormous degree, and his belly as a vast flasket of garbage projected monstrously before. He had the most hanging look I have ever seen. His brows were prodigious, and frowning in a shocking manner; his eyes very little, and above an inch within his head; his nose hooked like a buzzard, wide nostrils like a horse, and his mouth sparrow. In this case, was a mind quite cunning, in the worst sense of the word, acute, artful, designing and base. There was not a spark of honour or generosity in his soul.
How to circumvent this able one, and deliver the two beauties from his oppressive power, was the question: it seemed almost impossible; but I resolved to do my best. This I told
Clancy,
and requested, as I was to dine with
Cock
the next day, that he would be there in the morning, on some pretence or other, and let the ladies know, I offered them my service, without any other view than to do them good; and if they accepted it, to inform me by a note, slipt into my hand when they saw me, that if they could direct me what to do, I would execute it at any hazard, or let them hint the least particular that might have any tendency to their freedom in some time to come, though it were three months off, and I would wait for the moment, and study to improve the scheme. This my landlord very carefully acquainted them with, at the time I mentioned; and by two o'clock I was at
Cock
's house, to see these beauties, and know what they thought of the service offered them. The old man received me much civiler than I thought he would do when he was sober, and had, what my landlord told me was a very rare thing in his house, to wit, a good dinner that day. Just as it was brought in, the ladies entred, (two charming creatures indeed), and made me very low courtesies, while their eyes declared the sense they had of the good I intended them.
Cock
said, these are my nieces, Sir, and as soon as I had saluted them, we sat down to table. The eldest carved, and helped me to the best the board afforded, and young as they were, they both shewed by their manner, and the little they said, that they were women of sense and breeding. They retired, a few minutes after dinner, and the youngest contrived, in going off, to give me a billet in an invisible manner. I then turned to
Cock
intirely, heard him abuse the government in nonsense and falshoods, as all
Jacobites
do; and after we had drank and talked for better than an hour, took my leave of him very willingly, to read the following note.
SIR,
As you can have nothing in view but our happiness, in your most generous offer of assistance, we have not words to express our grateful sense of the intended favour. What is to be done upon the occasion, as yet we cannot imagine, as we are so confined and watched, and the doors of the house locked and barred in such a manner every night, that a cat could not get out at any part of it. You shall hear from us however soon, if possible, to some purpose; and in the mean time we are,
SIR,
Your ever obliged servants,
M.T.
A.L.
What to do then I could not tell; but as I rid back I consulted with my lad O
Fin,
who was a very extraordinary young man, and asked him what observations he had made on the servants and place. He said, he had tried the depth of the water in the mote all round, and found it fordable at one angle, waist high, and about two feet broad the rock he trod on. He had stripped, and walked it over to be sure of the thing. As to the people, he fancied there was one young man, a labourer by the year under the gardener, who would, for a reasonable reward for losing his place, be aiding in the escape of the ladies; for he talked with pity of them, and with great severity of his master: that if I pleased, he would sound this man, and let me know more in relation to him: that if he would be concerned, he could very easily carry the ladies on his back across the water, as he was a tall man, and then we might take them behind us to what place we pleased: or, if it was not safe trusting this man, for fear of his telling his master, in hopes of more money on that side, then, he would himself engage to bring the ladies and their cloaths over, on his own back, with wetting only their legs, if they could be at the water-side some hour in the night. This was not bad to be sure; but I was afraid to trust the man; for, if he should inform old
Cock
of the thing, they would be confined to their chambers, and made close prisoners for the time to come. It was better therefore to rely entirely upon
O Fin,
if they could get into the garden in the night.
In answer then to another letter I had from the ladies by my landlord's daughter the next morning, in which they lamented the appearing impossibility of an escape, I let them know immediately the state of the water, and desired to be informed what they thought of the gardener's man; or, if he would not do, could they at any particular hour, get to that angle of the mote I named, to be brought over on my man's back, and then immediately ride off behind us on pillions, which should be prepared.mdash;Their answer was, that they dared not trust any of Mr.
Cock
's men, but thought my own servant would do, and the scheme reasonable and seemingly safe, if they could get out. They gave me a million of thanks for my amazing care of them, and called the immortal powers to witness the high sense they had of their unutterable obligation to me.
Waiting then for them, I staid at the little inn three days longer, and at last received a billet to let me know, that at twelve o'clock that night, which was the sixth of
June,
they could, by an accident that had happened, be at the appointed place, and ready to go whereever I pleased. To a minute my man and I were there, and in a few moments,
O Fin
brought them and their cloaths over safe. In an instant after they were behind us, and we rid away as fast as we could. Six hours we travelled without stopping, and in that time, had gone about thirty miles. We breakfasted very gaily at our inn, and when the horses had rested a couple of hours, we set out again, and rid till three in the afternoon, when we baited at a lone house in a valley, called
Straveret Vale,
which had every rural charm that can be found in the finest part of
Juan Fernandes.
A young couple, vastly civil, kept here a small clean public house, the sign of the pilgrim, on the very margin of a pretty river, and the plain things they had were as good as we could desire. Their bread, their drink, their fowl, their eggs, their butter, cheese, vegetables, and bacon, were excellent, and as they had good beds, I thought we could not do better than lie by for two or three days in this sweet place, 'till it was determined, where the ladies should fix. We were at least fixty miles from old
Cock
's house, and in an obscurity that would conceal us from any pursuers; for we had kept the cross roads and by-ways, and were on the confines of
Westmoreland.
Here then we agreed to rest for a little time. In reality, it was just as I pleased. The ladies were all acknowledgment for what I did to deliver them, and all submission to my direction. They had each of them thirty guineas in their purses, as they shewed me, but what to do after that was gone, or where to go while it lasted, to be in safety, they could not tell.
The affair perplexed me very much, and I turned it a thousand ways, without being able to settle it as I would. I had two young heiresses on my hands, who wanted more than a year of being at age, and I must support them, and place them in some spot of decency, security, and peace, since I had gone thus far, or I had injured them greatly, instead of serving them, in bringing them from their guardian's house. This took up all my thoughts for three days. I concealed however my uneasiness from them, and endeavoured to make the house and place quite pleasing to them. I kept up a chearfulness and gaiety, and we sat down with joy and pleasure to breakfast, dinner, and supper. Within doors, we played at cards, we sung, and I entertained them with my
German
-flute. Abroad, we walked, fished, and sometimes I rowed them up the river in a boat the man of the house had. The whole scheme was really delightful, and as the girls had great quickness and vivacity, and were far from being ignorant, considering their few years, I could have wished it was possible to stay there much longer: but it was no place for them, and I was obliged to call at
Claytor,
in a little time. I could not forget my promise to the lovely Miss
Spence.
My honour was engaged, and there was no time to lose. It is true, if I had not been engaged, I might immediately have married either the beautiful Miss
Tilston,
or the more beautiful Miss
Llandsoy,
then become my wards; but as they were minors, if such a wife died under age, I could be no gainer, and might have children to maintain without any fortune. All these things sat powerfully on my spirits, and I was obliged at last to make the following declaration to the ladies, which I did the third day after dinner.
Miss
Tilston,
Miss
Llandsoy,
I am sensible you have too high an opinion of what I have done to serve you, and think there is more merit in it than there really is; for a man of any generosity and ability would, I imagine, do all that was possible to deliver two young ladies of your charms and perfections, from the slavery and misery your guardian kept you in: I am likewise sure you believe I would do every thing in my power, to secure your happiness, and give you the possession of every blessing of time. I honour, I admire, I regard you both, to a high degree; and if I were some powerful
genie,
I would crown your lives with stable felicity and glory. But nature, ladies, has irrevocably fixed limits, beyond which we cannot pass, and my sphere of action is far from being large. My fortune is not very great, and thereby prevents my being so useful a friend to you as I would willingly be. However, though it is not in my power to do according to my inclination, in regard to your case, and with security place you in some station fit for your rank and worth, yet I can bring you to a spot of tranquillity, and in still life enable you to live without perplexity or care of any kind. You shall have peace and little, and may perhaps hereafter say, you have enjoyed more real happiness, for the time you had occasion to reside there, than you could find in the tumult, pomp, and grandeur of the world.
Here I gave the ladies an account of
Orton-Lodge,
in the northern extremity of
Westmoreland,
where I had lived a considerable time told them the condition it was in, the goods, the books, the liquors, and other necessaries and conveniencies that were there, and if, in that charming romantic spot, where no mortal could come to hurt them, they could bear to live for a while, I would settle them there, and get a man servant to work in the garden, and a couple of maids. I would likewise procure for them two cows, a few lambs, some poultry, and corn, and seeds for the ground: in short, that they should have every thing requisite in such a place; I would return to them as soon as possible; I would write to them often, directing my letters to the nearest town, to be called for by their man. What do you say, ladies, to this proposal? In
London
it is not possible for you to be: at a farm-house you might have no satisfaction: and any where that was known and frequented, you may be liable to discovery, as
Cock,
your guardian, will enquire every where; and if he hears of you, you will be carried home most certainly to his dismal habitation, and be used ten times worse than before. What do you think then of this scheme?
Sir, (they both replied) you are to us a subaltern power, by heaven sent to deliver us from misery, and secure our happiness in this world. We have not words to express the gratitude of our souls for this further instance of your goodness in the offer you make us, nor can it ever be in our power to make you the return it deserves. You will be pleased to accept our grateful thanks, and all we have to add at present, our prayers for your preservation and health. Conduct us, we beseech you, immediately to that sweet spot of peace you have described.
This being agreed on, the next thing to be done was to get two horses for the ladies, for mine were not able to carry double any further, if there had been a turnpike road before us; then up the mountains we were to go, where no double horse could travel; and when they were at the Lodge, they would want horses to ride sometimes, or to remove, if the necessity of their case should happen to require it: to my landlord therefore I applied upon the occasion, and he very quickly got for me not only two pretty beasts, but a young labouring man, and two country girls to wait upon the ladies. I then sent to the next town for a couple of side-saddles, gave the servants directions to go to the Rev. Mr.
Fleming
's house, to wait there till they heard from me, and then we set out for
Orton-Ladge.
Two days we spent in travelling there, feeding on cold provisions we had with us, and lying a night on the fern of the mountains. The second evening we arrived at the Lodge. There I found every thing safe, and the place as I had left it. I opened my various store-houses, to the surprize of the young ladies, and brought them many good things; biscuits, potted char, potted black-cocks, sweetmeats, and liquors of various kinds:
O Fin
likewise got us a dish of trouts for supper, and the two beauties and I sat down with chearfulness to our table.— Vastly amazed they were at all they saw. Every thing was so good, and the wild charms of the place so pleasing, that they could not but express the transports they were in at their present situation. The whole they said, was charming as inchantment, and in language there was not a force sufficient to express their grateful sentiments upon the occasion. This gave me much pleasure, and till the end of
June,
I lived a very happy life with these fine young creatures. They did all that was possible to shew their esteem and gratitude. Exclusive of their amazing fine faces, and persons, they were ingenious, gay, and engaging, and made every minute of time delightful. If I had not been engaged to Miss
Spence,
I should certainly have sat down in peace with these two young ladies, and with them connected, have looked upon
Orton-Lodge
as the Garden of
Eden.
They were both most charming women. Miss
Llandsoy
was a mere divinity!
SECTION VII.
Come all, O come, ye family of joy;
Ye children of the chearful hour, begot
By wisdom on the virtuous mind; O come!
Come innocence, in conscious strength secure;
Come courage, foremost in the manly train;
Come all, and in the honest heart abide,
Your native residence, your fortress still,
From real or from fancied evils free:
Let's drive far off, for ever drive that bane,
That hideous pest, engender'd deep in hell,
Horrid to sight, and by the frighted furies
In their dread panic
Superstition
nam'd.
Let rescu'd fancy turn aloft her eye,
And view yon wide extended arch; behold
You crystal concave, studded with the gems,
The radiant gems of heaven, that nightly burn,
In golden lamps, and gild th' aetherial space;
That smiling vault, that canopy of stars.
Or eastward turn, and see, serenely bright,
The full-orb'd moon begins her silent round:
The mountain tops, the rocks, the vales, the lawns,
By her set off, adorn'd, and made delightful.
On earth, benign, she sheds her borrowed ray,
And onward leads along her sparkling train.
Behold yon blazing sun, in glory rise:
Oceans of light he pours upon the world,
And night with all her train before him fly.
All nature smiles, rejoicing in his beams.
The feather'd kinds their morning anthem sing:
The fish skim sportive o'er the gilded lakes:
Their tow'ring tops the waving forests shew;
And op'ning flowers their various dyes display,
Perfume the air, and grateful incense yield.
It is a glorious and charming scene.
What should we fear then? this grand prospect brings.
No dreadful phantom to the frighted eye,
No terror to the soul; 'tis transport all!
Here fancy roves in sweet variety.
All these, in their eternal round, rejoice;
All these, with universal praise, proclaim
Their great Creator; bountiful, benign,
Immensely good, rejoicing in his creatures.
They wake new raptures in the heart of man;
And fill his soul with gratitude immense.
July
1, 1731. My departure from
Orton-Lodge
a second time: missed my road: the country described.
§. 1. THE first of July, just as the day was breaking, I mounted my horse, and went again from
Orton-Lodge.
The morning being extremely fine, and every thing appearing as in the above lines, I rid softly on for three or four hours, and was so delighted with the beauties, and an infinite variety of lovely objects my eyes were feasted with, that I did not mind the way; and instead of coming to the turning that was my road, I got into a bending valley, which ended at a range of rocky mountains. For half an hour I travelled by the bottom of these frightful hills, and came at length to a pass through them, but so narrow, that the beasts had not above an inch or two to spare on each side. It was dark as the blackest night in this opening, and a stream came from it, by the waters falling in several places from the top of the high inclosing precipices. It was as shocking a foot-way as I had ever seen.
Finn,
(I said to my young man) as the bottom is hard, and you can only be wet a little, will you try where this pass ends, and let me know what kind of country and inhabitants are beyond it? That I will, said
O Finn,
and immediately entred the cleft or crevice between the mountains. A couple of hours I allowed my adventurer to explore this dark way; but if in that time he could make nothing of it, then his orders were to return: but there was no sign of him at the end of six hours, and I began to fear he had got into some pound. After him then I went, about one o'clock, and for near half a mile, the narrow way was directly forward, a rough bottom, and ancle deep in water; but it ended in a fine flowery green of about twenty acres, surrounded with steep rocky hills it was impossible to ascend. Walking up to the precipice before me, I found many caverns in it, which extended on either hand, and onwards, into a vast variety of caves; some of them having high arched openings for entrance, and others only holes to creep in at; but all of them spacious within, and high enough for the tallest man to walk in.
In these dismal chambers I apprehended my fellow had lost himself, and therefore went into them as far as I could venture, that is, without losing sight of the day, and cried out
Finn! Finn!
but could hear no sound in return. This was a great trouble to me, and I knew not what to do. Back however I must go to my horses, and after I had spent two hours in searching, shouting, and expecting my lad's return, by some means or other, I was just going to walk towards the crevice, or dark narrow pass I had come through to this place, when casting my eyes once more towards the caverns in the mountains, I saw my boy come out, leaping and singing for joy. He told me, he never expected to see the day-light more: for after he had foolishly gone too far into the caves, till he was quite in the dark, in hopes of finding a passage through the mountain to some open country, he was obliged to wander from chamber to chamber he knew not where for many hours, without one ray of light, and with very little expectation of deliverance; that he did nothing but cry and roar, and was hardly able to stand on his legs any longer, when by a chance turn into a cave, he saw some light again, and then soon found his way out. Poor fellow! he was in a sad condition, and very wonderful was his escape.
After this, we made what haste we could to our horses, which we had left feeding in the vale, and
Finn
brought me some cold provisions from his wallet for my dinner. I dined with great pleasure, on account of the recovery of my lad, and when we had both recruited and rested sufficiently, on we went again. We found the valley winded about the mountains for three miles, and then ended at the highest hill I had ever seen, but which it was possible to ascend. With great difficulty we and our horses got to the top of it, and down on the other side. Six mountains of the same height, whose tops were above the clouds, we had to cross, and then arrived at a bottom, which formed a most delightful scene.
Mrs.
Thurloe
's seat in
Westmoreland.
§. 2. The
Vale of Keswick,
and
Lake of Derwentwater,
in
Cumberland,
are thought by those who have been there, to be the finest point of view in
England,
and extremely beautiful they are, far more so than the Rev. Dr.
Dalton
has been able to make them appear in his Descriptive Poem; (addressed to two ladies, at their return from viewing the coal-mines, near
Whitehaven,
that is, the late excellent Lord
Lonsdale
's charming daughters;) or than the Doctor's brother, Mr.
Dalton,
has painted them in his fine drawings; and yet they are inferior in charms to the vale, the lake, the brooks, the shaded sides of the surrounding mountains, and the tuneful falls of water, to which we came in
Westmoreland.
In all the world, I believe, there is not a more glorious rural scene to be seen, in the fine time of the year.
In this fine vale, I found one pretty little house, which had gardens very beautifully laid out, and usefully filled with the finest dwarf fruit trees and ever-greens, vegetables, herbs, and shrubs. The mansion, and the improved spot of ground, were at the end of the beautiful lake, so as to have the whole charming piece of water before the door. The projecting shaded fells seemed to nod or hang over the habitation, and on either hand, a few yards from the front of the house, cascades much higher than that of dread
Lodore,
in
Cumberland,
fell into the lake. There is not any thing so beautiful and striking as the whole in any part of the globe that I have seen: and I have been in higher latitudes, north and south, than most men living. I have conversed with nations who live many degrees beyond the poor frozen Laplander. I have travelled among the barbarians who scorch beneath the burning zone.
An acccount of the
Miss
Thurlie
's.
§. 3. Who lived in this delightful valley, was, in the next place, my enquiry, after I had admired for an hour the amazing beauties of the place. I walked up to the house, and in one of the parlour windows, that had a view up the loch, I saw a young beauty sitting with a music-book in her hand, and heard her sing in a masterly manner. She could not see me, but I had a full view of her fine face, and as I remembred to have seen her somewhere, I stood gazing at her with wonder and delight, and was striving to recollect where I had been in her company, when another young one came into the room, whom I had reason to remember very well, on account of an accident, and then I knew they were the two young ladies I had seen at Mr.
Harcourt
's. (see p. 374. of
Memoirs of several Ladies of Great Britain,
) and admired very greatly for the charms of their persons, and the beauties of their minds. Upon this I walked up to the window, and after a little astonishment at seeing me, they behaved with the greatest civility, and seemed to be highly pleased with the accidental meeting. While we were talking, their mamma came into the apartment, and on their letting her know who I was, and where they had been acquainted with me, the old lady was pleased to ask me to stay at her house that night, and to assure me she was glad to see me, as she had often heard her daughters speak of me. Three days I passed with great pleasure in this sweet place, and then with regret took my leave. These two fine young creatures were the Miss
Thurloe
's, and are Mrs.
Lowman
and Mrs.
Munkley,
in the
Memoirs of several Ladies of Great Britain.
In the 2d volume of that work, the reader will find their lives.
Account of a
Carthusian
monastery in
Richmondshire.
§. 4. The 5th of
July
I left Mrs.
Thurloe
's, and by the assistance of a guide, had a fine ride to the house of Friar
Fleming,
in
Richmondshire,
where I arrived by noon. I dined with this good
Franciscan,
and should have lain there that night, but that I could not help being melancholy, on missing my dear friend
Tom,
the Monk's brother, who died of a fever, as before related. From him then I parted in the evening, and rid to a
Carthusian monastry,
which consisted of seven monks, men of some estate, who had agreed to live together in this remote place, and pass their lives in piety, study, and gardening. I had a letter from
Fleming
to one of these gentlemen, the superior, letting him know I was his near friend, and desiring he would receive me as himself; that, although a protestant, I was of no party, but in charity with all mankind. This letter procured me all the kindness and honours these gentlemen could shew me. They behaved with great civility and tenderness, and gave me the best they had, good fish, good bread, good wine, excellent fruit, and fine vegetables; for as to flesh, they never eat any, by their rule.
They were all learned and devout men, very grave and silent for the most part, except when visited, but without any thing stiff or morose in their manner. They had a large collection of books, and seemed to understand them well. What time they had to spare from the hours of divine service, and working in their gardens, according to the rule of St.
Benet,
which they follow, they give to study, and had many volumes of their own writing; being mostly old MSS. they had transcribed,
Greek, Latin,
and
French.
Making such copies was their principal work in the closet.
Reasons for reading the works of the
Rabbies,
fictitious and extravagant as they are.
§. 5. I stayed two days with these gentlemen, and had a good deal of useful conversation with them, on various subjects. On looking into the writings of the
Rabbies,
which I saw in their library, I told one of these
Chartreux,
that it was a wonder to me, that any one read such extravagant fabulous relations and despicable fictions as these books contained, and should be glad to know, what good could be extracted from them.
The
Friar
replied, that notwithstanding their being fictitious and extravagant to a high degree, yet great use may be made of the
works
of the
Rabbies,
and especially of the
Talmud of Babylon
An account of the
Talmuds.
Reader, that you may the better understand the conversation I had with this learned
Carthusian,
I must inform you what the
Talmud,
and other writings of the
Rabbies,
are.—
The
Talmud
is a celebrated piece of
Jewish
literature, that is full of
Rabinical
domination and enthusiasm. The
Rabbins
pretend, this book contains the
Oral
laws, and other secrets, which God communicated to
Moses.
It consists of two parts, each of which is divided into several books. In the first part, which they call
Mishna,
is the
text.
In the other, is a sort of
comment
on the text, and this is stiled the
Gemara.
This oral law, or tradition of the
Jews,
was collected after the destruction of the Temple, A. D. 150, by
Rabbi Judah,
and is by them preferred before the scripture. They suppose it was orally delivered by
Moses
to
Israel,
and unlawful to be written; but when
Jerusalem
was destroyed, they were constrained to write it, least it should be lost; but yet it was so written, as that none but themselves might understand it.—This
Mishna
and
Gemara
compleat the two
Talmuds:
—that of
Jerusalem,
A. D. 230;—and that of
Babylon,
500 years after Christ. Many parts of these
Talmuds
are translated by several learned men, who have endeavoured to render them intelligible: but in order to understand them fully, you must read the
Jad Chaska,
or
Mishna Torah
of
Moses Maimonides,
who was physician to the king of
Egypt
about 600 years ago. This
Rabbi
hath comprized the substance of the
Mishna
and
Gemara
of the
Talmud,
in his books, and enabled us to understand all the
Mishna
with ease and pleasure. See likewise the
Clavis Talmudica, Cock's Excerpta,
and the works of the excellent
Ludivicus de Campeigne du Veil,
who had been a
Jew,
but became a
Roman Catholic;
from
Rome
went over to the Church of
England,
where he was for several years in the character of a great divine: but at last turned
Baptist,
and died a member of that christian church; which lost him all his friends and interest. He died the beginning of this century, with the reputation of an upright Christian and a most learned man. There is no tolerable account given of him in any of the Biographical Dictionaries. What they say is short and next to nothing. And the
Popish
accounts are not only short, but false, and mere calumny.—I took a great deal of pains some years ago, to collect among the
Baptists,
and from others who knew this great man, every thing I could get relating to him and his works, and formed what I had got into a life of him, which I did intend to insert in this place: but by some accident or other, it is gone. I cannot find it any where.
We obtain from thence a knowledge of the customs and opinions of the
Jews,
which afford some benefit. In the next place, they serve to the confirmation of the history of
Jesus Christ;
for it appears by the
Babylonish Talmud,
that there was one
Jesus,
who had disciples, lived in such and such a place, and did and said divers things; and in the Bible many texts relating to the
Messias
are confirmed and explained by these books of the
Rabbies,
though not by them intended. This I have since found to be the truth of the case. I have read the works of the
Rabbins
since, and find it to be as the
Carthusian
said. For example;
It is said in
Gen.
iii. 15.
I will put enmity between thy seed and her seed. It shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.
Now the
Targum
of
Onkelos
gives the sense thus: The man shall be mindful of, or remember, what thou (satan) hast done to him in times past, and thou shalt observe,
watch
or
haunt
him till the end of days; that is, the serpent or devil should pursue and have dominion over the world till the
last days,
and then the
prince of this world should be cast out,
and the
works of the devil
destroyed.
Beacharith Heyamim,
the
end of days,
or
last days,
is, by a general rule, given by the most learned
Rabbins,
meant of the
Messias.
So
Kimchi
on
Isa.
ii. 2.—and
Abarbriel
and
R. Moses Nachm
on
Gen.
xlix. 1. inform us.
It is likewise very remarkable, that the
Targum
of
Jerusalem,
and that of
Jonathan Ben Uziel,
apply this place to the coming of the
Messias.
They give the words the following sense. — I will put enmity between thy seed and her seed: when the sons of the woman keeping my law, they shall bruise thy head, and when they break my law, thou shalt bruise their heel; but the wound given to the seed of the woman, shall be healed, but thine shall be incurable; they shall be healed in the
last days,
in the days of the
Messias.
—Such is the opinion of the most learned
Jews:
—and from thence it follows, that the
Christians
have not put their sense upon the text I have cited to serve their own turn; the
Rabbins,
we see, give the very same meaning to the place.
Again in
Numb.
xxiv. 17. we have the famous prophecy of
Balaam: There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall rise out of Israel.
— In
Isaiah
xi. 1. it is written;
And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots, and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him.
And in
Jeremiah
xxiii. 5.6.
Behold the days shall come, saith the Lord, that I will raise unto David a righteous branch,
—
and this is his name whereby he shall be called, The Lord our Righteousness.
That the
Christians
apply these
texts
to the Messias, I need not inform the reader: but it must be grateful to observe, that the paraphrases of
Onkelos, Jonathan,
and
Jerusalem,
all of them expressly attribute the
prophecy
of
Balaam
to the
Messias.
And
Rabbi Moses Hadarsan
and
Maimon,
say, he is here called a
Star,
(which signifies what
Malachi
expresses by the
Sun
of
Righteousness.
Mal. iv. 2. and
Zechariah
by the
East. I will bring forth my servant the East.
Zach. iii. 8. as it is translated in the
Vulgar, Septuagint, Arabic,
and
Syriac
) is here, say these
Rabbins,
called a
Star,
because he should come and destroy
idolatry,
among the heathen nations, by becoming
a light to the gentiles,
and
the glory of Israel.
As to the other two texts, the Jews do likewise attribute them to the
Messias. Rabbi Joseph Albo,
speaking of the words,
The Lord our Righteousness,
in particular, says expressly, that this is one name given to the
Messias. Albo, Sep. ikker.
lib. 2. c. 28. Thus do the
Jews
concur with us in the application of
texts
to the
Messias.
But what is become of this
Messias,
they cannot tell. They are amazed, perplexed, and confounded about him. They dispute on the article, and have the wildest fancies in relation to it. Whereas the Christians give a clear and consistent account of the
Messias,
and by every argument that can be desired by a rational, prove the truth of christianity.
Again: in
Isa.
ix. 6. we have these words:
Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulders: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.
Or as the
Alexandrian
MS. hath it,
He shall call his name the Angel, Wonderful, Counsellor, Mighty, the Governor, the Prince of Peace, the Father of the age to come.
This is thought by all
Christians
to be a plain declaration of the
Messias;
for to apply it to any mere mortal, as to
Hezekiah,
or
Isaiah
's son, cannot be done without the greatest absurdity: and therefore
Ben Maimon (epist. ad Afric.)
fairly yields that these words belong to the
Messias,
and so doth
Jonathan Ben Uziel
in his
Chaldee
paraphrase. The
Talmud
itself allows it.
Tract. Sanhedrim.
that it relates to a person not come in the time of the
prophets,
but to the man, whose name is the
Branch, which was to come forth out of the stem of Jesse, and to grow out of his roots. My servant the Branch. Behold the man whose name is the Branch.
Zech. iii. 8. and ch. xii. and Isa. iv. 1.
Even the person that shall be sent; Shilo,
that
remarkable person
God had promised to his people. So says the
Talmud.
But further; as to the birth of the
Messias,
in respect of the manner and the place, it is thus set down by the prophet
Micah,
v. 2.
And thou Bethlehem Ephrata, though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall come forth unto me, that is to be ruler in Israel; whose goings forth have been of old, even from everlasting.
—And in
Isa.
vii. 14. are these words,
Behold a virgin shall conceive, and bring forth a son, and call his name Immanuel.
In these two texts, (the
Christians
say) the
place
of the
birth
of the
Messias,
and the
manner
of it, are as plainly described as words can do; and if they cannot, without absurdity, be explained as relating to any other person, then it must be perverting the meaning of the records, to oppose this explication: but this the
Jews
are far from doing. The
place
is acknowledged in the
Talmud,
in the
Chaldee paraphrase
of
Jonathan,
and all their most famous
masters
declare with one voice, that
Bethlehem
indisputably belongs to the
Messias. Exte Bethlehem coram me prodibit Messias, ut sit dominium exercens in Israel, cujus nomen dictum est ab aeternitate, a Diebus seculi. (Talmud. lib. Sanhedrim, et Midrasch. The hillinic Rabbi Selemoh. paraph. Jonath. in Loc. Rabbi David Kimchi.)
—And as to the
manner,
tho' it be true that some
Jews
say, the
Hebrew
word
Gnalma
signifies a
young woman
as well as a
virgin;
yet
Kimell, Jarchi,
and
Selemoh,
three of their greatest
Rabbins,
confess that here is something wonderful presaged in the birth and generation of this person, and that he was not to be born as other men and women are born. What can we desire more, in the case, from an enemy? And in truth, the
behold,
or wonder, with which the text begins, would be nothing, if it was only that a young woman should have a child: — and as to the
Hebrew
word
Gnalmah,
if it ever does signify a young women, which I very much doubt, yet in the translation of the
Seventy,
who well understood the original surely, they render the word by
parthenos,
in
Graec;
which always signifies a virgin in the strict propriety of the phrase. And in the
Punic
language, which is much the same as the
Hebrew,
the word
Alma
signifies a
virgin, virgo intacta,
and never means a young woman.
Such are the advantages we may gain by reading the books of the
Rabbins;
and to me it is pleasing to see these great
Hebrew masters
granting so much to us for our
Messias,
while they hate our holy religion beyond every thing. Even the
gay
among the
Jews,
(if I have been truly informed by one who danced a night with them) have, in contempt and abhorrence of our faith, a country-dance, called
The Little Jesus.
An account of
Knareshorough
and its waters.
§. 6. The eighth of
July,
I left the little
Chartreuse,
and went from thence to
Knaresborough,
where I arrived that night, and resided three days. It is a fine old town, and borough by prescription, in the West-riding of
Yorkshire,
and wapentake of
Claro.
The vast hills of
Craven
look beautifully wild in its neighbourhood, and the rapid river
Nid,
which issues from the bottom of those mountains, almost encompasses the town. It is 175 measured miles from
London,
and the best way to it is from
Ferrybridge
to
Wetherby,
the left hand road, where there is an excellent inn, and from that to
Knaresborough.
When this very antient town passed from the posterity of
Surlo de Burgh,
the founder of it, we know not, but we find that Henry III. Reg. 13. granted the honour, castle, and manor, to the Earl of
Kent, Margaret.
his wife, and their issue and heirs, and that on failure of issue and right heirs, it returned again to the crown: for
Edward
the Second, among other lands, gave this lordship of
Knaresborough
to his favourite
Pierse de Gaveston,
Earl of
Cornwall,
and his heirs.
Gaveston
was taken not long after by the
Barons,
in
Scarborough
castle, after a short siege, and on
Gaversly-heath,
near
Warwick,
was beheaded by order of the Earl of
Warwick, June
20, 1312.
By the fall of the
insolent Gaveston,
who had been banished by the great
Edward
the First, but recalled and received into favour by
Edward
the Second, before his father's funeral was performed; by the death of this favourite, who had involved his master's interest with his own, and rendered any displeasure against himself, the want of duty to the prince (just as Lord
B
* * *, and the now
Outs
did the other day) which ruined the miserable King;
Knaresborough
came again to the crown, and so continued till the 44th of
Edward
the Third, when this king made a grant of the honour, castle, and manor of this town, and the cell of St.
Roberts;
to
John of Gaunt,
the king's fourth son, who was Earl of
Richmond,
and created Duke of
Lancaster,
on his having married one of the coheiresses of
Henry
Duke of
Lancaster.
Other great estates were likewise given at the same time to this fourth son of
Edward,
that he might maintain his grandeur: and ever since, this town has belonged to the dutchy of
Lancaster.
It is an appendage to the crown.
Not far from this town, are two wells, as strong of sulphur as
Harrogate-water,
and as valuable, though no one takes any notice of them. One lies in the way to
Harrogate,
in a low ground by a brook-side. The other is
Bitton-spaw,
in a park by Mr.
Staughton
's house.
Description of a dropping well.
As to the famous
dropping-well
or
petrifying water,
it lies on the west side of the town and river, about 26 yards from the bank of the
Nid.
It rises 15 yards below the top of a mountain of marle stone, and in four falls, of about two yards each fall, comes to an easy ascent, where it spreads upon the top of an
isthmus
of a
petrified rock,
generated out of the water, which falls down round it. This
isthmus
or rock is ten yards high, and hangs over its base or bottom about 5 yards. It is near 16 yards long and 13 broad, and as it started from the bank about fifty years ago, leaves a chasm between them, that is about three yards wide. In this chasm, you will find petrified twigs of trees, shrubs, and grass-roots, hanging in most beautiful pillars, all interwoven, and forming many charming figures; and on the common side are whole banks like
Stalactilites,
hard and inseparable from the rock, where the water trickles down. These
petrefactions,
the
falling water,
and the little
isthmus
or island being beautifully cloathed with ash, osier, elm, sambucus, servicana major, geraniums, wood-mercury, hart's-tongue, sage, ladies mantle, cowslips, wild angelica, &c. form all together a delightful scene. — The first spring of this water is out of a small hole on the little mountain, in the middle of a thick-set of shrubs. It sends out 20 gallons in a minute of the sweetest water in the world, and it is 24 grains in a pint heavier than common water.
Observations on petrifying waters.
Most people are of opinion, that
petrifying water
is dangerous drink, and may produce abundance of mischief, in causing the stone and gravel in the body: the original particles or principles of the stony substance called
spar,
which are in abundance suspended in this kind of water, must get into the flood-gates of the kidneys and ureters, (as they opine) and create great misery in a little time.
But this fear of
petrefactions
in living animal bodies is grounded upon neither reason nor experience; for the
spar
in these waters forms no
petrefactions,
whilst in a brisk motion, or in a temperate season, or on vegetables while they preserve their vegetating life. While there is warmth and circulation of juices, there can be no
incrustation
or
petrefaction
from the suspended stony particles. Besides, if the
minims
of
spar
are not within the spheres of sensible attraction, whilst in motion; much less are they so when mingled with the fluids of the human body: you may therefore very safely drink these limpid petrifying waters at all times, as a common fluid, if they come in your way, as the best, and most grateful or pleasant water in the world, on account of the infinitesimals, or original leasts, of spar that are in them, in vast quantities, but infinitely small particles: and if you are sick, in many cases sure I am, they are the best of medicines. Human invention has nothing equal to them for fluxes of any part of the body, or colliquations from an acid salt. So far are they from being in the least dangerous, that in all unnatural discharges, by spitting, stool, or urine; by excessive menstrual or haemorrhoidal fluxes, in the fluor albus, diabetes, profuse sweatings; in the diarrhoea, dyfentry, or lienteria (where the springs are not quite worn out:) in ulcers of the viscera, hectic fevers, atrophy, and colliquations or night sweats, there is not any thing in physic more profitable or pleasant, to recover a patient. Let your dose, in such cases, be three half-pints of
Knaresborough dropping-well
in the forenoon; and before you begin to drink this water, remember to take two doses of rhubarb, to cleanse off the excrements of the first viscera. You must not drink ale, drams, or punch, during a course of these waters: and take but very little red port. You must likewise have a strict regard to diet. Let it be milk, eggs, jellies, barley-broth, chickens, kid, lamb, and the like. You must avoid all salt, sharp, stimulating things, day-sleep, and night-air: but agreeable conversation, and diversions that require very little exercise, conduce to the success of this kind of water, in the distempers I have mentioned. If such diseases are curable, you may expect a restoration of health.
But, in the dropsy, jaundice, diminished or irregular menses; in hyppo, melancholy, stuffings of the lungs, obstructions of the viscera, stoppages of the lacteals and misentery, glandular swellings, king's-evil, or any case, where thinning, relaxing, opening, deterging, attenuation or stimulation are wanting, such water is death.
Note; reader, there is another excellent
petrifying-water
at
Newton-Dale
in
Yorkshire,
N. R. thirteen miles from
Scarborough.
— Another near
Castle-Howard,
the fine seat of the Earl of
Carlisle,
ten miles from
York.
— Another, near
Skipton,
in that rough, romantic, wild and silent country, called
Craven,
in the West-riding of
Yorkshire.
—And one, called
Bandwell,
at
Stonefield
in
Lincolnshire,
west of
Horncastle,
which is 122 miles from
London.
These springs, and many that are not to be come at among the vast fells of
Westmoreland,
and the high mountains of
Stanemore,
have all the virtues of
Knaresborough dropping-well;
though
Knaresborough-water
is the only one resorted to by company: and as to this spring, I can affirm from my own knowledge, that it is as excellent, and truly medicinal, as the famous
petrifying-water
at
Clermont.
There is no manner of need for
Britons
going to the mountain
Gregoire
in
Basse-Auvergne.
A POSTILLA,
A
Postilla,
reader, is a
barbarous word
made up of the words
post illa,
and was brought into use in the twelfth century, when the marginal explicators of the bible left the margins, and under their text writ short and literal notes, before which they put the word
postilla,
instead of the words
post illa,
meaning the particular words in the text, from whence, by a letter, they referred to the little note below: but in the 13th century, the barbarous word took so much, that all the commentators following, appropriated the name to their most copious commentaries, contrary to the first practice in the use of the word, and for three centuries after, the biblial learning was all
postilla,
till at length the word disappeared, according to the wonted inconstancy and agitation of all human things, and gave place to a new and fifth invention, called
tractatus,
or
homily.
This is the history of a
postilla.
Containing an Account of
Wardrew Sulphur-water,—
the
Life of Claudius Hobart,—
and
A Dissertation on Reason and Revelation.
In my account of sulphur-waters, I forgot to mention one very extraordinary spring of this kind, and therefore, make a
postilla
of it here, that the reader may find in one section all I have to say on mineral waters.— And as I found by the side of this water, a man as extraordinary as the spring, I shall add his life, to my account of the water, and a couple of little pieces written by him.
Of
Wardrew
sulphur-water.
In
Northumberland,
on the borders of
Cumberland,
there is a place called
Wardrew,
to the north-west of
Thirlwall-castle,
which stands on that part of the picts-wall, where it crosses the
Tippel,
and is known by the name of
Murus Perforatus,
(in
Saxon, Thirlwall
) on account of the gaps made in the wall at this place for the
Scots
passage. Here, as I wandered about this wild, untravelled country, in search of
Roman
antiquities, I arrived at a
sulphur-spring,
which I found to be the strongest and most excellent of the kind in all the world. It rises out of a vast cliff, called
Arden-Rock,
over the bank of the river
Arde
or
Irthing,
six feet above the surface of the water, and comes out of a chink in the cliff by a small spout. The discharge is fifty gallons in a minute from a mixture of limestone and ironstone. And the water is so very foetid, that it is difficult to swallow it. The way to it is not easy, for there is no other passage than along a very narrow ledge, about nine inches broad, which has been cut off the rock over the deep river, and if you slip, (as you may easily do, having nothing to hold by) down you go into a water that looks very black and shocking, by the shade of the hanging precipice, and some aged trees which project from the vast cliff.
This dangerous situation, and its remoteness, will prevent its being ever much visited, admirable as the spaw is; yet the country-people thereabout make nothing of the ledge, and drink plentifully of the water, to their sure relief, in many dangerous distempers.— It is to them a blessed spring.
A description of
Wardrew
in
Northumberland.
The land all round here was one of the finest rural scenes I have seen, and made a pensive traveller wish for some small public-house there, to pass a few delightful days. Its lawns and groves, its waters, vales, and hills, are charming, and form the sweetest softest region of silence and ease. Whichever way I turned, the various beauties of nature appeared, and nightingales from the thicket inchantingly warbled their loves. The fountains were bordered with violets and moss, and near them were clumps of pine and beech, bound with sweet-briar, and the tendrils of woodbine. It is a delightful spot: a paradise of blooming joys, in the fine season of the year.
The history of
Claudius Hobart.
§. 8. One inhabitant only I found in this fine solitude, who lived on the margin of the river, in a small neat cottage, that was almost hid with trees. This was
Claudius Hobart,
a man of letters, and a gentleman, who had been unfortunate in the world, and retired to these elysian fields, to devote the remainder of his time to religion, and enjoy the calm felicities of contemplative life. He was obliged by law to resign his estate to a claimant, and death had robbed him of a matchless mistress, of great fortune, to whom he was to have been married. The men who had called themselves his friends, and as
Timon
says in
Lucian,
honoured him, worshiped him, and seemed to depend on his nod,
, no longer knew him; jam ne agnoscor quidem ab illis, nec aspici ne dignantur me, perinde ut eversum hominis jam olim defuncti cippum, ac temporis longitudine collapsum pretereunt quasi ne norint quidem;
: so true (continued Mr.
Hobart
) are the beautiful lines of
Petronius;
Nomen amicitiae si quatenus expedit, haeret,
Calculus in tabula mobile ducit opus.
Quum fortuna manet, vultum servatis amici:
Cum cecidit, turpi vertitis ora fugâ.
And so sweet
Ovid
says was his case,
Eandem cum Timone nostro sortem
Expertus naso, qui sic de seipso:
En ego non paucis quondam munitus amicis:
Dum flavit velis aura secunda meis:
Ut fera terribili tumuerunt aequora vento,
In mediis lacera puppe relinquor aquis.
So
Hobart
found it, and as his health was declining from various causes, and he had nothing in view before him while he appeared, but misery: therefore, he retired to
Wardrew,
while he had some money, built the little house I saw on a piece of ground he purchased, and provided such necessaries and comforts as he imagined might be wanting: he had a few good books, the bible, some history, and mathematics, to make him wiser and better, and abroad he diverted himself mostly in his garden, and with fishing: for fifteen years past he had not been in any town, nor in any one's house, but conversed often with several of the country people, who came to drink the mineral-water: what he had fresh occasion for, one or other of them brought him, according to his written directions, and the money he gave them, and once or twice a week he was sure of seeing somebody: as the people knew he was not rich, and lived a harmless life, they were far from being his enemies, and would do any thing in their power to serve the hermit, as they called him: but he seldom gave them any trouble. His food was biscuit, honey, roots, fish, and oil; and his drink, water, with a little rum sometimes: He was never sick, nor melancholy; but by a life of temperance and action, and a religion of trust and resignation, enjoyed perpetual health and peace, and run his latent course in the pleasing expectation of a remove, when his days were past, to the bright mansions of the blest.
Such was the account Mr.
Hobart
gave me of himself, (which made me admire him much, as he was but fifty then) and to convince me his temper had nothing Timonean or unsocial in it from his solitary life, he requested I would dine with him. He entertained me with an excellent pickled trout and biscuit, fine fruit, and a pot of extraordinary honey: with as much creme of tartar as lay on a sixpence, fused in warm water, he made half a pint of rum into good punch, and he talked over it like a man of sense, breeding, and good humour. We parted when the bowl was out, and at my going away, he made me a present of the following MS. and told me I might print it, if I could think it would be of any use to mankind. It was called,
The Rule of Reason, with a few Thoughts on Revelation.
A tract.
§. 9. The throne of God rests upon reason, and his
prerogative
is
supported
by it. It is the
sole rule
of the
Deity,
the
Mind
which presides in the universe, and therefore is
venerable, sacred,
and
divine.
Every ray of reason participates of the majesty of that Being to whom it belongs, and whose attribute it is; and being thereby
awful,
and invested with a
supreme
and
absolute authority,
it is rebellion to refuse subjection to
right reason,
and a violation of the great and fundamental law of heaven and earth.
To this
best,
and
fittest,
and
noblest
rule, the
rule of truth,
we ought to submit, and in obedience to the
sacred voice
of
reason,
resist the importunities of sense, and the usurpations of appetite. Since the
will
of that Being, who is infinitely pure and perfect, rational and righteous, is
obliged
and
governed
by his unerring understanding; our wills should be guided and directed by our reason. In imitation of the wisest and best of Beings, we must perpetually adhere to truth, and ever act righteously for righteousness sake. By acting in conformity to moral truths, which are really and strictly divine, we act in conformity to ourselves, and it is not possible to conceive any thing so glorious, or godlike. We are thereby taught the duties of piety, our duties toward our fellows, and that self-culture which is subservient to piety and humanity.
Discourse on the rule of reason.
Reason informs us there is a
superior Mind,
endued with knowledge and great power, presiding over human affairs; some original, independent Being, compleat in all possible perfection, of boundless power, wisdom and goodness, the Contriver, Creator, and Governor of this world, and the inexhaustible source of all good. A vast collection of evidence demonstrates this. Design, intention, art, and power, as great as our imagination can conceive, every where occur. As far as we can make observations, original intelligence and power appear to reside in a Spirit, distinct from all divisible, changeable, or moveable substance; and if we can reason at all, it must be clear, that an original omnipotent Mind is a
good Deity,
and espouses the cause of virtue, and of the universal happiness; will gloriously compensate the
worthy
in a future state, and then make the vicious and oppressive have cause to repent of their contradicting his will. It follows then most certainly, that with this great source of our being, and of all perfection, every rational mind ought to correspond, and with internal and external worship adore the divine power and goodness. His divine perfections, creation and providence, must excite all possible esteem, love, and admiration, if we think at all; must beget trust and resignation; and raise the highest resentments of gratitude. All our happiness and excellency is from his bounty, and therefore not unto us, not unto us, but to his name be the praise. And can there be a joy on earth so stable and transporting as that which rises from living with an habitual sense of the Divine Presence, a just persuasion of being approved, beloved and protected by him who is infinitely perfect and omnipotent?
By
reason
we likewise find, that the excesses of the passions produce misery, and iniquity makes a man compleatly wretched and despicable: but integrity and moral worth secure us peace and merit, and lead to true happiness and glory. Unless reason and inquiry are banished, vice and oppression must have terrible struggles against the principles of humanity and conscience. Reflection must raise the most torturing suspicions, and all stable satisfaction must be lost: but by cultivating the high powers of our reason, and acquiring moral excellence, so far as human nature is able; by justice and the benevolent affections, virtue and charity, we are connected with, and affixed to the Deity, and with the inward applauses of a good heart, we have the outward enjoyment of all the felicities suitable to our transitory condition. Happy state surely! There are no horrors here to haunt us. There is no dreadful thing to poison all parts of life and all enjoyments.
Let us hearken then to the
original law of reason,
and follow God and nature as the sure guide to happiness. Let the offices of piety and beneficence be the principal employment of our time; and the chief work of our every day, to secure an happy immortality, by equity, benignity, and devotion. By continual attention, and internal discipline, reason can do great things, and enable us so to improve the supreme and most godlike powers of our constitution, and so discharge the duties imposed upon us by our Creator, that when we return into that silence we were in before we existed, and our places shall know us no more, we may pass from the unstable condition of terrestrial affairs to that eternal state in the heavens, where everlasting pleasures and enjoyments are prepared for those who have lived in the delightful exercise of the powers of reason, and performed all social and kind offices to others, out of a sense of duty to God. Thus does truth oblige us. It is the basis of morality, as morality is the basis of religion.
This, I think, is a just account of
moral truth and rectitude,
and shews that it is essentially glorious in itself, and the sacred rule to which all things must bend, and all agents submit. But then a question may be asked, What need have we of
revelation,
since
reason
can so fully instruct us, and its bonds alone are sufficient to hold us; — and in particular, what becomes of the principal part of revelation, called
redemption?
Account of revelation.
The
system of moral truth and revelation,
(it may be answered) are united, and at perfect amity with each other.
Morality
and the
gospel
stand on the
same foundation;
and differ only in this, that revealed religion, in respect of the corrupt and degenerate state of mankind, has brought fresh light, and additional assistance, to direct, support, and fix men in their duty. We have histories which relate an early deviation from moral truth, and inform us that this disease of our rational nature spread like a contagion. The case became worse, and more deplorable, in succeeding ages; and as evil examples and prejudices added new force to the prevailing passions, and reason and liberty of will, for want of due exercise, grew weaker, and less able to regain their lost dominion, corruption was rendered universal. Then did the true God, the Father of the Universe, and the most provident and beneficent of Beings, interpose by a revelation of his will, and by advice and authority, do all that was possible, to prevent the self-destructive effects of the culpable ignorance and folly of his offspring. He gave the world a
transcript
of the
law of nature
by an extraordinary messenger, the
Man Christ Jesus,
who had power given him to work miracles, to rouse mankind from their fatal stupidity, to set their thoughts on work, and to conciliate their attention to the heavenly declaration. In this
republication
of the
original law,
he gave them doctrines and commandments perfectly consonant to the purest reason, and to them annexed
sanctions
that do really bind and
oblige
men, as they not only guard and strengthen religion, but affect our natural
sensibility
and
selfishness.
Religion appears to great disadvantage, when divines preach it into a
bond of indemnity,
and a
mere contract of interest;
but exclusive of this, it must be allowed, that the
sanctions
of the gospel have a weight, awfulness, and solemnity, that prove to a great degree effectual.
Safety
and
advantage
are reasons for well-doing.
In short, the evidence of the obligation of the duties of natural religion is as
plain
and
strong
from
reason,
as any
revelation
can make it; but yet the means of rendering these duties
effectual
in practice, are not so clear and powerful from mere reason, as from revelation. The proof of obligation is equally
strong
in reason and inspiration, but the obligation itself is rendered
stronger
by the gospel, by superadded means or motives. The primary obligation of natural religion arises from the
nature
and
reason
of things, as being objects of our rational moral faculties, agreeably to which we cannot but be obliged to act; and this obligation is
strengthened
by the tendency of natural religion to the final happiness of every rational agent: but the clear knowledge, and express promises which we have in the gospel, of the nature and greatness of this final happiness, being added to the obligation from, and the tendency of reason or natural religion to the final happiness of human nature, the obligation of it is thereby still more strengthened. In this lies the benefit of christianity. It is the
old,
uncorrupt religion of
nature
and
reason,
intirely free from
superstition
and
immorality;
delivered and taught in the most rational and easy way, and enforced by the most gracious and powerful
motives.
Of the Mysteries, Trinity, and Sacrifice of the Cross.
But if this be the case, it may be asked, Where are our holy mysteries—and what do you think of our Redemption? If natural reason and conscience can do so much, and to the gospel we are obliged only for a little more light and influence, then Trinity in Unity, and the Sacrifice of the Cross are nothing. What are your sentiments on these subjects?
As to the
Trinity,
it is a word invented by the doctors, and so far as I can find, was never once thought of by
Jesus Christ
and his apostles; unless it was to guard against the spread of
tritheism,
by taking the greatest care to inculcate the
supreme divinity
of
God the Father:
but let it be a trinity, since the church will have it so, and by it I understand one Uncreated, and one Created, and a certain divine virtue of quality. These I find in the Bible,
God, Jesus the Word,
and a
Divine Assistance
or
Holy Wind,
(not Holy Ghost, as we have translated it): called a
Wind,
because God,
from whom every good and perfect gift cometh,
gave the most extraordinary instance of it under the emblem of a
Wind;
and
holy,
because it was supernatural. This is the scripture doctrine, in relation to the
Deity,
the
Messias,
and the
Energy
of God; of which the
Wind
was promised as a pledge, and was given as an emblem, when the day of
Pentecost
was come; and if these three they will call a Trinity, I shall not dispute about the word. But to say
Jesus Christ
is God, though the apostles tell us, that
God raised from the dead the Man Jesus Christ, whom they killed; that he had exalted him at his right hand, and had made him both Lord and Christ;
and to affirm that this
Ghost
(as they render the word
Wind
) is a person distinct and different from the person of God the Father, and equally supreme;—this I cannot agree to. If the scripture is true, all this appears to me to be false. It is a mere invention of the Monks.
As to
Redemption,
it may be in perfect consistence and agreement with truth and rectitude, if the accomplishment of it be considered as
premial,
and as resulting from a
personal reward:
but to regard the accomplishment as
penal,
and as resulting from a
vicarious punishment,
is a notion that cannot be reconciled to the principle of rectitude. Vicarious punishment or suffering appears an impossibility: but as
Jesus,
by adding the most extensive benevolence to perfect innocence, and by becoming obedient to death, even the death of the cross, was most
meritorious,
and was entitled to the highest honour, and most distinguished reward,
his reward
might be
our deliverance from the bonds of sin and death,
and the
restoration of immortality.
This reward was worthy of the giver, and tended to the advancement and spread of virtue. It was likewise most acceptable to the receiver. It no way interfered with right and truth. It was in all respects most proper and suitable. These are my sentiments of Redemption. This appears to me to be the truth on the most attentive and impartial examination I have been capable of making.
To this, perhaps, some people may reply, that though these notions are, for the most part just, and in the case of redemption, in particular, as innocence and punishment are inconsistent and incompatible ideas, that it was not possible Christ's oblation of himself could be more than a
figurative sacrifice,
in respect of
translation of guilt, commutation of persons,
and
vicarious infliction;
though a
real sacrifice
in the sense of intending by the oblation to procure the
favour of God,
and the
indemnity of sinners:
yet, as the author appears to be a
Socinian,
his account is liable to objections. For, though the
Socinians
acknowledge the truth and necessity of the revelation of the gospel, yet, in the opinion of some great divines, they interpret it in such a manner, as no unprejudiced person, who has read the scriptures, with any attention, nor any sensible heathen, who should read them, can possibly believe. They make our Redeemer a man, and by this doctrine reflect the greatest dishonour on christianity, and its Divine Author.
This is a hard charge. The
Socinians
are by these divines described as people who read the scriptures with prejudice, and without attention; men more senseless than the Heathens, and as wicked too; for, in the highest degree, they dishonour Christ Jesus and his religion. Astonishing assertion! It puts me in mind of an imputation of the celebrated
Waterland
in his second charge;—"What atheism chiefly aims at, is, to sit loose from present restraints and future reckonings; and these two purposes may be competently served by
deism,
which is a
more refined kind of atheism.
—Groundless and ridiculous calumny.
True and proper deism
is a
sincere belief of the existence of a God,
and
of an impartial distribution of rewards and punishments in another world, and a practice that naturally results from, and is consonant to such belief;
and if atheism aims to sit loose from restraints and reckonings, then of consequence,
deism
is the
grand barrier
to the purposes of atheism. The
true Deist
is so far from breaking through restraints, that he makes it the great business of his life
to discharge the obligations he is under,
because he
believes in God,
and perceives the
equity
and
reasonableness
of
duties, restraints,
and
future reckonings.
The
assertion
therefore demonstrates the
prejudice
of Dr.
Waterland,
in relation to the
Deists.
And the case is the same in respect of the
charge
against the
Socinians.
It is the
divines
that are prejudiced against them; and not the
Socinians
in studying the New Testament. It is the grand purpose of our lives to
worship God,
and
form our religious notions according to the instructions of divine wisdom.
We examine the sacred writings, with the utmost desire, and most ardent prayer, that we may be rightly informed in the truest sense of the holy authors of those divine books; and it appears to our plain understandings, after the most honest labour, and wishes to heaven for a clear conception of holy things, that
the Father is the supreme God,
that is, the first and chief Being, and Agent; the first and chief Governor; the Fountain of Being, Agency, and authority: that the
Christian Messiah,
the
Man Christ Jesus, was sent into the world to bear witness to the truth, and preach the gospel of the kingdom of God, that kingdom of God which is within you,
saith the Lord,
Luke
xvii. 21. not a
kingdom of Monks,
a
sacerdotal empire
of
power, propositions,
and
ceremonies.
He came to
call sinners to repentance
and
amendment of life,
to
teach them the law of love,
and
assure mankind of grace and mercy
and
everlasting glory,
if they kept the commandments, and were obedient to the laws of heaven; laws of
righteousness, peace, giving no offence,
and
unanimity in the worship of the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ:
but that, if they did not
repent,
and
cease
to be
hurtful
and
injurious;
if they did not open their eyes, and turn from darkness to light, from the power of satan unto God, and put on such an agreeable and useful temper and behaviour, as would render them a
blessing
in the creation, they would be numbered among the
cursed,
and perish everlastingly, for
want
of
real goodness
and a
general sincerity of heart.
This the
Socinians
think is what
Christ
proposed and recommended, as the only and the sure way to God's favour, through the
worthiness
of the
Lamb that was slain.
We say this is pure religion. It is true, original christianity, and if the glorious design of our Lord is answered by his
miracles
and
preaching,
by his
death,
his
resurrection,
his
ascension,
and by the
grace of the holy, blessed, and sanctifying Spirit,
it could reflect no dishonour on christianity, and its divine author, if our Redeemer was a
meer man.
If by the assistance of God Almighty, a
mere man
performed the whole work of our redemption, all we had to do was to be thankful for the mighty blessing. The love of God in this way had been equally inestimable. The worth of Jesus would be still invaluable.
But it is not the opinion of the
Socinians
that Christ was a
mere man.
It is plain from this assertion, that the Rev. Dr.
Heathcote,
(in his Remarks on free and candid Disquisitions) knows nothing of them: the account they give of
Jesus Christ,
is very different. They say, he was a most glorious agent united to a human body, and so far from being a
mere man,
that he was superior to angels. He was the next in character to the necessarily existing Being. He is the brightness of the Father's glory, and the express image of his person: he has an excellency transcendent, and to the life represents what is infinitely great and perfect.
If they do not allow that he made the worlds, or had an eternal generation; if they say, he had no existence till he was formed by the power of God in the womb, and assert this eminency is proper to the
Man Christ Jesus;
yet they are far from affirming he was therefore a
mere man:
no; they believe he was decreed to be as great and glorious as possible, and that God made the world for him; that he was made the
image
of the
invisible person
of the
Father; an image the most express and exact;
as great as God himself could make it; and of consequence, so transcendent in all perfections, that what he says and does is the same thing as if God had spoken and acted. This is not making him a
mere man.
No: they say he is the
first of all,
and the
head of all creatures,
whom the infinite love of God produced, to promote greatness, glory, and happiness among the creatures, by the superlative greatness and glory of Jesus; and that angels, and the spirits of the just made perfect, might have the pleasure of beholding and enjoying the presence of this most glorious Image, that is, of seeing their invisible Creator in his
Image Jesus Christ.
He is not a
mere man;
but the
brightness of the glory of God,
the
express Image of his person,
and raised so much higher than
the angels,
as he has inherited from God a more excellent name than they, to wit, the name of
Son,
and is the
appointed heir of all things.
So that this
Socinianism
reflects no dishonour on Christianity and its Divine Author. It conduces as much to the glory of God, and the benefit of man, as any christianity can do. There is something vastly beautiful and satisfactory in the notion of
Christ's
being the
most glorious Image
of the
invisible Father,
whenever his existence began. The many transcendent excellencies of the
Messias,
in
whom all fulness dwells,
are exercised upon men to their happiness, and to his glory; and we learn from thence, that greatness and glory are the result of the exercise of virtue to the relief and happiness of others. The Redeemer of the world is, in this account, the next in dignity and power to the Great God; and the perfections of the Father do most eminently shine forth in him. We are hereby made meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light, and delivered from the power of darkness. We give thanks unto the Father, who hath translated us into the kingdom of the Son of his love.
It is certain then that the divines have
misrepresented
the people, who are
injuriously
called
Socinians,
as the religion they profess is
Scripture-Christianity:
I say
injuriously,
because, in the first place, the word
Socinian
is intended as a term of great reproach to christians, who deserve better usage for the
goodness of their manners,
and the
purity of their faith:
and in the next place, that
Socinus
was so far from being the author of our religion, that he was not even the first restorer of it. He did not go to
Poland
to teach the people there his religious notions, but because there was a unitarian congregation there, with whom he might join in the
worship of the Father, through Jesus the Mediator,
as his conscience would not suffer him to assemble with those who worship
a Being compounded of three divine persons.
But it is time to have done, and I shall conclude in the words of a good author in old
French
Or rather in bad
French,
as the writer was no
Frenchman.
The extract must be a curious thing to the reader, as the valuable book I take it from is not to be bought.
Nostre confession de foy até depuis la premiere predication de l'evangile puisque nous luy donnons la sainte ecriture pour fondement, mais il arrive de nous ce qu'il arrive des tous ceux qui se sont detachés de l'eglise Romaine aux quels le papistes donnent malgré eux pour autheurs de leur religion Luther, Calvin, & autres docteurs qui n'ont eté que les restorateurs, des dogmes & de veritès qui s'etoyent presque perdues sous le gouvernement tyrannique de l'eglise Romaine pendant lequel l'ecriture sainte etoit devenue un livre inconnu a la pluspart de chretiens la lecture en ayant été defendue communement. Mais par un decret de la providence de Dieu le periode de la revolution etant venu chacun a commencé a deterrer la verité la mieux qu'il a pu, & comme dans chaque revolution il y a des chefs & des gens illustres, ainsi dans le retablissement des dogmes etouffès si longtems par le papisme Luther, Calvin, Arminius, &
Socin,
ont été des hommes illustres & dont on a donné le nom aux religions, Vous sçaurez donc s'il vous plaist que
Socin
bien loin d'avoir été autheur de nostre religion n'en a pas été meme la premier restaurateur: car il n'etoit venu en Pologne que parce qu'il avoit appris qu'il s'y etoit deja formée une assemblée de gens qui avoyent des opinions semblables aux siennes: Je vous diray de plus, que la seule chose que le fait un heros dans nostre religion c'est qu'il en a ecrit des livres, mais il ny a presque personne qui les life, car comme
Socin
etoit un bon jurisconsulte il est extremement long & ennuyeux; & outre que nous ne voulous point avoir d'autre livre de religion que le nouveau Testament & point d'autres docteurs que les apostres. C'est pourquoy, c'est bien malgré nous qu'on nous appelle
Sociniens
ou
Arriens:
ce sont des noms dont la malignité de nos ennemys nous couvre pour nous rendre odieux. Nous appellons entre nous du simple nom de
Chretiens.
Mais puisque dans cette desunion de la chretienté, on nous dit qu'il ne suffit pas de porter ce nom universel, mais qu'il encore necessairement se distinguer par quelque appellation particuliere, nous consentons donc de porter le nom de
chretiens unitaires
pour nous distinguer de
chretiens trinitaires.
Ce nom de
chretiens unitaires
nous convient fort bien comme a ceux qui ne voulant en aucune façon encherye sur la doctrine de Jesus Christ, n'y y subtiliser plus qu'il ne faut, attachent leur croyance & leur confession positivement a cette instruction de Jesus Christ qui se trouve dans le 17 chap. de l'evangile de St. Jean, quand il dit—Mon pere l'heure est venue, glorifiez vostre fils afin que vostre fils vous glorifie, comme vous luy avez donné puissance sur tous les hommes a fin qu'il donne la vie eternelle a tous ceux que vous luy avez donné or la vie eternelle consiste a vous connoistre, vous qui estes le seul Dieu veritable, & Jesus Christ que vous avez envoyé. La meme leçon nous donne l'apostre St. Paul dans le 8 chap. aux Cor. disant, — qu'il n'y a pour nous qu'un seul Dieu qui est la pere duquel sont toutes choses & nous pour luy, & il n'y a qu'un seul seigneur qul est Jesus Christ, par lequel sont toutes choses & nous par luy. C'est donc a cause de cette confession que nous nous appellons chretiens unitaires par ce que nous croyons qu'il n'y a qu'un seul Dieu, pere & Dieu de nostre seigneur Jesus Christ, celuy que Jesus Christ nous a appris d'adorer, & lequel il a aussy adoré luy meme, l'appellent non seulment nostre Dieu mais son Dieu aussy selon qu'il a dit, je m'en vay a mon pere & vostre pere, a mon Dieu & a vostre Dieu.
Ainsy vous voyez que nous nous tenons aux verités divines. Nous avons la religieuse veneration pour la sainte ecriture. Avec tout cela nous sommes serviteurs tres humble des messieurs les
trinitaires,—penes quos mundanae fabulae actio est,
& il ne tient pas a nous que nous ne courrious de tout nostre coeur a leurs autels, s'ils vouloyent nous faire la grace de souffrir nostre simplicité en Jesus Christ, & de ne pas vouloir nous obliger a la confession de supplements a la sainte ecriture
La verité & la religion en visite. Alamagne 1695.
An account of
Socinus.
§. 8. The great and excellent
Faustus Socinus
was born at
Sienna,
in the year 1539, and died at
Luclavie,
the third of
March,
1604, aged 65. His book in defence of the authority of the sacred scriptures is a matchless performance; and if he had never written any thing else, is alone sufficient to render his memory glorious, and precious to all true christians. Get this book, if you can. It is the finest defence of your Bible that was ever published. (Steinfurti, A. 1611. edit. Vorst.) And yet, such is the
malignity
of
orthodoxy,
that a late great prelate, Dr.
Smalbroke,
Bp. of
Litchfield
and
Coventry,
(who died A. D. 1749) could not help blackening the author when he mentioned the work: his words are these; — "And if
Grotius
was more especially assisted by the
valuable
performance of a writer,
otherwise justly of ill fame,
I mean,
Faustus Socinus
's little book
De Auctoritate S. Scripturae,
this assistance," &c.
2d charge to the clergy of St. David
's, p. 34. — Here the admirable
Faustus,
a man of as much piety, and as good morals, as hath lived since the apostles time, who truly and godly served the almighty and everlasting God, through our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, is painted by this eminent hand
a man of ill fame;
and for no other reason but because his heavenly religion made him oppose the
orthodox heresy of three Gods,
as taught in the
creed of Athanasius;
and piously labour, by the purity of his doctrine and example, to keep the world from corruption.
Let us then be careful to confess the holy
unitarian faith.
Let us take the advice of
Socinus,
and be
original christians.
Let there not be in our religion
a God compounded of three supreme spirits, equal in power and all possible perfections.
Let us worship the
Invisible Father,
the
first and chief Almighty Being,
who is
one supreme universal Spirit,
of
peerless Majesty;
and, as the inspired apostles direct, let us worship him through his
most glorious Image,
the
Man Christ Jesus;
our
Redeemer
and
Mediator,
our
King
and our
Judge.
N. B. Though the reverend
Dr. Heathcote
hath been very
unfriendly
in his account of the Christians he calls
Socinians,
in his Observations before mentioned, yet you are not from thence to conclude that he belongs to the
Orthodox Party.
He is far from it. and therefore I recommend to your perusal not only his
Cursory Animadversions upon free and candid Disquisitions,
and his finer Boyle-Lecture Sermons on the Being of God, but also his
Cursory Animadversions upon the Controversy, concerning the miraculous Powers,
and his
Remarks on Chapman's Credibility of the Fathers Miracles.
They are three excellent pamphlets. The first is against the
scholastic Trinity.
And the others on the side of Doctor
Middleton,
against the
miracles
of the
Fathers.
Note Reader, Dr.
Heathcote
's two pamphlets on the side of Dr.
Middleton,
and the Rev. Mr.
Toll
's admirable pieces in vindication of the Doctor against the miracles of the Fathers, will give you a just and full idea of the late controversy. Mr.
Toll
's pieces are called —
A Defence of Dr. Middleton's Free Enquiry — Remarks upon Mr. Church's Vindication
— And his
Sermon and Appendix against Dr. Church's Appeal.
And if you would see all that can be said in relation to this matter, get likewise
Dr. Syke's Two previous Questions:
and the
Two previous Questions impartially considered;
by the same author.
Remarks on two Pamphlets against Dr. Middleton's Introductory Discourse: — Two Letters to the Rev. Mr. Jackson, in Answer to his Remarks on Middleton's Free Inquiry:
— And,
A View of the Controversy, concerning the miraculous Powers, supposed to have subsisted in the Christian Church through several successive Centuries.
These pamphlets will bind into two large octavo volumes, and make a valuable collection of critical religious learning.
Note, Reader, of that admirable work, called
Bibliotheca Fratrum Polonorum,
by
Socinus, Crellius, Sclichtingius,
and
Wolzgoenius,
6 tomes, fol.
Irenopoli
1656. The first and second volumes are the writings of
Socinus;
the third and fourth by
Crellius;
the fifth by
Sclichtingius;
and the sixth by
Wolzogenius:
they are all well worth your reading, as they contain the most valuable and excellent learning; and especially
Socinus
and
Crellius.
In another place, (where you will find me alone in a solitude) I shall give some curious extracts from the works of these great, injured men, and a summary of their lives.
SECTION VIII.
When Love's well tim'd, 'tis not a fault to love;
The strong, the brave, the virtuous, and the wise,
Sink in the soft captivity together.
The author returns to
Harrogate,
and from thence goes to
Cleator
in
Westmoreland,
to wait upon Miss
Spence.
FROM
Knaresborough,
I went to
Harrogate
again, and there found the following letter, of an old date, left for me.
SIR,
As you told me, you intended to go to
London
soon, and business obliges me to ride up to the capital a few weeks hence, I should take it as a great favour, if you would make
Westmoreland
your way, and through
Lancashire
to the
Chester
road, that I may have your protection and guidance in this long journey.
I am, Sir, Your humble servant,
Maria Spence.
Cleator,
six miles to the south-west of
Wharton-Hall.
This letter surprized me. Yes, dear creature, I said, I will make
Westmoreland
my way to
London.
At four in the morning I mounted my horse, and rid to
Cleator.
I arrived there at six in the evening, and had travelled that day 75 miles; to wit, from
Harrogate
to
Boroughbridge,
8; from thence to
Catarric,
22; to
Gretabridge,
15; to
Bows,
6; to
Brugh
in
Westmoreland,
12; to
Kirkby-Steven,
near
Wharton-Hall,
6; to
Cleator,
6: — 75 miles. I dined at
Catarric
on a hot pigeon-pye just drawn, and ale of one ear, that is, admirable, (as
Rabelais
means by the phrase, "We had wine of one ear," alluding to the one shake of the head to the right shoulder, when a thing is excellent); and I gave the horses another feed of corn at
Bows,
the
George,
kept by
Railton
the Quaker (an excellent inn, and the master of it an instructive and entertaining orator). I mention these things for your benefit, reader, that you may know where to stop to advantage, if you should ever ride over the same ground I went that day.
While I waited at the inn, till the horses had eaten their corn, the landlord brought me a paper, dropt, by a lady he knew not, some days before at his house. He added, it was a curiosity, and worth my serious consideration.
A MORNING and EVENING PRAYER.
Almighty and ever-living God, have mercy on me. Forgive me all my sin, and
make my heart one,
to fear thy glorious fearful Name,
Jehovah.
Guide me with thy counsel, I beseech thee, and be the strength of my life and my portion for ever.
O Lord
Jehovah,
defend me from the power and malice, the assaults and attempts, of all my adversaries, and keep me in health and safety, in peace and innocence. These things I ask in the name of
Jesus Christ,
thy Son, our Lord; and in his words I call upon thee as, Our Father,
who
art in heaven,
&c.
Observations relative to Miss
Dudgeon
's Prayer.
This prayer pleased me very much. In the most beautiful manner, as well as in a few words, it expresses all we need ask from heaven; and if Miss
Dudgeon
of
Richmondshire
was the composer of it, as I have been assured since, upon enquiry, I here place it to her honour, as a monument of her piety and sense; and in hopes the illustrious of her sex will use so short and excellent a form of devotion in their closets morning and night.
There is an expression in this prayer, which for some time I could not well comprehend the meaning of; that is,
Make my heart one:
but on considering it, I found it supported by the greatest authorities.
Among the sayings of
Pythagoras,
one is, be
simply thyself.
Reduce thy conduct to
one single aim,
by bringing every passion into subjection, and acquiring that general habit of self-denial, which comprehends temperance, moderation, patience, government, and is the main principle of wisdom. Be simply thyself, and so curb desire, and restrain the inclinations, and controul the affections, that you may be always able to move the passions as reason shall direct. Let not every foremost fancy, or every forward appearance, have the least mastery over you; but view them on every side by the clear light of reason, and be no further influenced by the imaginations of pleasure, and apprehensions of evil, than as the obvious
relations and nature of things
allow. Let the result of a perception which every rational mind may have of the essential difference between good and evil, the be
cause
or
ground of obligation.
This will add greatly to quiet, and be productive of much real felicity. It will render every present condition supportable, brighten every prospect, and always incline us more to hope than to fear. This is the doctrine of
Pythagoras.
I likewise find that
David
expresses the same thought in the 86th Psalm, ver. 11. which is rendered in the Bible translation,
Unite my heart to fear thy name;
—in the Common-Prayer Book,
O knit my heart unto thee, that I may fear thy name:
but the
Hebrew
is, "
Make my heart one,
to fear thy name;" meaning, Let the fear of thee be the
one ruling disposition
of my soul, in opposition to the
double-minded
man, which the
Hebrew
elegantly expresses by a
heart and a heart;
one that draws to the riches, pleasures, and honours of this world; and another to the practice of all virtue.
As to the other part of the prayer, which has the words—
glorious—fearful—Jehovah;
—whereas in the 86th Psalm it is only said—"to fear thy name;" the author certainly took them from the 28th chapter of
Deuteronomy,
ver. 58. The design of the dreadful threatnings in this chapter set before the people, is there thus expressed,—
that thou mayest fear this glorious and fearful name,
JEHOVAH THY GOD; (in our translation,
the Lord thy God
). And therefore I think these words are very finely used in this prayer.
"It is amazing to me (says the
Rector
of
St. Mabyn
), that throughout the Bible, the translators have every where changed the word
Jehovah
for the word
Lord,
when God himself gave the word
Jehovah
as his name to be uttered; and as in this word the whole mystery of the Jewish and Christian dispensations seem to have been wrapped up.
Say to the people,
Ami Jehovah. I am Jehovah. Ye shall know that I Jehovah am your God, which bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egygtians.
Exod. vi. 6, 7. And
Deut.
vi. 4.
Hear, O Israel, Jehovah our God is one Jehovah.
Then as to this word's comprehending the two dispensations, a good writer observes that, though God was known to his true worshippers by many other names, as
God Almighty, the High God, the Everlasting God, &c.
yet
Jehovah
was his one
peculiar
name; a name which he had appointed to himself, in preference to all others, and by which he declared by
Moses
he would be distinguished for the time to come.
And as of all the names of God, this seems to be the most expressive of his essence, as it can only be derived from the
root
which signifies
to be,
and denotes the
one eternal self-existent Being, from whom
all other things
derive their being,
and
on whom
they must depend; —As the word does likewise signify
makes to be what was promised or foretold,
and by such meaning declares, as often as the word is repeated, that
Jehovah
our God is not only
self-existent,
and the
Creator of the world,
but
Him in whom all divine prophecies and predictions centre;
it follows, in my opinion, that we should utter this
awful name
in our addresses to God, and not, like the
Jews,
through a superstition omit it, and use another instead of it."
N. B.
The
Rector
of
St. Mabyn
is the Rev. Mr.
Peters;
and the passage is to be found in an excellent Preface to the octavo edition of his admirable
Dissertation on the Book of Job,
in reply to that part of the
Divine Legation of Moses demonstrated,
in which the author, my Lord of
Gloucesier,
sets himself to prove, that this
book
is a
work of imagination,
or
dramatic composition,
no older than
Ezra
the priest, whom he suppofes to be the writer of it, in the year before Christ 467, or the year 455, in the 20th year of the reign of
Artaxerxes,
king of
Persia,
when
Daniel
's seventy weeks begins; that is, the period of 490 years, that were to be fulfilled before the passion of our Saviour. And further, (according to the author of the
Legation
), that this
allegorical drama
or
poem
was written to squiet the minds of the
Jewish
people under the difficulties of their captivity, and to assure them, as represented by the person of
Job,
of those great temporal blessings which three prophets had predicted.
Now in the Preface to the book aforementioned, in answer to all this (and fully and beautifully answered it is), you will find, I say, the passage relating to the word
Jehovah,
and more than I have quoted from it.
As to
Pythagoras
the
Samean,
mentioned in this note, on account of his saying—
Be simply thyself;
—he was famous in the 60th olympiad, as
Jamblicus
informs us; that is, his
Elikia,
or
Reign of-Fame,
began in the first year of this olympiad, which was the year before
Christ
540; for 60 × 4 gives 250 − 777 leaves 537 + 3, the plus years of the olympiad;
i. e.
2, 3, 4 = 540.—And he died in the 4th year of the 70th olympiad, that is, the year before Christ 497: for 70 × 4 = 280 − 777 remains 497: there are no plus years to be added here, as it happened in the 4th or last year of the olympiad. This philosopher was contemporary with, and a near friend to, the renowned
Phalaris,
who was murdered in the year before Christ 556, when the
Belshazzar
of
Daniel
ascended the throne of
Babylon.
And as
Pythagoras
lived to the age of 90, according to
Diogenes,
he must have been born in the beginning of the reign of
Nebuchadnezzar;
the year this conqueror took
Jerusalem,
and its king
Zedekiah,
which was olymp. 47.3. and of consequence before Christ 590: for 47 × 4 = 188 − 777, remains 580 + 1=590. This was 54 years before
Thespis
invented
tragedy
Olymp. 61.1. Selden's Comment on the Arundel Marble.
and 11 years before the birth of
Aeschylus,
the reformer of tragedy.
Cyrus
was then in the 10th year of his age.
It is likewise evident from hence, that
Pythagoras
must have lived through the reigns of
Cyrus, Cambyses,
and the greatest part of the reign of
Darius Histaspes,
who slew
Smerdis
the
Magi,
and is called in scripture
Abasuerus;
the king of
Persia,
who married
Esther,
and ordered
Haman
the
Amalekite
to be hanged on the gallaws he had erected for
Mordecai
the
Jew,
in the year before Christ 510.
Note,
David
was before
Pythagoras
519 years.
Reader, As to the word
Elikia,
which I have used to express the
reign
or time of
flourishing
of
Pythagoras;
I have an observation or two to make in relation to it, which I think worth your attending to.
Clemens Alexandrinus
says (
Stromata,
p. 40),
: that is, The years from
Moses
to
Solomon
's
Elikia
are 610; to wit,
Moses
's life —
120
From his death to
David
's accession —
450
David
's reign —
40
 
610
From this passage it is plain, that the
Elikia
of
Solomon
is not meant of his nativity, but of the beginning of his reign, when he was 33 years of age.
It is then very surprising that
Dodwell
should insist upon it, that
Elikia
always signifies
nativity.
It is the more wonderful, as
Dodwell
quotes this passage from
Clement;
and as it is impossible to make out 610, without coming to the 33d of
Solomon,
as I have reckoned it.
Nay, in another place of the
Stromata, Clement
says,
Isaiah, Hosea,
and
Micah
lived after the
Elikia
of
Lycurgus;
where he can only mean the time when that lawgiver flourished; for, from the
Destruction
of
Troy
to the
Akmé
of
Lycurgus,
was 290 years: and from
Solomon,
in whose time
Troy
was taken, to the time of the prophets, was 360 years.
Thus does learning accommodate things.
Dodwell
wanted to fit a passage in
Antilochus
to his own calculation, and so 312 years from the
Elikia
of
Pythagoras,
that is, says
Dodwell,
from the
nativity
of the philosopher (he meant taking the word in that sense) to the death of
Epicurus,
brings us exactly to the time. Who can forbear smiling? A favourite notion is to many learned men a sacred thing.
Dodwell
settles his passage in
Antilochus
to his mind, by perverting the word
Elikia.
This, to be sure, in prophane things, can do no great harm: but when the practice is brought into things sacred, it is a detriment to mankind. Some divines, for example, to support a notion as unreasonable as it is dear to them, tell us that the word
Isos
signifies
strict equality,
not
like:
and that when St.
Paul
says
, we must construe it,
Jesus Christ
was
strictly equal
to the most high God. This is sad construction, when
Homer, Euripides, Aeschylus,
make the word
Isos
to import no more than
like. Isanemos,
swift
as
the wind;
Isatheos phos, like
a God;
Isanerios, like
a dream.
And when a divine is positive that
os
and
kathos, as,
and
even as,
words occurring in the New Testament, signify a
strict equality,
and not
some sort of likeness;
this is miserable perversion, and hurts the christian religion very greatly; as they endeavour, by such a
given sense,
to prove that the man
Christ Jesus
is to be
honoured
with the
same divine honours
we offer to
God the Father Almighty,
by the
command
and
example
of
Jesus,
who was
sent from God,
and was a
worshipper of God;
who lived
obedient
to the
laws
of
God, preached those laws,
and
died
for them in the
cause
of
God;
who was
raised
from the
dead by God,
and now fits on
God's right hand; intercedes
with
God,
and in his Gospel owns
his Father
to be
his
and
our only true God.
This is sad accommodation. Tho' the words never signify more than a
degree of likeness
in the
Greek classics,
yet our headstrong orthodox monks will have them to mean
strict equality;
and
Alexander
the Great and
Alexander
the Coppersmith are the same Being. Amazing! Gentlemen; here is but
One Ball,
and out of itself you shall see this one ball send forth two other balls, big as it, and yet not lose one atom of its weight and grandeur.
Hocus pocus, Reverendissimi spectatores,
the
One is Three.
And now, Gentlemen, be pleased to observe the miracle reversed.
Pilluli pilluli, congregate, Presto presio, unite: observate, Signori Dottissimi,
the
Three are One.
— Such is the
becus pocus
the
monks
have made of their
Trinity.
When I came to Miss
Spence
's door, I sent in my name by a servant, and immediately
Maria
came out herself to welcome me to
Cleator.
She told me she was glad to see me, and extremely obliged to me, for riding so many miles out of my way, to travel up with her to
London;
but as she had never been further from home than
Harrogate,
and was afraid of going such a journey by herself, she writ to me, in hopes curiosity and my great complaisance to the ladies, might induce me to take
Cleator
in my way to town, tho' so much about: but as so many weeks had passed since she came away from the
Wells,
and she heard nothing of me, she had laid aside all expectation of my coming. This made the visit the more pleasing.
In answer to this, I replied, that if I had got her letter sooner, I would have been with her long before: but that was not possible, as I had been at a little lodge and farm of mine in the northern extremity of
Westmoreland,
to settle things there, and returned to
Harrogate
but yesterday, when I had the honour of receiving your letter, and upon reading it, set out at day-break this morning to kiss your hand, and execute any commands.
The manner of passing the evening at
Cleator,
the first night I was there.
§. 2. Here an excellent hot supper was brought in, and after it, Miss
Spence
said, she was surprized to hear I was an inhabitant of
Westmoreland,
as she had never heard of me in the north, nor seen me at
Harrogate
before the other day.
I told her I was a stranger in the county, and by a wonderful accident, as I travelled a few years ago out of curiosity, and in search of a friend, up
Stanemore-hills,
I became possessed of a lodge I had on the northern edge of
Westmoreland,
where I lived a considerable time, and once imagined I should never leave it, as it is the most romantic and the most beautiful solitude in the world.
While I was giving this short relation, Miss
Spence
seemed greatly amazed, and her uncle, an old clergyman, who had looked with great attention at me, hoped it would be no offence to ask me how old I was.
None at all, Sir, I replied. I want some months of twenty-six; and though I dance and rattle at the wells, and am now going up to
London,
where all is tumult and noise, yet my passion for still life is so great, that I prefer the most silent retreat to the pleasures and splendors of the greatest town. If it was in my power to live as I please, I would pass my days unheard of and unknown, at
Orton-Lodge,
so my little silent farm is called, near the southern confines of
Cumberland,
with some bright partner of my soul. I am sure I should think it a compleat paradise to live in that distant solitude with a woman of Miss
Spence
's
form
and
mind.
But tell me, I request,
Maria
said, how did you get to the confines of
Westmoreland
over
Stanemore
hills, and what was that accident that put you in possession of
Orton-Lodge?
It must be a curious account, I am sure.
This, I replied, you shall hear to-morrow morning after breakfast; there is not time for it now. All I can say at present is, that it was love kept me among the mountains for some years, and if the heaven-born maid (vastly like you, Miss
Spence,
she was) had not, by the order of heaven, been removed to the regions of immortality and day, I should not have left the solitude, nor would you ever have left the solitude, nor would you ever have seen me at
Harrogate:
but destiny is the dirigent: mutable is the condition of mortals, and we are blind to futurity and the approaches of fate. This led me over the vast mountains of
Stanemore,
enabled me to cross the amazing fells of
Westmoreland,
and brought me to that spot, where I had the honour and happiness of becoming acquainted with Miss
Spence.
Thus did we chat till eleven, and retired to our chambers.
But the old gentleman, the doctor, when he came with me into my apartment, told me we must have one bottle more, for it was his nightcap, without which he could not sleep: he then bid the servant make haste with it, and when that was out, we had another. He was a sensible agreeable man, and pleased me very much, as he appeared a zealous friend to the illustrious house of
Hanover;
whereas almost all the clergymen I had been in company with since I came to
England,
were Jacobites, and very violent ones.
A conversation relating to the Revolution, and exclusion of
James
II.
§. 3. I remember, among other things, I asked this Divine, over our wine, — If
popery
is ever so corrupt, could men be debarred of their rights for an attachment to it? — Are not crowns hereditary? — And is not
treason
in our country stamped with so peculiar an infamy, as involving the delinquent's innocent children in the forfeitures, or penal consequences that await it, on purpose to check the rebellion of
Britons
by such an accumulated punishment of evil doers?
To this the doctor replied, that the exclusion of a popish prince must be lawful, if we ought to secure our property and religion, and, as in duty bound, oppose his trampling upon the laws, and his own solemn declarations. If the people have privileges and interests, they may defend them, and as justifiably oppose notorious domestic oppressions, as foreign invasions. The head of the community, has no more a licence to destroy the most momentous interests of it, than any of the inferior members, or than any foreign invader. If a king has no passion to indulge, incompatible with the welfare of his people, then, as protection and obedience are reciprocal, and cannot subsist, the one without the other, it must be a crime in the people not to honour, and obey, and assist the royal authority. It is not only the interest but the duty of the subject to obey the prince, who is true to the important trust reposed in him, and has the welfare of the people at heart. But such a king cannot be a papist. The Romish prince will not only stretch a limited prerogative into lawless power, and grasp at absolute monarchy; but will break through the most sacred ties, and subvert the rights he was sworn to guard, to re-establish
popery
in this kingdom. Could
James
the Second have kept the seat of government, and baffled all opposition, we may conclude from what he did, from his trampling upon the laws, and his own solemn declarations; from his new court of
inquisition
(the high commission court) to subvert the constitution of the church of
England,
and to lay waste all its fences against popery; from that furious act of his power, which fell on
Magdalen-college,
and his
two cruel acts of parliament
in
Ireland,
(
repeal of the act of settlement,
by which the protestant gentlemen were deprived of their estates; and the
act of attainder,
by which they were to be hanged, for going to beg their bread in another country, after they had been robbed of all in their own by their king, who had sworn to protect them); from hence, I say, it is plain, that if
James
could have sat firm upon the throne, his misguided conscience would have induced him to the most inhuman acts of violence. He would have proceeded to the barbarities; and rekindled the flames of
Mary.
Had he continued to reign over these kingdoms, it is most certain, that instruction and persuasion only would not have been the thing, but where instruction and persuasion failed, imprisonments, tortures, death, would have been used, to compel us to believe all the
gross absurdities
of
Rome,
their
impieties
go
God,
and
contradictions
to
common sense.
We must throw away our reason and our bibles, the noblest gifts of heaven, and neither think nor speak, but as we are bid by men no wiser than ourselves; or, we must expire under torments as great as the devil and the monks could devise. It was therefore necessary, for the preservation of our church and state, to exclude
James
and his popish heirs. The common welfare required this salutary precaution. The collected interest of the community is the primary end of every law.
All this, I said, seems quite right. To be sure, during that short twilight of power, which dawned upon
popery
in
England
in the years 1689 and 90, its rage was imprudent. It did discover its fury and resentment. In one of the
Irish
acts you have mentioned, more than 2000 people were attainted, and some of them the most noble and venerable characters in
Ireland.
Yet had success attended the arms of
James,
this would have been but the beginning of sorrows. And probably a son of christian
Rome
would have proscribed more in these two islands, than in heathen
Rome,
out of the whole vast
Roman
empire, were given up to destruction for their virtue, by the cruel triumvirate,
Augustus, Antony,
and
Lepidus:
And of consequence, since dear experience convinced, it was equally absurd and vain, to imagine that a popish head would govern a protestant church by any councils, but those of
popish priests,
as it was to imagine that a popish king would govern a protestant state by any councils, but those of
popish counsellors;
it must therefore be owned, that the Lords, and others, assembled at
Nottingham,
were just in declaring,
that King James's administrations were usurpations on the constitution; and that they owned it rebellion to resist a king that governed by law; but to resist a tyrant, who made his will his law, was nothing but a necessary defence.
This, to be sure, is just. But still, if crowns are hereditary, and one severe punishment of treason was intended to check all rebellion, were we not a little too hasty in the affair of the Revolution? And might we not have expected something better from the good sense and good nature of
James,
if we had waited a while, till he could see the folly of his proceedings?
To this the Doctor replied, that as to
James
's good sense, it never appeared he had any: and in respect of his many real good qualities, they were extinguished by his bigotry, and could never be of service to a protestant spirit, the spirit of freemen: it was therefore incumbent on them, who knew and loved the invaluable blessings they enjoyed, to act as they did; that is, as the wisdom of our constitution requires in such cases.
As to the crown's being hereditary,—and the severe punishment of treasons; — in respect of the first particular, there is no natural or divine law declares crowns hereditary. If a certain rule of succession has been established in most kingdoms, the single point of view in it was public good, or a prevention of those intestine commotions, which might attend an election: But as every rule is dispensible, and must give way when it defeats the end for which it was appointed; should the customary succession in a kingdom prove at any time productive of much greater evils than those it was intended to obviate, it may questionless be superseded occasionally. This point is evident from reason. Though the crown in our own country is generally hereditary, yet that right is to be set aside, if the security of our civil and religious liberty requires it. If the
pretence
of
James
was a right to
dominion,
in opposition not only to the sense of the
legislature,
but to that of the nation, then the
popish prince was justly excluded,
for denying the public good to be the supreme law. Had the right he claimed been established, then our religion, our liberties, and the safety of our fortunes, had been no longer our own. In case of such establishment, the glory of our constitution was no more. The sum of the matter is, the royal family of the
Steuarts
being
Roman Catholics,
makes their case similar to an extinction of it.
And as to the accumulated punishment of treason in
Great Britain,
that can only be designed as a powerful check to rebellion, against a king whose darling view is the welfare of the people. No infamy, forfeitures, or death, can be too severe for the man, who rebels against a prince that governs for the good of the people, and endeavours to transmit our state safe to posterity. To plot against such a sovereign is a great crime indeed. To conspire against a prince, whose life is of the utmost consequence to the community, is an enormity that ought to be stamped with a peculiar infamy, and punished in the severest manner. But it can be no treason to act against a
papist,
who violates every maxim of our constitution, and by every maxim of popery labours to destroy our religion and liberties. Every man may repel unlawful attempts upon his person and property, and is armed by God with authority for self-defence.
To this it was replied, that I thought the Doctor quite right, and for my own part was determined to oppose a
popish prince,
whenever he comes on with his
unalienable
and
indefeasible
claim, to introduce his
absurd and cruel religion,
to deprive us of our
rational christianity,
and make us
slaves,
instead of
free-born subjects.
No
popish James,
to write our themes, but (filling a bumper) may this nation be ever happy in a king whose right is founded upon law, and who has made it the rule of his government. May
Britons
ever remember the
merciless rage of popery,
and the
envious malice of France;
each ready to lay waste the whole fabric of our excellent constitution, and cry aloud, with all the embittered sons of
Edom, Down with it, down with it, even to the ground.
— Here the clock struck one, and we parted.
A Description of
Cleator.
§. 4. Early the next morning I was up, according to my wont, and walked out, to look at the place.
Cleator
is one of the finest spots that can be seen; in a wild romantic country. The natural views are wonderful, and afford the eye vast pleasure. The charming prospects of different kinds, from the edges of the mountains, are very fine:—The winding hills, pretty plains, vast precipices, hanging woods, deep vales, the easy falls of water in some places, and in others cataracts tumbling over rocks, — form all together the most beautiful and delightful scenes. All the decorations of art are but foils and shadows to such natural charms.
In the midst of these scenes, and in a theatrical space of about two hundred acres, which the hand of nature cut, or hollowed out, on the side of a mountain, stands
Cleator-Lodge,
a neat and pretty mansion. Near it were groves of various trees, and the water of a strong spring murmured from the front down to a lake at the bottom of the hill.
Character of
Maria Spence.
§. 5. This was Miss
Spence
's country-house. Here the wise and excellent
Maria
pass'd the best part of her time, and never went to any public place but
Harrogate
once a year. In reading, riding, fishing, and some visits to and from three or four neighbours now and then, her hours were happily and usefully employed. History and Mathematics she took great delight in, and had a very surprising knowledge in the last. She was another of those ladies I met with in my travels, who understood that method of calculation, beyond which nothing further is to be hoped or expected; I mean the
arithmetic of fluxions.
Very few men among the learned can consider magnitudes as generated by motion, or determine their proportions one to another from the celerities of the motion by which they are generated. I question if the
Critical Reviewers
can do it (I am sure they cannot), though they have made so licentiously free with me. They may however pretend to know something of the matter, and so did
Berkley,
late Bishop of
Cloyne
in
Ireland:
yet that prelate, in reality, understood no more of the method than a porter does, though he presumed to write against it, and the divine
Newton,
the inventor of it: I say it. But
Maria Spence,
in the 24th year of her age (at this time), was a master in the fluxionary way. She had not only a clear and adequate notion of fluxions, but was able to penetrate into the depths of this science, and had made sublime discoveries in this incomparable method of reasoning. She astonished me. I thought Mrs.
Burcott
and Mrs.
Fletcher
(mentioned in my first volume, p. 275.) were very extraordinary women, on account of their knowledge in algebra, and the sine answers they gave to the most difficult problems in universal arithmetic: but this sort of reasoning is far inferior to the fluxionary method of calculation; as the latter opens and discovers to us the secrets and recesses of nature, which have always before been locked up in obscurity and darkness. By fluxions, such difficulties are resolved, as raise the wonder and surprise of all mankind, and which would in vain be attempted by any other method whatsoever. What then must we think of a young woman well skilled in such work; — not only able to find the
fluxions
of flowing or determinate quantities, that is, the velocities with which they arise or begin to be generated in the first moments of formation (called the velocities of the incremental parts), and the velocities in the last ratio's, as vanishing or ceasing to be; but from given fluxions to find the fluents; — and be ready in drawing tangents to curves; in the solution of problems
de maximis & minimis,
that is, the greatest or least possible quantity attainable in any case; in the invention of points of inflection and retrogression; in finding the
evoluta
of a given curve; in finding the caustic curves, by reflection and refraction,
&c. &c.
— this was amazing beyond any thing I had seen; or did ever see since, except Mrs.
Benlow
of
Richmondshire,
with whom I became acquainted in 1739. (See
Memoirs of several Ladies of Great Britain,
Vol. I.) With astonishment I beheld her. I was but a young beginner, or learner, in respect of her, though I had applied so close to
fluxions
(after I had learned
algebra
), that my head was often ready to split with pain; nor had I the capacity, at that time, to comprehend thoroughly the process of several operations she performed with beauty, simplicity, and charming elegance. Admirable
Maria!
No one have I ever seen that was her superior in this science: one equal only have I known, the lady a little before mentioned. And does not this demonstrate, that the faculties and imagination of women's minds, properly cultivated, may equal those of the greatest men?
A reflection on the education of the women.
And since women have the same improvable minds as the male part of the species, why should they not be cultivated by the same method? Why should reason be left to itself in one of the sexes, and be disciplined with so much care in the other. Learning and knowledge are perfections in us not as we are men, but as we are rational creatures, in which order of beings the female world is upon the same level with the male. We ought to consider in this particular, not what is the sex, but what is the species they belong to. And if women of fortune were so considered, and educated accordingly, I am sure the world would soon be the better for it. It would be so far from making them those ridiculous mortals
Moliere
has described under the character of
learned ladies;
that it would render them more agreeable and useful, and enable them by the acquisition of true sense and knowledge, to be superior to
gayety
and
spectacle, dress
and
dissipation.
They would see that the
sovereign good
can be placed in nothing else but in
rectitude of conduct;
as that is agreeable to our nature; conducive to well-being; accommodate to all places and times; durable, self-derived, indeprivable; and of consequence, that on rational and masculine religion only they can rest the soal of the foot, and the sooner they turn to it, the happier here and hereafter they shall be. Long before the
power of sense,
like the setting sun, is gradually forsaking them, (that
power
on which the pleasures of the world depend) they would, by their acquired understanding and knowledge, see the
folly
of
pleasure,
and that they were born not only to
virtue, friendship, honesty,
and
faith,
but to
religion, piety, adoration,
and a
generous surrender
of their
minds
to the supreme cause. They would be glorious creatures then. Every family would be happy.
But as to Miss
Spence,
this knowledge, with a faultless person, and a modesty mor graceful than her exquisite beauty, were not the things that principally charmed me: nor was it her conversation, than which nothing could be more lively and delightful: nor her fine fortune. It was her
manners.
She was a
Christian Deist,
and considered
Benevolence
and
Integrity
as the
essentials
of her religion. She imitated the
piety
and
devotion
of
Jesus Christ,
and worshipped
his God
and
our God, his Father
and
our Father,
as St.
John
expressly stiles the God of Christians, xx. 17. She was extremely charitable to others, and considered conscious virtue as the greatest ornament and most valuable treasure of human nature. Excellent
Maria!
The author's departure
§. 6. With this young lady, and her two servants (her footman and her woman,) I went up to
London.
from
Cleator
for
London, July
31. 1731.
We set out from
Cleator
the 31st day of
July,
and without meeting with any mischief in all that long way, came fafe to
London.
We were nine days on the road; and as the weather was fine, and our horses excellent, we had a charming journey. My companion was so agreeable, that had it been two thousand miles from
Cleator
to
London,
instead of 272, I should still have thought it too short. Her conversation was so various and fine, that no way could seem tiresome and tedious to him that travelled with her. Her notions and remarks were ever lively and instructive. It was vast pleasure to hear her, even on the driest and most abstruse subjects, on account of the admiration her discourse raised, and the fine knowledge it communicated, to one who understood her. I will give an instance.
§. 7. In riding over the mountains the first day, we missed the road in the evening, and instead of getting to a very good inn, where we intended to rest, we were forced to stop at a poor little public house, and right glad to get in there, as the evening was tempestuous and wet, dark and cold. Here we got some bacon and fresh egges for supper, and the ale was good, which amused us well enough till nine o'clock. We then proposed to play at cribbage for an hour, and called for a pack of cards; but they had none in the house, and we were obliged to divert ourselves with conversation, till it was time to retire. Miss
Spence
began in the following manner.
A discourse on fluxions.
Was
Newton,
Sir, or
Leibnitz,
the author of that method of calculation, which lends its aid and assistance to all the other mathematical sciences, and that in their greatest wants and distresses? I have heard a foreigner affirm, that the
German
was the inventor of fluxions.
That cannot be (I replied). In the year 1696, Dr.
Barrow
received from Mr.
Newton
a demonstration of the rule of the
quadrature of curves,
which the Doctor communicated to Mr.
Collins;
and as this is the foundation of
fluxions,
and the
differential calculus,
it is evident Mr.
Newton
had invented the method before that time.
In the beginning of the year 1673,
Leibnitz
was in
England,
again in
October
1676; and the interval of this time he spent in
France,
during which he kept a correspondence with
Oldenburgh,
and by his means with
J. Collins;
and sometimes also with
Newton,
from the last of whom he received a letter, dated
June
18, 1676, wherein is taught the method of reducing quantities into infinite series, that is, of exhibiting the increments of flowing quantities. This method was utterly unknown to
Leibnitz,
before he received the abovesaid letter of
Newton
's, as he himself acknowledges in a letter to
Oldenburgh,
dated
August
27, 1676; for before that time, he says in his letter, he was obliged to transform an irrational quantity into a rational fraction, and then by division, after the method of
Mercator,
to reduce the fraction into a series.
It is likewise certain, that
Leibnitz
did not then understand these series, because, in the same letter, he desires
Newton
would explain to him the manner how he got these series. And again in a second letter from
Newton
to
Leibnitz,
dated
October
24, 1676, he gives yet clearer hints of his method, and illustrates it by examples, and lays down a rule, by which, from the ordinates of certain curves, their areas may be obtained in finite terms, when it is possible.
By these lights, and assisted by such examples, the acute
Leibnitz
might have learned the
Newtonian
method.
It is plain he did so; for in 1684, he first published, in the
Leipsic Acts,
his
Elements of the Differential Calculus,
without pretending to have had the method before the year 1677, the year he received the two letters from
Newton:
and yet, when Sir
Isaac
published his books of the number of curves of the first kind, and of the quadrature of figures, the editors of the
Acts
said
Leibnitz
was the first inventor of the
differential calculus,
and
Newton
had substituted
fluxions
for
differences,
just as
Honoratus Faber,
in his
Synopsis Geometrica,
had substituted a progression of motion for
Cavallerius
's method of indivisibles; that is,
Leibnitz
was the first inventor of the method,
Newton
had received it from him (from his
Elements of the Differential Calculus),
and had substituted
fluxions
for
differences;
but the way of investigation in each is the same, and both center in the same conclusions.
This excited Mr.
Keil
to reply; and he made it appear very plain from Sir
Isaac
's letters, published by Dr.
Wallis,
that he
(Newton)
was the first inventor of the algorith, or practical rules of fluxions; and
Leibnitz
did no more than publish the same, with an alteration of the name, and manner of notation. This however did not silence
Leibnitz,
nor satisfy the foreigners who admired him. He abused Dr.
Keil,
and appealed to the Royal Society against him; that they would be pleased to restrain the Doctor's vain babblings and unjust calumniations, and report their judgment as he thought they ought to do, that is, in his favour. But this was not in the power of the Society, if they did justice; for it appeared quite clear to a committee of the members, appointed to examine the original letters, and other papers, relating to the matter, which were left by Mr.
Oldenburgh
and Mr.
J. Collins,
that Sir
Isaac Newton
was the first
inventor
of
fluxions;
and accordingly they published their opinion. This determines the affair. When this is the case, it is senseless for any foreigner to say
Leibnitz
was the author of fluxions. To the divine
Newton
belongs this greatest work of genius, and the noblest thought that ever entered the human mind.
It must be so (
Maria
replied): As the case is stated, Sir
Isaac Newton
was most certainly the inventor of the method of fluxions: And supposing
Leibnitz
had been able to discover and work the
differential calculus,
without the lights he received from
Newton,
it would not from thence follow, that he understood the true method of
fluxions:
for, though a
differential
has been, and to this day is, by many, called a
fluxion,
and a
fluxion
a
differential,
yet it is an abuse of terms. A
fluxion
has no relation to a
differential,
nor a
differential
to a
fluxion,
The principles upon which the methods are founded shew them to be very different; notwithstanding the way of investigation in each be the same, and that both center in the same conclusions: nor can the
differential
method perform what the
fluxionary
method can. The excellency of the
fluxionary
method is far above the
differential.
This remark on the two methods surprized me very much, and especially as it was made by a young lady. I had not then a notion of the difference, and had been taught by my master to proceed on the principles of the
Differential Calculus.
This made me request an explication of the matter, and
Maria
went on in the following manner.
Magnitudes, as made up of an infinite number of very small constituent parts put together, are the work of the
Differential Calculus;
but by the
fluxionary
method, we are taught to consider magnitudes as generated by motion. A described line in this way, is not generated by an
apposition
of points, or
differentials,
but by the
motion
or
flux
of a point; and the velocity of the generating point in the first moment of its formation, or generation, is called its fluxion. In forming magnitudes after the
differential
way, we conceive them as made up of an infinite number of small constituent parts, so disposed as to produce a magnitude of a given form; that these parts are to each other as the magnitudes of which they are
differentials;
and that one infinitely small part, or
differential,
must be infinitely great, with respect to another other
differential,
or infinitely small part: but by
fluxion,
or the law of
flowing,
we determine the proportion of magnitudes one to another, from the celerities of the motions by which they are generated. This most certainly is the purest abstracted way of reasoning. Our considering the different degrees of magnitude, as arising from an increasing series of mutations of velocity, is much more simple, and less perplexed than the other way; and the operations founded on
fluxions,
must be much more clear, accurate, and convincing, than those that are founded on the
Differential Calculus.
There is a great difference in operations, when quantities are rejected, because they really vanish; —and when they are rejected, because they are infinitely small: the latter method, which is the
differential,
must leave the mind in ambiguity and confusion, and cannot in many cases come up to the truth. It is a very great error then to call
differentials, fluxions,
and quite wrong to begin with the
differential
method, in order to learn the law or manner of
flowing.
With amazement I heard his discourse, and requested to know by what master, and what method, she obtained these notions; for they were far beyond every thing on the subject that I had ever met with. What she said concerning the nature and idea of
fluxions,
I though just and beautiful, and I believe it was in her power, to shew the
bases
on which they are erected.
An account of
Martin Murdoch.
My master, Sir, (
Maria
answered) was a poor traveller, a Scotchman, one
Martin Murdoch,
who came by accident to my father's house, to ask relief, when I was about fifteen years old. He told us, he was the son of one▪ of the ministers of
Scotland,
and came from the remotest part of the Highlands: that his father taught him mathematics, and left him, at his death, a little stock on a small farm; but misfortunes and accidents obliged him in a short time to break up house, and he was going to
London,
to try if he could get any thing there, by teaching arithmetic of every kind. My father, who was a hospitable man, invited him to stay with us a few days, and the parson of our parish soon found, that he had not only a very extraordinary understanding, but was particularly excellent at figures, and the other branches of the mathematics. My father upon this agreed with him to be my preceptor for five years, and during four years and nine months of that time, he took the greatest pains to make me as perfect as he could in arithmetic, trigonometry, geometry, algebra, and fluxions. As I delighted in the study above all things, I was a great proficient for so few years, and had
Murdoch
been longer with me, I should have been well acquainted with the whole glorious structure: but towards the end of the fifth year, this poor
Archimedes
was unfortunately drowned, in crossing one of our rivers, in the winter time, and went in that uncomfortable way, in the thirty-sixth year of his age, to the enjoyment of that felicity and glory, which God has prepared for a virtuous life and honest heart. Why such men, as the poor and admirable
Murdoch,
have often such hard measure in this world, is not in my power to account for; nor do I believe any one can: but what I tell you is one of those surprizing things, and I lamented not a little the loss of such a master. Still however I continued to study by many written rules he had given me, and to this day, mathematics are the greatest pleasure of my life.
As to our method, my master, in the first place, made me perfectly understand arithmetic, and then geometry and algebra, in all their parts and improvements, the methods of series, doctrine of proportions, nature of logarithms, mechanics, and laws of motion: from thence we proceeded to the pure doctrine of
fluxions,
and at last looked into the
Differential Calculus.
In this true way my excellent master led me, and in the same difficult path every one must go, who intends to learn
Fluxions.
I would be but lost labour for any person to attempt them, who was unacquainted with these
Precognita.
When we turned to
fluxions,
the first thing my master did, was to instruct me in the arithmetic of
exponents,
the nature of powers, and the manner of their generation. We went next to the doctrine of infinite series; and then, to the manner of generating
mathematical quantities.
This generation of quantities was my first step into
fluxions,
and my master so amply explained the nature of them, in this operation, that I was able to form a
just idea
of a
first fluxion,
though thought by many to be
incomprehensible.
We proceeded from thence to the
notation
and
algorithm
of
first fluxions;
to the finding second, third,
&c. fluxions;
the finding
fluxions
of
exponential quantities;
and the
fluents
from given
fluxions;
to their uses in drawing
tangents
to
curves;
in finding the
areas
of
spaces;
the
valves
of
surfaces;
and the
contents
of
solids;
their
percussion, oscillation,
and
centers of gravity.
All these things my master so happily explained to my understanding, that I was able to work with ease, and found no more difficulty in conceiving an adequate notion of a
nascent
or
evanescent quantity,
than in forming a true idea of a
mathematical point.
In short, by the time I had studied fluxions two years, I not only understood their fundamental principles and operations, and could investigate, and give the solution of the most general and useful problems in the mathematics; but likewise, solve several problems that occur in the phaenomena of nature.
Here
Maria
stopped, and as soon as astonishment would permit me to speak, I proposed to her several difficult questions, I had heard, but was not then able to answer. I requested her, in the first place, to inform me, how the time of a body's descending through any arch of a cycloid was found: and if ten hundred weight avoirdupoise, hanging on a bar of steel perfectly elastic, and supported at both ends, will just break the bar, what must be the weight of a globe, falling perpendicular 185 feet on the middle of the bar, to have the same effect? — My next questions were, how long, and how far, ought a given globe to descend by its comparative weight in a medium of a given density, but without resistance, to acquire the greatest velocity it is capable of in descending with the same weight, and in the same medium, with resistance? — And how are we to find the value of a solid formed by the rotation of this curvilinear space, A C D about the axis A D, the general equation, expressing the nature of the curve, being
— How is the center of gravity to be found of the space enclosed by an hyperbola, and its asymptete? And how are we to find the center of oscillation of a sphere revolving about the line P A M, a tangent, to the generating circle F A H, in the point A, as an axis?—These questions
Maria
answered with a celerity and elegance that again amazed me, and convinced me that, notwithstanding the
Right Rev. metaphysical disputant,
Dr.
Berkley,
late Bishop of
Cloyne
in
Ireland,
could not understand the doctrine of fluxions, and therefore did all he could to disgrace them, and the few mathematicians who have studied magnitudes as generated by motion; yet, the doctrine, as delivered by the divine
Newton,
may be clearly conceived, and distinctly comprehended; that the principles upon which it is founded, are
true,
and the demonstrations of its rules
conclusive.
No opposition can hurt it.
When I observed, that some learned men will not allow that a velocity which continues for no time at all, can possibly describe any space at all: its effect, they say, is absolutely nothing, and instead of satisfying reason with truth and precision, the human faculties are quite confounded, lost, and bewildered in fluxions. A velocity or fluxion is at best we do not know what;—whether something or nothing: and how can the mind lay hold on, or form any accurate abstract idea of such a subtile, fleeting thing?
Disputants (
Maria
answered) may perplex with deep speculations, and confound with mysterious disquisitions, but the method of fluxions has no dependance on such things. The operation is not what any single abstract velocity can generate or describe of itself, but what a continual and successively variable velocity can produce in the whole: And certainly, a variable cause may produce a variable effect, as well as a permanent cause a permanent and constant effect. The difference can only be, that the continual variation of the effect must be proportional to the continual variation of the cause. The method of
fluxions
therefore is true, whether we can or cannot conceive the nature and manner of several things relating to them, though we had no ideas of perpetually arising increments, and magnitudes in nascent or evanescent states. The knowledge of such things is not essential to fluxions. All they propose is,
to determine the velocity or flowing wherewith a generated quantity increases, and to sum up all that has been generated or described by the continually variable fluxion.
On these two bases fluxions stand.
This was clear and just, and shewed that the nature and idea of
fluxions
is agreeable to the nature and constitution of things. They can have no dependance upon any
metaphysical speculations,
(such speculations as that
anti-mathematician,
my Lord of
Cloyne,
brought in, to cavil and dispute against principles he understood nothing of, and
maliciously
run the account of them into the dark;) but are the genuine offspring of nature and truth. An instance or two may illustrate the matter.
1. A heavy body descends perpendicularly 16 1/12 feet in a second, and at the end of this time, has acquired a velocity of 32⅙ feet in a second, which is accurately known. At any given distance then from the place the body fell, take the point A in the right line, and the velocity of the falling body in the point may be truly computed: but the velocity in any point above A, at ever so small a distance, will be less than in A; and the velocity at any point below A, at the least possible distance, will be greater than in A. It is therefore plain, that in the point A, the body has a certain determined velocity, which belongs to no other point in the whole line. Now this velocity is the fluxion of that right line in the point A; and with it the body would proceed, if gravity acted no longer on the body's arrival at A.
2. Take a glass tube open at both ends, whose concavity is of different diameters in different places, and immerse it in a stream, till the water fills the tube, and flows through it. Then, in different parts of the tube, the velocity of the water will be as the squares of the diameters, and of consequence different. Suppose then, in any marked place, a plane to pass through the tube perpendicular to the axis, or to the motion of the water, and of consequence, the water will pass through this section with a certain determinate velocity: But if another section be drawn ever so near the former, the water, by reason of the different diameters, will flow through this with a velocity different from what it did at the former, and therefore to one section of the tube, or single point only, the determinate velocity belongs. It is the fluxion of the space which the fluid describes at that section; and with that uniform velocity the fluid would continue to move, if the diameter was the same to the end of the tube.
3. If a hollow cylinder be filled with water, to flow freely out through a hole at the bottom, the velocity of the effluent will be as the height of the water, and since the surface of the incubent fluid descends without stop, the velocity of the stream will decrease, till the effluent be all out. There can then be no two moments of time, succeeding each other ever so nearly, wherein the velocity of the water is the same; and of consequence, the velocity, at any given point, belongs only to that particular indivisible moment of time. Now this is accurately the fluxion of the fluid then flowing; and if, at that instant, more water was poured into the cylinder, to make the surface keep its place, the effluent would retain its velocity, and still be the fluxion of the fluid. Such are the operations of nature, and they visibly confirm the nature of
Fluxion.
It is from hence quite clear, that the
fluxion
of a
generated quantity,
cannot retain any one determined value for the least space of time whatever, but the moment it arrives at that value, the same moment it loses it again. The
fluxion
of such quantity can only pass gradually and successively thro' the indefinite degrees contained between the two extreme values, which are the limits thereof, during the generation of the fluent, in case the fluxion be variable: But then, though a determinate degree of fluxion does not continue at all, yet, at every determinate indivisible moment of time, every fluent has some determinate degree of fluxion; that is, every
generated quantity
has every where a certain
rate
of increasing, a
fluxion
whose abstract value is determinate in itself, though the
fluxion
has no determined value for the least space of time whatever. To find its value then, that is, the
ratio
one fluxion has to another, is a
problem strictly geometrical;
notwithstanding the Right Rev. anti-mathematician has declared the contrary, in his hatred to mathematicians, and his ignorance of the true principles of mathematics.
If my
Lord
of
Cloyne
had been qualified to examine and consider the
case
of
fluxions,
and could have laid aside that unaccountable obstinacy, and invincible prejudice, which made him resolve to yield to no reason on the subject;—not to regard even the great
Maclaurin
's answer to his
Analyst;
— he would have discovered, that it was very possible to find the
abstract value
of a
generated quantity,
or the
contemporary increment
of any
compound quantity.
By the binomial theorem, the ratio of the fluxion of a simple quantity to the fluxion of that compound quantity, may be had in general, in the lowest terms, and as near the truth as we please, whilst we suppose some very small increment actually described: And whereas the ratio of these fluxions is required for some one indivisible point of the fluid, in the very beginning of the increment, and before it is generated, we make, in the particular case, the values of the simple increments nothing, which before was expressed in general: then all the terms wherein they are found vanish, and what is left accurately shews the relation of the fluxions for the point where the increment is supposed to commence. As the abstract value of the fluxion belongs only to one point of the fluent, the moments are made to vanish, after we have seen by their continual diminution, whither the ratio tends, and what it continually verges to; and this becomes as visible as the very character it is written in.
But Dr.
Berkley
was unacquainted with mathematical principles, and out of his aversion to these sciences, and zeal for orthodoxy, cavilled and disputed with all his might, and endeavoured to bring the matter to a state unintelligible to himself, and every body else. —Here
Maria
had done, and for near a quarter of an hour after, I sat silently looking at her, in the greatest astonishment.
But as to our travels, the 10th of
August
we got safe to
London,
and the consequence of the journey was, that the last day of the same month, I had the honour and happiness of being married to this young lady.
SECTION IX.
I am thinking with myself every day, (says one of the philosophers) how many things are dear to me; and after I have considered them as temporary and perishable, I prepare myself, from that very minute, to bear the loss of them without weakness.
CLEANTHES.
Cleanthes
was a native of
Assus
in
Lysia,
in
Asia Minor,
and so very poor, when he came to
Athens
to study, that, for his support, he wrought at nights in drawing water for the gardens, and in grinding behind the mill. He attended the lectures of
Zeno,
succeeded him in his school, and grew into very high esteem with the
Athenians.
He lived to 99, but the year he died we know not. His master
Zeno
died 342 years before
Christ,
and had conversed with
Socrates
and
Plato.
The antient
academics
were
Plato,
(the
disciple
of
Socrates
),
Speucippus, Zenocrates, Polemo, Crates,
and
Crantor;
and from
Crates,
the fifth
academic,
sprung the old
stoics,
to wit,
Crates, Zeno, Cleanthes, Chrysippus,
and
Diogenes
the
Babylonian;
not he that was
surly
and
proud. Cicero
in his works often mentions this
Babylonian,
the
stoic.
We find in the
Roman
history, that he was living in the year of
Rome
599, that is, 155 years before
Christ;
but when he died we know not. These gentlemen of the two
old schools
were to be sure great philosophers, —excellent men: but then, to be strictly impartial, we must own, that all they knew in relation to the
will of God,
and a
kingdom to come,
was but poor moral learning, in respect to what is written in the
New Testament
for our instruction, if we will lay aside our
fancies
and
systems,
and let
reason
explain revelation. The
Christian religion
is really more for the
glore of God,
and the
good of mankind,
than
reason,
without inspiration, has been able to teach.
Christianity;
without the
additions
and
supplements
of
monks,
is not only above all just exception, but preferable to any other scheme.
The death of the author's 4th wife, and his behaviour thereupon.
§. 1. WISE is the man, who prepares both for his own death and the death of his friends; who makes use of the foresight of troubles, so, as to abate the uneasiness of them, and puts in practice this resolution of the philosopher. I thought of this the morning I married the beautiful and ingenious Miss
Spence,
(as related in the latter end of my eighth section), and determined if I lost her, to make the great affliction produce the peaceable fruits of righteousness. The man must feel, in such a case; the christian will submit. Before the end of six months, she died, and I mourned the loss with a degree of sorrow due to so much excellence, endearment and delight. My complaint was bitter, in proportion to the desires of nature. But as
nature
says,
let this cup pass: grace
says,
let thy will be done.
If the flower of all my comfort was gone —
the glory departed!
yet thy glory is, O man, to do the will of God, and bear the burthen he lays upon thee. Let nature, grace, and time, do their part, to close the wound, and let not ignorance impeach the wisdom of the most high. The cup which my father hath given me: shall I not drink? I will. I will not quarrel with providence. In short, I resigned, and not long after I had buried this admirable woman, (who died at her seat in
Westmoreland,
) I went into the world again, to relieve my mind, and try my fortune once more. What happened there, I will report, when I have related the extraordinary case of my wife, Miss
Spence,
and the four physicians I had to attend her. It is a very curious thing.
The case of a lady in a fever, and an account of four physicians who attended her.
§. 2. This young lady was seized with that fatal distemper, called a
malignant fever:
Something
foreign
to
nature
got into her blood, by a cold, and other accidents, it may be, and the
luctus
or strife to get clear thereof became very great. The effervescence or perturbation was very soon so violent as to shew, that it not only endangered, but would quickly subvert the animal fabrick, unless the blood was speedily dispersed, and nature got the victory by an exclusion of the noxious shutin particles. The thirst, the dry tongue, the coming
causus,
were terrible, and gave me too much reason to apprehend this charming woman would sink under the conflict. To save her, if possible, I sent immediately for a great physician, Dr.
Sharp,
a man who talked with great fluency of medicine and diseases.
This gentleman told me, the
Alkaline
was the root of fevers, as well as of other distempers, and therefore, to take off the effervescence of the blood in the ebullitions of it, to incide the viscous humour, to drain the tartarous salts from the kidnies, to allay the preternatural ferment, and to brace up the relaxed tones, he ordered orange and vinegar in whey, and prescribed spirit of sulphur, and vitriol, the cream, chrystals, and vitriolate tartar in other vehicles. If any thing can relieve, it must be plenty of acid.
In acidis posita est omni curatio.
But these things gave no relief to the sufferer.
I sent then in all haste for Dr.
Hough,
a man of great reputation, and he differed so much in opinion from
Sharp,
that he called an
acid
the
chief enemy.
It keeps up the
luctus
or struggle, and if not expelled very quickly, will certainly prove fatal. Our sheet anchor then must be the
testacea,
in vehicles of mineral water, and accordingly he ordered the
absorbent powders
to conflict with this
acidity,
the principal cause of all diseases.
Pearl
and
coral,
crab's eyes, and crab's claws, he prescribed in diverse forms; but they were of no use to the sick woman. She became worse every hour.
Dr.
Pym
was next called in, a great practitioner, and learned man. His notion of a fever was quite different from the opinions of
Sharp
and
Hough.
He maintained that a
fever
was a
poisonous ferment
or
venom,
which seized on the
animal spirits:
it breaks and smites them; and unless by
alexipharmics
the spirits can be enabled to gain a victory in a day or two, this
ferment
will bring on what the
Greeks
call a
synochus,
that is, a continual fever. In that state, the
venom
holds fast the animal spirits, will not let them expand, or disengage themselves, and then they grow enraged, and tumultuating, are hurried into a state of explosion, and blow up the fabric. Hence the inflammatory fever, according to the diverse
indoles
of the
venom;
and when the
contagious miasms
arrive at their highest degree, the
malignant fever
ariseth. The spirits are then knocked down, and the marks of the enemies weapons, the spots,
&c.
appear. This (the Doctor continued) is the case of your lady, and therefore the thing to be done is, to make the
malignant
tack about to the mild, and produce an extinction of the ferment, and relief of the symptoms. This I endeavour to do by
alexipharmics
and
vesicatories,
and by subduing the poison by the
bark
and the
warmer antidotes.
Thus did my Doctor marshal shal his
animal spirits,
fight them against the enemy
venom,
to great disadvantage. If his talk was not romance, it was plain his
spirits
were routed, and
venom
was getting the day. His
alexipharmics
and
warm antidotes,
were good for nothing. The malady encreased.
This being the case, I sent again in haste for a fourth doctor, a man of greater learning than the other three, and therefore, in opinion, opposite, and against their management of the fever. This great man was Dr.
Frost.
He
was
a
mechanician,
and affirmed that, the solid parts of the human body are subjected to the rules of
geometry,
and the fluids to the
hydrostatics;
and therefore, to keep the
machine
in right order, that is, in a state of
health,
an
aequilibrium
must be maintained, or restored, if destroyed. The balance must not turn to one side or the other. To restore
sanity
in acute cases, and in chronic too, our business is to prevent the vessels being elevated or deprest beyond the
standard of nature:
when either happens, the division of the blood is increased, the motion is augmented, and so beget a fever. There cannot be an inordinate elevation of the oily or fiery parts of the blood, till the vessels vibrate above the
standard of nature.
In a slight
fever,
the blood increases but little above the
balance;
but if more than one day; turns to a
synochus,
which is but the same fever augmented beyond the
balance of nature.
This turns to a putrid
synochus,
and this to a
causus.
This is the case of your lady. From an elevated contraction (the Doctor contitinued, to my amazement,) her blood obtains a greater force and motion; hence greater division, hence an increase of quantity and fluidity: and thus from greater division, motion and quantity increased, arises that heat and thirst, with the other concomitant symptoms of her fever; for the blood dividing faster than it can be detached through the perspirastory emunctories of the skin, is the immediate cause of the heart's preternatural beating: And this preternatural division of the blood arises from the additional quantity of obstructed perspirable matter, added to the natural quantity of the blood.
Things being so, (the Doctor went on) and the fever rising by the blood's dividing faster than can be detached by the several emunctories; and this from an elevation of the
solids
bove the
balance,
we must then strive to take off the tension of the solids, and subtract the cause. This makes me begin in a manner quite contrary to the other physicians, and I doubt not but I shall soon get the better of the
fury
and
orgasm,
make an alteration in the black scabrous tongue, and by according with the
modus of nature,
throw forth the matter of the disease. I will enable nature to extricate herself. I hope to disentangle her from the weight.
Thus did this very learned man enlarge; and while he talked of doing wonders, the dry and parched skin, the black and brushy tongue, the crusty fur upon the teeth, and all the signals of an
incendium
within, declared her dissolution very near. As the serum diminished fast, and the intestine motion of the
crassamentum
increased, nature was brought to her last struggles. All the dismal harbingers of a general wreck appeared, to give the by-standers notice of approaching death. She died the ninth day, by the ignorance of four learned Physicians. — Had these Gentlemen confidered the
fever
no otherwise than as a
disease
arising from some unusual
ferment,
stirred up among the humours of the blood, disturbing both those natural motions and functions of the body, hindering perspiration, and thereby giving quick and large accession to such parts of the aliment or liquors taken down, as are disposed to ferment; and there is always a strong disposition that way; for the blood has a three-fold motion,—
fluidity,
common to all liquors,—
protrusive,
from the impulse of the heart and arteries,—and
fermentative,
that is, a motion throughout of all its parts, which quality is owing to the dissimilar parts of the blood; — for being a compound of various particles, there must be a colluctation when they occur, and of consequence, a continual fermentation: As this is just and moderate, it is for the good of the animal, and purifies the blood: if it is too much, it tends to a fever; — if it still increases, it produces the
burning causus:
Hard is the struggle then, and if
nature
cannot
dispume,
even helped by art, the patient has no hazard for life: Hence it is, that we are so subject to fevers, — and that it carries away more people than all the rest of the diseases: Out of every forty-two that have it; twenty-five generally die. It was so in the time of
Hippocrates,
430 years before
Christ:
And so Dr.
Sydenham
and Dr.
Friend
found it, in their practice:
But (I say) had my four Doctors considered the
fever
as I have plainly stated it, without vainly pretending to be so wise as to know the
essential causes
of it; and in the beginning of it, before the terrible appearances, the
vigil, delirium, subsultus,
the dry black tongue, the furred teeth, and the pale, unconcocted urine, had caused a
depletion
by large bleeding, had opened the pores by a mild sudorific, had then given a vomit,
Rad. Ipecacuanha
in small sack-whey or chicken-water, and let the sufferer indulge in that thin diluting liquor, an emulsion of the seeds and almonds in barley water, and if the patient required it, a draught of table-beer with a toast, between whiles; had this been done very soon, there might be relief as quickly; or if the fever still run high, to bleed again, and wash down some
proper alexipharmic
powder with a
proper cordial
julap, it is possible nature would have been able to accomplish the work, and health had been again restored. I use the word
proper
alexipharmic, and
proper
cordial julap, because the
Theriaca
and
Mithridatium
of the shops, which are commonly, almost always ordered as an
alexipharmic bole,
are rather
poisons
than useful in a fever; and because the
tincture
and
syrup of saffron,
the
treacle-water,
or any other distilled compound, are not fit
cordials
in the case; but it should be the
conserva lujulae
in an
emulsion ex sem. fr. cum amygd. in aq. hordei.
This is the
true alexipharmic,
—and the
only cordial,
to be given in a
fever.
— But it was the destructive
alexipharmics
and
cordials
of the shops they forced down
Maria
's throat, and this, with the other bad prescriptions and management, killed one of the finest and most excellent women that ever lived.
And now to give the world a better idea of this admirable woman than any description of mine can exhibit, I shall here place a few religious little Pieces, which she writ, while Miss
Spence,
and which I found among her papers.
MORAL THOUGHTS:
Written by Miss
SPENCE.
MORALITY.
ABSTRACT, mathematical, or physical truth, may be above the reach of the bulk and community of mankind. They have neither the leisure, nor the necessary helps and advantages to acquire the natural knowledge of arts and sciences. The many calls and importunities of the animal kind, take up the greatest part of their time, thoughts, and labor, so that the more abstract speculations, and experimental disquisitions of philosophy, are placed by providence quite out of their reach, and beyond their sphere of action.
On the contrary,
moral truth,
right and wrong, good and evil, the doing as we would be done by, and acting towards all men as they really are, and stand related in society; these things are as evident to the understanding, as light and colors are to the eye, and may be called the intellectual, moral sense. Here needs no deep learning, or trouble and expence of education, but the same truths are as evident, and as much seen and felt by the learned and unlearned, the gentleman and the ploughman, the savage or wild
Indian,
as by the best instructed philosopher. The divine perfections shine through all nature, and the goodness and bounty of the Creator to all his creatures, impress the obligation of imitating this wisest and best of Beings upon every man's heart and conscience.
But notwithstanding the maxims of morality are thus solidly established, and adapted to all capacities; and though every man has a happiness to seek, and a main end to secure, which must be infinitely preferable to any concerns of life, yet here it is we find, that mankind in general have been most lost and bewildered, as if providence had placed their own happiness, and the way to it, more out of their power than any thing else. How this should happen, might seem unaccountable at first sight, and yet it can be no'great mystery to any man tolerably acquainted with the world and human nature. It is no difficult matter to discover the reasons hereof, and it is withal highly useful to give them their due considerarion.
1. The principal cause I take to be the prevailing strength and bias of private, corrupt, animal affection, and desires. Reason is silenced and borne down by brutal appetite and passion. They resolve to gratify their sensual appetites and desires, and will therefore never taste or try the superior pleasures and enjoyments of reason and virtue. But such men as these having declared open war against their own reason and conscience, and being resolved at all risks to maintain the combat, must be self-condemned, and cannot plead ignorance, or error of judgment in the case.
2. Another fundamental cause of moral error, is the prejudice and prepossession of a wrong education. False principles and absurd notions of God and religion, wrought early into the tender, unexperienced mind, and there radicated and confirmed from time to time, from youth to riper age, by parents, teachers, our most intimate friends and acquaintance, and such as we have the best opinion of, and confide most in; such causes make such strong impressions, that the grossest errors, thus rivetted and fixed, are with the greatest difficulty ever conquered or cleared off. In this case, men turn out
well-grounded believers,
and are well-armed against conviction. Circumcision or baptism fixes their religion in their infancy, and their church is as natural to them as their country. Free enquiry is with them an apostasy from the orthodox party, and as the great and sure tryal of their faith and fortitude, they will hear no reasonings about the holy religion they have taken upon trust.
3. Then the few, who have applied themselves to the study of morality, have done it for the most part in a manner confused; and superficial enough: and often so, as even to build upon principles either entirely false, or obscure and uncertain; either foreign to its proper business, or mixt up with gross errors, and absurdities. From whence it comes to pass, that in all languages, the terms of morality, both in common discourse, and in the writings of the learned, are such as have the most obscure, confused, indetermined, and unfixed ideas, of any other terms whatever; men for the most part despising the things which are plain and ordinary, to run after such as are extraordinary and mysterious; and that they either will not know, or reject even truth itself, unless she brings some charm with her, to raise their curiosity, and gratify their passion for what is marvellous and uncommon.
In sum, the prejudices of the understanding, the illusions of the heart, and the tyranny established in the world with relation to opinions, form a grand obstacle to the serious study of morality; and to the attainment of a more exact knowledge of our duty. Nor is it to be expected that any will very much apply themselves to make discoveries in these matters, whilst the desire of esteem, riches, or power, makes men espouse the well-endowed opinions in fashion, and then seek arguments either to make good their beauty, or varnish over and cover their deformity.—Whilst the parties of men, cram their tenets down all men's throats, whom they can get into their power, without permitting them to examine their truth and falsehood; and will not let truth have fair play in the world, nor men the liberty to search after it; what improvements can be expected of this kind? What greater light can be hoped for in the moral sciences? The subject part of mankind in most places might, instead thereof, with
Egyptian
bondage, expect
Egyptian
darkness, were not the candle of the Lord set up by himself in men's minds, which it is impossible for the breath of man wholly to extinguish; how much soever the infallible guides of one church, and the orthodox rulers of another, may scheme and labour to subject conscience to human jurisdiction, and bring the inward principle and motive of action within the cognizance of their political theocracy, or theocratic policy.
After all this, is it to be wondered at, that such, whose occupations and distractions of life, or want of genius and outward helps, do not allow them to engage in long and profound meditations, are found to have generally understandings so short and narrow, and ideas so false or confused, in matters of morality.
And since this is the case of the greatest part of mankind, it has no doubt been always God's will, that they, who had the greatest light, and whom his providence had furnished with the greatest helps, should communicate their knowledge to such, as were not able of themselves to acquire it so easily, or in so great a degree.
RELIGION.
What is Religion? The true, eternal, immutable religion of God and nature, consists, as I opine, in the filial love and fear of God, and the brotherly love of mankind; in the practice of all those moral duties of truth and righteousness, which result from it, under a fiducial trust in, and dependence on God, and the constant sense of his power and presence in all our actions, as the rewarder of good and punisher of bad men. This is the religion founded in nature and reason, and which must be at all times and every where the same. As this religion was in a great measure lost, and neglected, amidst the general ignorance, superstition, and idolatry of the world, it was the great business and design of revelation to restore it, and set moral truth and reason in its original light, by bringing mankind to the right use of their reason and understanding in such matters.
After
Epicurus
and
Zeno,
Of
Eclectics.
there were no new succeeding schemes of morality, but each man betook himself to that sect, where he found what most suited his own sentiments.
In the reign of
Augustus, Potamo
of
Alexandria,
introduced a manner of philosophising, which was called the
Eclectic,
because it consisted in collecting from all the tenets of preceding philosophers, such as appeared most reasonable; out of which they formed each man his own system of philosophy.—It appears from
Cicero
's works, that he was an
Eclectic.
And why should it not be good in religion, as well as in philosophy? I own I am an Eclectic
in divinis.
And the sum of my religion is, without regard to modes or parties,—so to live to the glory of the Father,—without attachment to the creature,—for the sanctification and happiness of mankind; that when this fleeting scene of sin and sorrow shall vanish, and pass away from sight, the angels of God may give my soul a safe transition to that heavenly happiness, which no thought can lay hold on, and which no art can describe.
Of reason and truth.
The practice of reason and truth is the rule of action to God himself, and the foundation of all true religion. It is the first and highest obligation of all rational beings, and our divine Lord came down from heaven to earth to teach it to mankind. Christ preached a plain doctrine to men, fitted to reform their hearts and lives—intended to make them perfect in self-denial, humility, love, goodness, and innocence; and to enoble them, with hearts raised above the world, to worship the
Father
in
spirit
and in
truth.
But this glorious religion the
Romish
priests have perverted into a system of mysteries, and staring contradictions, the better to support the worst and most deplorable purposes of temporal wealth, power, pride, malice, and cruelty. In direct opposition to reason and common sense, we must commence
generous believers
in an
ecclesiastical
christianity, and confess the symbol of their holy
Athanasius,
though it be no more, or better, than the effects of a luxuriant fancy, without likeness and correspondency, in the real nature and reason of things; 17, 4, and 19 are 41, says
convocation
to his
believers,
and your religion, my brethren, is all a tremendous mystery: You must adore as such, what the Infidels renounce as a contradiction.
Thus shamefully do these priests sink the credibility of our gospel, and impose upon the silly people, a ball of wax for the religion of Jesus; making them believe contrary to knowledge, and prefer a system that is a lye against the light of nature, and the gospel.
But the chief end, duty, happiness, and highest perfection that man can arrive at, consists, and is found, in a perfect exercise of
human reason.
We read in
Chronicles,
Of Integrity.
that
Hezekiah
began his
good reign
with the revival of religion, which had long suffered by the neglect and profanation, or through the neglect and omission of his predecessors. To this purpose he opened the doors of the house of the Lord, and issued a decree, that all Israel should come to keep the passover, which they had not done of a long time. But as the legal
cleansing
and
purifying,
could not be performed by great numbers that did eat the passover, by the appointed time, on account of many things, and particularly the force of long interval and disuse; therefore this
irregularity
employed the devotion of the good king, as the canon of the passover, under the strictest prohibition, and the severest penalty, forbid any one to eat, that did not come with outward and legal purity,
No unclean person shall eat of it;
and he prayed for the people, saying, The good Lord pardon every one that prepareth his heart to seek God, the Lord God of their fathers, though he be not cleansed according to the purification of the sanctuary; and the Lord hearkened unto
Hezekiah,
says the next verse, and
healed the people,
that is, took off the penalties of the
canon,
and gave them the benefit of the rite. From hence it follows, that, however defective we may be in outward rites and ceremonies of a church, yet
inward truth and purity
will be accepted in default of outward things.
Inward disposition
is the substance of religion, and may compound for the want of outward matters; but outward service can never be accepted instead of inward purification.
And it farther follows, if the outward solemnities of religion cannot be obtained upon lawful terms, (which is the case of many, in respect of
Popery
and
Athanasian
worship,) then will the good Lord pardon and be propitious to those who prepare their heart to seek him, though they be not cleansed according to the solemn institution, and ritual purification.
This text is in the vulgar Latin, Dominus bonus propitiabitur cunctis qui in toto corde requirunt Dominum, Deum patrum suorum, et non imputabit eis quod minus sanctificati sunt.—The good Lord will be propitious to all those, who in their whole heart seek the Lord God of their fathers, and will not impute to them their being less sanctified than they ought.
Of Priestcraft in the transmission of moveables, from the deceased to the living.
Note,
This article relating to the encroachments of the clergy, was not found among Miss
Spence
's papers; but is inserted here as in a proper place.
Histories in all ages the full of the encroachments of the clergy, yet they all omit one of the most successful stratagems to ingross money. We are indebted to our statute-book for informing us of one of the most notorious pieces of priestcraft that ever was practised. Would one believe, that there is a country, and in
Europe
too, where the clergy gained such an ascendant over the minds of the people, as tamely to suffer the moveable estate of every man who died intestate, to be swallowed up by them; yet so prevalent was superstition in our country, that it produced a law preferring the Bishop to the next of kin; and in its extension excluding the children, the wife, and the relations of the deceased, nay the creditor; and giving all to the Bishop
per aversionem.
Such was the shameful rapacity of the clergy here for ages. Such a monstrous practice was established upon this foundation, that the moveable effects of every deceased person, his own appointment failing, ought to be laid out for promoting the good of his soul; and so the ORDINARY took possession, without deigning to account with any mortal.—This began
temp.
Hen. I. when the ORDINARY, for the good of the soul of the deceased, obtained a directing power, and was in the nature of an overseer, and somewhat more. In the time of King John, the ORDINARY
drew blood,
as
Bacon
well expresses it
Discourse of laws. p. 1, and 66. and New abridgement of the law. p. 398.
; for tho' the possession was as formerly, yet the dividend must be in the view of the church, and by which means, the dividers were but mere instruments, and the right was vanished into the clouds. But
temp.
Hen. III. it was settled, the ORDINARY had not only gotten the game, but gorged it. Both right and possession were now become the clergy's: the ORDINARY was to distribute it according to pious uses: and no use so pious as to appoint to himself and his brethren.
The 1st statute that limited the power of the ORDINARY was 13th Ed. I. c. 19. By this the ORDINARY was obliged to satisfy the intestate's death so far as the goods extended.—And 31st Ed. III. cap. 2. the actual possession was taken from the ORDINARY, by obliging him to give a
deputation
to the next and most lawful friends of the intestate, for administrating his goods. But this statute proved but a weak check to the avarice of the clergy. Means were fallen upon to elude it, by preferring such of the intestate's relations, who were willing to offer the best terms: this corrupt practice was suffered in the days of Hen. VIII. when the clergy losing ground, the statute 21 Hen. VIII. was enacted, bearing, "That in case any person die intestate, or the executors refuse to prove the testament, the
Ordinary
shall grant administration to the widow, or to the next of kin, or to both, taking surety for true administration."
This statute, as it points out the particular persons who are intitled to letters of administration, without leaving any choice to the
Ordinary,
was certainly intended to cut him out of all hope of making gain of the effects of persons dying intestate. But the church does not easily quit its hold. Means were fallen upon to elude this law also. Though the possession given by this statute was wrested out of the hands of the
Ordinary,
yet his pretensions subsisted intire, of calling the administrator to account, and obliging him or her to distribute the effects to pious uses. This was an admirable engine in the hands of a churchman for squeezing money. An administrator who gave any considerable share to the Bishop, to be laid out by him,
without doubt,
in pious uses, would not find much difficulty in making his accompt. This rank abuse moved the judges solemnly to resolve, that the
Ordinary,
after administration granted by him, cannot compel the administrator to make distribution
New abridgement of the law. p.398.
. And at last, the right of the next of kin was fully established by statute 22 and 23 Car. II. cap. 10. This. cuts out the
Ordinary
intirely.
Of the Athanasian creed.
If I thought the
Athanasian creed
was a part of the religion of
Jesus,
I should be induced to entertain a hard thought of Christianity. I should think it enjoined a slavish submission to the dictates of designing men; and instead of a reasonable service, required us to renounce our understandings, to apostatize from humanity, and degenerate into brutes, by giving up our reason, which alone distinguishes us from them. Most unjust charge upon our holy religion! A religion, which enlarges our rational faculties, filling the mind with an astonishing idea of an eternal duration, and thereby giving us a contempt of the mean, transient pleasures of this life, and which we and the brutes enjoy in common: A religion that requires only the highest degree of reverence towards the MOST HIGH, the most refined purity of heart and mind, and the most noble and diffusive charity towards all mankind: In short, that establishes righteousness upon earth, and intire obedience to the will of God; that so having put the
oyl
into our
lamp,
according to the gospel parable, it may not only measure the course of time, but light us beyond it, to the
coming of the bridegroom,
and the morning of eternity.
But this will not do for the Doctors, they must have established CREDENDA for judgments of all sizes—they must have a formulary of dogmatic theology — an ATHANASIAN JUMBLE, to support the HOLY CHURCH; though their creed burlesques mathematical certainty, and renders their ecclesiastical christianity inferior to the antient pagan religion. A
trinity
is the
ecclesiastical God;
but whether
three distinct conscious beings of co-ordinate power, equal independency, and unorigination,
and so THREE
proper deities;
—or, only
three symbols of natural powers
—In this the Doctors are not agreed; but the majority are for the THREE
proper Deities:
this
heresy of three Gods
we must subscribe to, or the priests will number us with the infidels, and do us all the mischief they can.—Hence it comes to pass, that
humanity, sweetness of temper,
and
moderation,
are banished from society; religion, like a cloak, is made use of to authorise hatred, violence, and injustice; and the christian religion, as the priests have forged it, and shew it off, that is, upon its present footing, as an establishment, is pernicious to mankind, and ought to go, that the people may be restored again to
Christ's religion,
and be led to attend to the command of God;
which is to believe in the name of his son Jesus Christ, and to love one another.
FAITH.
"Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen;" (Heb. xi. 1.) that is, faith is such a firm persuasion as gives, as it were, a substance or present existence to the good things which we hope for, and which are not yet in being, and as engages us to depend upon the truth of unseen things, as really, as upon ocular demonstration.
—"He endured, as seeing him who is invisible;" (ver. 27.) that is,
Moses
as really believed the being and attributes of the
invisible
God, as if he had seen him with his eyes; and fully depended upon his conduct and assistance.
The better thing provided for Christians.
"And these all having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise, God having provided
some better thing for us,
that they without us should not be made perfect;" (Heb. xi. 39, 40.) that is,—Though the upright under the law have a good character in
Scripture,
and of consequence were accepted of God upon the account of their faith in the divine power and goodness, yet they received not the promised reward of another life, immediately on their leaving this world: God provided this better thing for us Christians, that we should be made happy
immediately,
as soon as we leave this world, that so they might not be made happy in heaven, till Christianity commenced, and Christians should be there received to happiness with them.
Note
1. It is plain from what the Apostle says before, that the thing
promised
is the better and more enduring substance in heaven.
2. The
better thing provided for Christians,
cannot be the
resurrection
from the dead, and the being,
after that,
received into the heavenly
Jerusalem;
since herein we shall have nothing better than the good people who lived under the law: therefore, better things can only mean our enjoyment of God immediately upon our leaving this world.
It is strange then that Bishop
Fell,
and
Whitby
say, the
better thing
means the
Messias,
or the heavenly country to be fully possessed at the end of the world.
Of the same opinion is
Pyle.
—He says, our pious ancestors under the law, though in a state of rest and happiness, after death, yet received not the full and complete enjoyment of
celestial
glory, that being deferred till the last and great dispensation of the Messiah be past, that so they and sincere Christians, may be all rewarded and crowned together, with the happiness both of body and soul, at the final day of judgment: But if so, tell me Mr.
Pyle,
where is the
better thing
provided for us Christians?
3. Besides, if the Apostle may be his own interpreter, the word perfect means the intermediate state of good souls in paradise, and not the complete state after the resurrection. In the next chapter, he speaks of the spirits of the just made perfect, by which he means undoubtedly the
separate
souls now in glory.
In a word, the design of the Apostle was to prove that, since God has provided some better thing for us, we appear to be more in his favour; and therefore the argument from their being justified to our being justified by faith, is stronger, that is, such a faith as has an operative influence, by rendering our lives a comment upon the blessed nature of God.
And that this was the meaning of the Apostle in the
something better
provided for us Christians, appears yet plainer from the consequence drawn by the inspired writer, to wit, that we ought with the greater patience and courage to endure persecution, since God has provided something better for us than for them. If the ancient believers held out, who expected but a state of sleep, till the time of the general resurrection: much more should we patiently suffer affliction, and even death itfelf, for the sake of truth, and of the gospel, when we know, that God has promised us something
better;
to wit, that we shall be conducted to paradise immediately after death, and be there spirits of just men made perfect, and be with Christ, which is far better than either to sleep after death, or to live longer in this world.
Let us lay aside (then) every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. Let us put away every thing from us, that would hinder us from improving in virtue and goodness; looking to and imitating
Jesus,
the leader and captain of the faithful, and an example of spotless virtue and perfect obedience. The
love of the world
is
enmity with God,
and to place our
affections
here, is to vilify that
better provision
which he has made for us. We are but
strangers
and
pilgrims here.
The human state is but a passage, not a place of abode. It is a station of exercise and discipline, and was not designed for the place of enjoyment. That happy country is before us.
AVOIDINGS.
Avoid all
indirect arts
in the pursuit of a fortune.—All
unlawful methods
in self-preservation.—And every
gratification
that
militates
with
reason
and
benevolence.
The Offices of a Christian.
These are heavenly-mindedness, and contempt of the world, and chusing rather to die than commit a moral evil. Such things, however, are not much esteemed by the generality of Christians: Most people laugh at them, and look upon them as indiscretions; therefore there is but little true christianity in the world. It has never been my luck to meet with many people that had these three necessary qualifications.—And as for the people, exclusive of their going to church to make a character—or to ogle one another—or out of superstition to perform so much
opus operatum,
a job of lip-service, which they idly fancy to be religion, they, I mean the great and the small, might as well be Heathens as Christians, for any real christian purpose they answer, in a strict adherence to the three offices aforementioned. The name of Christian sounds over
Europe,
and large parts of
Asia, Africa,
and
America:
But if a Christian is what St.
Paul
defines it, to wit, a man that is heavenly-minded, that contemns the world, and would die rather than commit a moral evil, then is the number of Christians very small indeed.
The meaning of John vi. 44. No man can come to me, except the Father draw him.
That is,—No one can be a Christian, unless his regard for the Deity and natural religion inclines him to receive a more improved scheme of religion.
But Dr.
Young,
in one of his sermons, explains this text in the following manner.—No one can live up to the religion of
Jesus,
and reach Christian perfection, unless the Father enlightens and enables him, by the operative influence of his holy spirit. We can do nothing, in respect of what ought to be done, to be more than nominal Christians, without the inward principle of sanctification.—This I think is mere methodism.
N. B.
The excellent Dr.
Lardner
expounds the text in the following words:— No man will come to me, and receive my pure, sublime, and spiritual doctrine, unless he have first gained some just apprehensions concerning the general principles of religion. And if a man have some good notions of God, and his perfections, and his will, as already revealed, he will come unto me. If any man is well disposed: if he has a love of truth, and a desire to advance in virtue, and religious knowledge; he will readily hearken to me, and believe in me.
Sermons, Vol.
I.
p.
303.
Of Baptism, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
What is the meaning of baptizing them into the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost?
It signifies receiving men by baptism to the profession and privileges of that religion, which was taught by the Father, Son, and Spirit, that is, which the
Father
taught by the
Son,
in his
life
-time, and by the
Spirit,
after his
ascension.
Or, to be baptized, is solemnly to profess our resolution to adhere to that holy doctrine, which is the mind and will of God the Father, published to the world by his Son, whom he sent from heaven for that purpose, and confirmed by the power of the Holy Ghost.
Note,
An able writer, St.
Hillary,
says (
De Trinitate, lib.
2.
ad calcem,
on Matt. xxviii. 19.) that baptising in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, signifies, —
In confession of the author of all things, and of the only begotten, and of the gift.
Of Christian Idolatry.
What a surprising incident is idolatry in the church of Christ! that after the religion of Jesus had accomplished its glorious design, and subverted idolatry and superstition throughout the world, it should itself be wounded almost to death, by the enemy it had subdued! This is the case all over the realms of popery. And can they be said to have any true religion among them, where the theology of
Athanasius
prevails?
Churchism and Creeds.
I have no very good opinion of creeds. Jesus Christ came with a legatarian power from God, the Supreme Being, to declare his will to mankind; and the great work to be done, (so far as I can find in the gospel,) is, the perfecting our minds in all that is truly excellent; by labouring to excel in all the virtues of the gospel, by loving the whole race of mankind with an universal charity, and striving to add to the satisfaction and happiness of all about us, and with whom we have any connexion.
SECTION X.
Thou attribute divine! thou ray of God!
Immortal reason! come, and with thee bring,
In thy exulting train, invincible,
The honest purpose, and the chearful heart;
The joyful fancy, fill'd with images
Of truth, of science, and of social love.
There is no ground for fear, while we are good:
Nature's the nurse, and providence the guide.
An account of
Richmond
the beau, and old
Ribble
the chemist.
§. I. HAVING lost
Maria,
as related in the ninth section, I went up to
London,
and on my way to the metropopolis, dined at a pleasant village, not far from
Nottingham,
where I saw two gentlemen well worth mentioning. They were sitting in a room the waiter shewed me into, and had each of them a porringer of mutton broth. One of them seemed a little consumptive creature, about four feet six inches high, uncommonly thin, or rather exsiccated to a cuticle. His broth and bread however he supped up with some relish. He seemed to be past threescore. His name was
Ribble.
The other was a young man, once very handsome, tall and strong, but so consumed and weak, that he could hardly speak or stir. His name was
Richmond.
He attempted to get down his broth, but not above a spoonful or two could he swallow. He appeared to me to be a dying man.
While I beheld things with astonishment, the servant brought in dinner, a pound of rump stakes, and a quart of green peas; two cuts of bread, a tankard of strong beer, and a pint of port wine: with a fine appetite, I soon dispatched my mess, and over my wine, to help digestion, began to sing the following lines:—
I.
Tell me, I charge you, O ye fylvan swains,
Who range the mazy grove, or flow'ry plains,
Beside what fountain, in what breezy bower,
Reclines my charmer in the noon-tide hour?
II.
Soft, I adjure you, by the skipping fawns,
By the fleet roes, that bound along the lawns;
Soft tread, ye virgin daughters of the grove,
Nor with your dances wake my sleeping love.
III.
Come,
Rosalind,
O come, and infant flow'rs
Shall bloom and smile, and form their charms by yours;
By you the lilly shall her white compose;
Your blush shall add new blushes to the rose.
IV.
Hark! from yon bow'rs what airs soft warbled play!
My soul takes wing to meet th' inchanting lay.
Silence, ye nightingales! attend the voice!
While thus it warbles, all your songs are noise.
V.
See! from the bower a form majestic moves,
And smoothly gliding, shines along the groves;
Say, comes a goddess from the golden spheres?
A goddess comes, or
Rosalind
appears.
While I was singing these lines, and all the while I was at dinner, the gentlemen looked with wonder at me, and at last, as soon as I was silent, old
Ribble
expressed himself in the following words.— You are the most fortunate of mortals to be sure, Sir. A happy man indeed. You seem to have health and peace, contentment and tranquillity, in perfection. You are the more striking, when such spectacles as my cousin
Richmond
(pointing to the dying gentleman in the room) and I are in contrast before you. I will tell you our stories, Sir, in return for your charming song, and hope what I am going to say may be of service to you, as you are coming on, and we going off from this world.
The picture of beau
Richmond.
My kinsman there, the dying
Richmond,
in that chair, was once a
Sampson,
and the handsomest man of his time, though the remains of beauty or strength cannot now be traced. By drinking and whoring he brought himself to what you see; to a state that eludes all the arts of medicine. He has an aggravated cough, which produces a filthy pus of an ash-colour, streaked with blood, and mixed with filaments torn from his lungs and membranes, and with the utmost difficulty he respires. He has a perpetual violent pain in his breast, a pricking soreness in his paps when he coughs, and defects in in all his functions. He has that flux of the belly, which is called a
lientery,
and the fluids of his body are wasted in colliquative sweats. A stretching pain racks him if he lies on either side, by reason of some adhesion of the lungs to the
pleura.
His hair is fallen off, and his nails you see are dead-coloured, and hooked. His countenance, you observe, is
Hippocratical,
the very image of death: his face a dead pale, his eyes sunk, his nose sharp, his cheeks hollow, his temples fallen, and his whole body thin like a skeleton. What a figure now is this once curled darling of the ladies: It was done, good Sir, by the hand of
Intemperance.
The picture of a temperate man, born with a consumption.
§. 3. As to myself, (
Ribble
continued,) I brought a confumption into the world with me, and by art have supported under it. I was born with the sharp shoulders you see, which are called
pterogoides,
or wing-like, and had a contracted thorax, and long chest, a thin and long neck, a flaccid tone of all the parts about the breast, and a very flabby contexture of the muscles all over my body: but nevertheless, by a strict temperance all my life, and by following the directions of Dr.
Bennet
in his
Theatrum tabidorum,
I have not only made life tolerable, but so removed the burden of stagnant phlegm from the thorax, by throwing it down by stool, and up by expectoration, — exhaling it sometimes through the skin, and at other times digesting it with fasting, that I contrive more useful hours to myself than the strong and young can enjoy in their continued scenes of dissipation and riot. In me is seen the wonderful effect of rule and sobriety. I am now past fifty several years, notwithstanding my very weak and miserable constitution, and by attending to nature, and never indulging in gratification or excess, am not only able to live without pain, but to divert life by experimental philosophy. (
Ribble
went on) I came down to this pleasant place, chiefly for the benefit of poor
Richmond,
my kinsman, (whom you see with his eyes shut before you, the very picture of death,) and also, with a view to do some good to myself, as it is the finest air in the world. I took a house in the village to live the more easily, as the lodging-houses are all crowded here, and resolved to amuse the days I have left in cultivating the science of chemistry; not in order to finish what nature has begun, do you see me, (as the alchymists talk,) and procure to the imperfect metals the much desired
coction;
but, to examine substances, and by the examination, obtain ideas of the bodies capable of the three degrees of fermentation,
spiritous, acetous,
and
putrid;
and of the products of those fermentations, to wit,
ardent spirits, acids analogous to those of vegetables and animals,
and
volatile alkalis.
To this purpose, I made for myself a laboratory, and about a year ago, began to employ my vessels and furnaces in various processes. A vast variety of entertaining things have since occurred, and my life is thereby made agreeable and pleasing; though to look at my poor frame, one would think me incapable of any satisfactions. I will give you an instance or two of my amusements, and do you judge, if they may not afford a mind more delight, than the tumultuous joys of love and wine, horse-racing, cock-fighting, hunting, and other violent pleasures can yield.
A history of metals.
§. 4. You know, good Sir, I suppose, that there are six metals, two perfect, and four imperfect. Gold and silver, perfect: the others, copper, tin, lead, and iron. Quicksilver is by some called a seventh metal: but that I think cannot be, as it is not malleable. Yet it is not to be confounded with the semi-metals, as it differs from the metals no otherwise than by being constantly in
fusion;
which is occasioned by its aptness to flow with such a small degree of heat, that be there ever so little warmth on earth, there is still more than enough to keep mercury in
fusion.
It must be called then, in my opinion, a metallic body of a particular kind: And the more so, let me add, as art has not yet found out a way of depriving it wholly of its
Phlogiston.
What
phlogiston
is.
I must observe to you, good Sir, in order to be intelligible in what I am saying, that the
Phlogiston
in metals is the matter of fire as a constituent principle in bodies. It is the element of fire combined with some other substance, which serves it as a basis for constituting a kind of secondary principle; and it differs from pure fixed fire in these particulars, that it communicates neither heat nor light,—it causes no change, but only renders body apt to fuse by the force of a culinary fire,—and it can be conveyed from body to body, with this circumstance, that the body deprived of the
phlogiston
is greatly altered, as is the body that receives it.
What semi-metals are.
And as to the
semi-metals,
(which I mentioned) you will be pleased to observe, that they are
regulus of antimony, bismuth, zinc,
and
regulus of arsenic.
They are not malleable, and easily part with their
phlogiston. Zinc
and
bismuth
are free from the
poisonous quality:
but
arsenic
is the most
violent poison;
especially the
shining crystalline calx
of it, or
flowers
raised by the fire, and named
white arsenic:
and
regulus of antimony
is likewise a
poison;
not in its nature, but because it always contains a portion of arsenic in its composition.
The nature and composition of Antimony.
Antimony
is of a pretty white bright colour, and has the splendor, opacity, and gravity of a metal, but under the hammer crumbles to dust. A moderate heat makes it flow, and a violent fire dissipates it into smoke and white vapors. They adhere to cold bodies, and when the
farina
is collected, we call these vapors
flowers of antimony.
What butter of antimony is.
Butter of antimony,
good Sir, that wonderful corrosive, is a compound made by distilling pulverized regulus of antimony, and corrosive sublimate. The production, on operation, is a white matter, thick and scarce fluid, which is the regulus of antimony united with the acid of sea-salt. Here the corrosive sublimate is decompounded, the mercury revivified, and the acid combined with it, quits it to join the regulus of antimony, because its affinity with it is greater.
(Little
Ribble,
the
Chemist,
went on, and with difficulty I could refrain from laughing; not on account of the man's talking nonsense, for his discourse was the very reverse of that; but by reason of the gripe he had of my arm, the pulls he gave me, if I happened to look another way, and the surprising eagerness with which he spoke; which shewed, that he was chemically struck to an amazing degree.)
Liver of antimony.
But
liver of antimony,
good Sir, is made of equal parts of nitre and antimony. On the mixture's being exposed to the action of fire, a violent detonation ensues, and the deflagrating nitre consumes the sulphur of the antimony, and even a part of its phlogiston. A greyish matter remains after the detonation, and this is what we call
liver of antimony.
It contains a fixed nitre, a vitriolated tartar, and the reguline part of antimony vitrified.
How antimony separates gold from other metals.
The principal use the
Chemists
make of
antimony
is to separate gold from the other metals. All metals, gold excepted, have a greater affinity with sulphur than the reguline part of antimony. As to gold, it is incapable of contracting any union with sulphur. If therefore I have a mass compounded of various metals, and want to get the gold out, I melt it with antimony, and as soon as it flows, every thing in the mass which is not gold, unites with the sulphur, in or of the antimony, and causes two separations, that of the sulphur of antimony from its reguline part, and that of the gold from the metals with which it was mixed: This produces two new combinations. The metals and the sulphur, in fusion, being lighter, rise to the surface; and the gold and the reguline part of antimony being heaviest, the combination of them sinks to the bottom. Now the business is to part these two, and to this purpose, I expose the combination to a degree of fire, capable of dissipating into vapors all the
semi-metal
the mass contains. The reguline being volatile, goes off by the great heat, and my gold remains pure and fixed in my crucible.
The excellence of antimonial wine.
As to the
antimonial wine,
made by the essence of antimony, that is, by impregnating the most generous white wine, with the minims or lests of antimony, which the physicians have found out, it is not the part of a chemist to speak of that; and therefore, I shall only observe to you, that it is the
best vomit,
the
best purge,
and the best thing for a
sweat,
in the world. I will tell you, good Sir, what I heard an eminent Doctor say of it. — Affirmo sanctissime, nihil inde melius, nihil tutius, nihil efficacius, deprehendi unquam, quam tritum illum, ac simplicem vini automonialis infusum ex vino albo generoso, aromate aliquo stomachico adjecto. Epotus largiter maximas movit vomitiones, in minuta tantùm quantitate, ad guttas puta viginta, aut triginta, adhibitus sudores elicit benignos; paulo tamen majorae aleum solvit leniter. Medicamentum, paratu quidem facillimum, at viribus maximum.—And therefore, good Sir, when any thing ails you, let me recommend the
antimonial wine
to you. Thirty drops will sweat you effectually. About forty or fifty purges in a happy manner.
The nature of Bismuth.
But as to the second semi-metal,
bismuth,
it has almost the same appearance as
regulus of antimony,
but of a more dusky cast, inclining somewhat to red. It requires less heat than antimony to flow, and like it, and the other semi-metals, is volatile, by the action of a violent fire, and under the hammer is dust. In fusion, it mixes well with all metals, and whitens them by union, but destroys their malleability. In flowing, it loses its phlogiston with its metallic form. And it has a singular property, which the other semi-metals have not, of attenuating lead so as to make it amalgamatic with mercury, so perfectly as to make it pass with it through shamoy leather. As soon as the amalgama is made, the bismuth goes off or separates; but the lead for ever remains united with the mercury.
An extraordinary sympathetic Ink.
It is of a solution of the ore of
bismuth,
we make that very curious and useful thing, called
sympathetic ink,
which is a liquor of a beautiful colour, like that of the lilach or pipe-tree blossom. The process in preparing this liquor is tedious and difficult by
aqua fortis, aqua regis,
and fire, and therefore the ink is rarely to be met with. It is not to be had, unless some gentleman who makes chemistry his employment, gives one a present of a bottle of it; as I do now to you, in hopes it may some time or other be of singular service to you; for I have conceived a great regard for you, tho' I never saw you before, as you seem not only more teachable than any I have met with, but to delight in the information I give you relating to chemical things.
Here I returned my
Chemist
many thanks, and professed my eternal obligation to him; that I could listen for years to him; and wished it was possible to become his disciple, that I might see him by experiment facilitate the study of a science, more entertaining, instructive, and extensively useful than any other. But how, dear Sir, am I to use this ink, you are so vastly good as to give me, to make it more useful than any other ink could be?
I will tell you (
Ribble
replied): you must write with this lilach-coloured liquor, on good well gummed paper, that does not sink; and the singularity of the ink, consists in its property of disappearing entirely, and becoming invisible, though it be not touched with any thing whatever: And this distinguishes it from all others. The writing must dry in a warm air, and while it is cold no colour can be perceived: but gently warming it before the fire, the writing gradually acquires a greenish blue colour, which is visible as long as the paper continues a little warm, and disappears entirely when it cools. When other sympathetic inks are made to appear by proper application, they do not disappear again; but this liquor from the ore of
bismuth
must have the fire or heat kept to it, to render it legible. If a man writes to his mistress, suppose, or to a minister of state, with lemon juice, once the writing has been warmed by the fire, and the letters by that means appear, the epistle may be afterwards read at any time and place; but if the lady's father should by accident get your letter, written in lilach-coloured liquor, it must still remain a secret to him: For if on getting it, and opening the seal, he could see no writing, and therefore imagining it was writ with lemon juice, or some other sympathetic ink, he should hold it himself to the fire, or bid his servant hold it to the heat, that the letters might be produced, and made visible, yet the moment
bismuth-ink
is taken away from the fire, and begins to cool, it is as invisible again, as a sheet of white paper. How serviceable this may be on various occasions, may be easily conceived.
Of Zinc.
But as to our third semi-metal, called
Zinc,
this is so like
bismuth
to appearance, that some have confounded it with
Zinc;
though it differs from it essentially in its properties, and will unite with all metalline substances, except
bismuth.
It is volatile by fire above all things, and makes a sublimate of the metallic substances with which it is fused.
Zinc
mixed with
copper
in the quantity of a fourth part, produces brass. If the
Zinc
is not very pure, the composition proves
tombac,
or
Prince
's
metal.
The nature of regulus of arsenic.
Regulus of arsenic,
the fourth semi-metal, has a colour resembling lead, unites readily with metallic substances, and renders them brittle, unmalleable, and volatile. The
calx
of it produced by fire, may be made volatile by more fire, and in this differs from the
calx
of all metalline substances; for all other
calx
's are fixed, and cannot be moved. It has likewise a
saline character,
in which its corrosive quality or poison consists: a quality from which the other metallic substances are free, when they are not combined with a saline matter. These things being noticed, in relation to metals, and semi-metals in general, I will now proceed to relate a few curious cases, in respect of the metals.
The characters of gold.
Gold,
our first metal, has ten sensible criterions. It is the heaviest and densest of all bodies: the most simple of all bodies: the most fixed of all bodies: the only body that cannot be turned into scoriae, by antimony and lead; the most ductile of all bodies: so soft as to be scarcely elastic or sonorous: must be red hot to melt: is dissolvable by sea-salt and its preparations, but remains untouched by any other species of salts; and of consequence not liable to rust; as
aqua regia
and spirit of sea-salt do not float in the air, unless in laboratories; or chemists shops, where we find them sometimes: It unites spontaneously with pure quick-silver: It never wastes by emitting
effluvia,
or exhalations. These are the ten sensible properties or characteristics of this metal. It is certainly pure gold, if it has these criterions, and they are of great use in life; especially to persons who have to do with that subtil tribe, the
alchemists.
As to the
weight
of gold, it is more than nineteen times heavier than water, bulk for bulk, and this property is inseparable from it; it being impossible to render gold more or less heavy; and for this reason, the
specific gravity
of gold, if it had no other criterion, might demonstrate
real gold.
To make gold, other metals must be rendered equiponderant to it: And therefore, if an alchemist should offer to obtrude a metal on you for gold, hang an equal weight of pure, and of suspected gold by two threads to a nice ballance, and on immerging them in water, if the alchemist's gold be pure, the water will retain both pieces in
oequilibrio;
otherwise, the adulterate metal will rise, and the pure descend.
The reason is, all bodies lose some of their weight in a fluid, and the weight which a body loses in a fluid, is to its whole weight, as the specific gravity of the fluid is to that of the body. The specific gravity of a body is the weight of it, when the bulk is given; 38 grains of gold weighed in the air, is not the true weight of it: for there it loses the weight of an equal bulk of air: It weighs only 36 grains in the water, and there it loses the weight of as much water, as is equal in bulk to itself, that is, 2 grains, and as the gold weighs 38 grains, it follows, that the weight of water is to that of gold, bulk for bulk, as 2 to 38, that is, as the weight lost in the fluid is to the whole weight.
And so, if a piece of gold, and a piece of copper, are equiponderant in air, yet in water the gold will outweigh the copper; because their bulks, tho' of equal weight, are inversely as their specific gravities, that is, the gold must be as much less than the copper, as the specific gravity of gold is greater than that of copper: And as they must both lose weight in proportion to bulk in water, therefore the gold, the lesser of the two, loses less of its weight than the copper does, and consequently, out-weighs the copper in water. I hope this is clear. The case is the same, in proportion, in pure gold, and gold mixed with other metals. The bulk of the pure gold must be less than that of allayed gold, and its weight greater in water; tho' both equiponderate (a pound suppose) in air.
It is very plain, Sir, and I request you will proceed. You give me valuable information, and oblige me very much. This pleased the Chemist, and the ingenious little
Ribble
went on.
As to the
simplicity
of gold, we mean, by a simple body, that whose minutest part has all the physical properties of the whole mass. Now dissolve a grain of gold in
aqua regia,
and from a single drop of the solution, a particle of gold may be separated, and have all the characters of gold, (except those of magnitude,) though the separated particle of gold shall only be the millionth part of the grain. —Or, fuse a single grain of gold with a mass of silver, and mix the whole together, so that the gold shall be equally distributed: then take a particle thereof, and you will have a particle of perfect gold; for dissolve the least part of the mixture in
aqua fortis,
and a quantity of gold will precipitate to the bottom. It will bear the same proportion to the grain, that the part dissolved did to the whole mass.
Having mentioned
aqua regia
and
aqua fortis,
I must, to be intelligible, say two or three words in relation to them.
Aqua regia
is an extract by fire from sea-salt and spirit of nitre. The acid liquor that comes over from them into the receiver, is
aqua regis.—Aqua fortis,
or
spirit of nitre,
is a nitrous acid separated from its basis,
nitre,
by the vitriolic acid.
Aqua regis
only will dissolve gold. Silver is not soluble by
aqua regis;
its proper solvent is the
acid of nitre
or
aqua fortis.
— But if you want to separate a mass of gold and silver, either will do. You may dissolve the gold by
aqua regia,
and let the silver remain pure: or, dissolve the silver by
aqua fortis,
and let the gold remain pure. Only note in this case of a mixed lump of gold and silver, the operation by
aqua fortis
is preferable, for this reason; that
aqua regis
in dissolving the gold, takes up likewise a little silver; but
aqua fortis
hath not the least effect on gold:—And note further, that if there be equal parts of gold and silver in the mixture, they cannot be parted by
aqua fortis.
It has not then the least effect on the silver, which is very strange. To make
aqua fortis
act duly on silver mixed with gold, the silver must be at least in a triple proportion to that of the gold. The reason of the singular effect is, that when the gold exceeds, or the parts of both are equal in quantity, then, as both are intimate, united in the mass, the parts or minims of the gold coat over the parts of the silver, and defend them from the action of the
aqua fortis.
In this case,
aqua regia
must be used to dissolve the gold, and leave the silver pure: or, as
aqua regia
takes up a little of the silver, when it dissolves the gold, melt the metalline mass, and add as much silver, as will make it a triple proportion to the gold. Then you may by
aqua fortis
take up all your silver in the dissolution, and leave all the gold pure.
But as to the third criterion of gold, its being the most fixed of all bodies, this is evident from the violence of fire having no effect on it. An ounce of it exposed for the space of two months, in the eye of a glass furnace, does not lose half a grain. It may from thence be said to be incorruptible.
As to gold's resisting
antimony,
and not turning into
scoriae
by its force, it is most certain from hence, that if you take a mass consisting of gold, silver, copper, the other metals, with stones,
&c.
and fuse it with antimony, the bodies will flow on the surface, and be easily blown off by the bellows: the antimony all evaporates, and leaves the gold alone. This is called the last test of gold, to try the purity of it. If the remaining gold have lost nothing of its weight, it is allowed perfectly pure, and called
gold of twenty-four carats;
or if it be found 1/24 lighter, it is said to be twenty-three carats fine.
The wonderful ductility of gold.
But as to the
ductility
of gold, this is the most extraordinary property of it. The arts of gold-beating and wire-drawing, shew us things quite amazing. In leaf-gold, a grain and a quarter of the metal, may be made to cover an area of fifty square inches; and if the leaf be divided by parallel lines 1/100 part of an inch, a grain of gold will be divided into five hundred thousand minute squares, all discernible by the eye: yet this is not the most can be done by the hammer. A single grain of gold may be stretched into a leaf that will cover a house, and yet the leaf remain so compact, as not to transmit the rays of light, nor ever admit spirit of wine to transude. This however is nothing to the effects of wire-drawing.
A gold wire is only a silver one gilt, and if you coat a silver cylinder of forty-eight ounces weight, with one ounce of gold, which is sufficient, this cylinder may be drawn out into a wire so very fine, that two yards thereof shall weigh only one grain, and 98 yards only 49 grains, so that one grain of gold gilds 98 yards; and of course the ten thousandth part of a grain, is above one third part of an inch long. And since the third part of an inch is yet capable of being divided into ten lesser parts visible to the eye, it is evident that the hundred thousandth part of a grain of gold, may be seen without the help of a microscope: And yet so intimately do its parts cohere, that though the gold wherewith the wire is coated, be stretched to such a degree, there is not any appearance of the colour of silver underneath. Nor is this all.
In
supergildings,
that is, to make the richest lace, they employ but 6 ounces of gold, to cover or gild 45 marks of silver, that is,
twenty-two pounds and a half avordupoise weight,
rounded into the form of a cylinder or roller, which hath fifteen lines in diameter, and twenty-two inches in length; and here the stratum of gold which invelopes the ingot that is to be drawn into wire, hath no more thickness than the fifteenth part of a line, which is extremely thin; as a line is the twelfth part of an inch.
But to make the common gold-thread, they do not use more than two ounces of gold, and sometimes not more than one, to gild or cover ingot I have mentioned, and then the inveloping stratum is not more in thickness, if two ounces be employed, than the 45th part of a line; and if one ounce be used, but the 90th part of a line. Two ounces of gold is generally used, in gilding or covering the ingot I have mentioned, and vastly thinner must the stratum be, when the ingot is drawn till it surpasses the
fineness
of a
hair,
and the diameter is nine thousand times smaller than what it had in the mass: By weighing out half a dram of this thread or wire, it is found by measuring the length of the half dram, that the ingot of 22 ½ pounds, and 22 inches long, is changed into a length of 1163520 feet, that is, ninety-six leagues and 196 fathom; for the half dram of wire or thread measures 202 feet; by consequence, an ounce of it, 3232 feet; a mark of it, or eight ounces, 25856 feet. And yet, astonishing as this length is, for two ounces of bold to be drawn to, the gold which covers the silver never ceases to gild it. The gold still keeps pace with the wire, stretch it to what length the drawers can, through the wire-drawing irons, and holes much smaller one than another. The silver never appears.
It does not however rest there. Before the thread or wire is wound on silk, and before they spin it, it must be flatted by passing it between steel wheels extremely well polished, and this flatting increases its length to more than a seventh part. One ingot, therefore, of 8 marks or 22 ½ pounds, and 22 inches long, by this increase of a 7th part, is brought to the length of 111 leagues, that is, about 300 English miles.
But amazing as this extent is, it is not the utmost bounds to which the ductility of gold may be carried. One ounce only of gold is sometimes used to cover one ingot, and drawn to the length I have mentioned, and by the time it has passed the flatting wheels, the gold that covers the silver
laminae,
must have its thickness reduced to less than the millionth part of a line; that is, a twelve millionth of an inch. This is beyond the reach of our conception. Imagination cannot plumb her line so low.
But, Sir, (I said) May not the gold be divided into small grains
separate
one from another, but yet
near enough
to give their colour to the silver? Though we may not be able to see the thing, yet I think it may be imagined; the
gold
on the
laminae
doth not form a continued leaf.
Experience, good Sir, demonstrates the contrary,—that every point of silver hath its cover of gold. Put a piece of this gilt wire in
aqua fortis,
the silver will be dissolved, and the gold left a perfect, continuous tube. It is an amazing thing! And shews the astonishing power of the first cause! As to the reason of this ductility, and why gold in such a manner adheres to silver, so as never to part from it, if the 22 ½ pounds of silver gilded with one ounce of gold could be extended by art for ever, this is past our finding out. It is a secret of nature we cannot form any idea of.
Calignosa nocte premit Deus.
Ribble
went on. These are the things most remarkable in relation to
gold;
and I have only to add, that as to the manner of getting it, it is found sometimes in glebes or clods, consisting of gold alone; sometimes in a powdry form, and then called
gold- dust,
or sand-gold, in the sands and mud of rivers and brooks; but most commonly in whitish clods, dug out of mines of vast depth, and intermixed with silver and various fossils. This they reduce by fire to a mass of metal, and by
aqua regia
or
aqua fortis,
the gold is easily taken out of the ore.
And as to
gold
's being so yielding and
ductile
by human art, it is to be observed, that in return it exerts a greater power on the human mind. Passive it is in its ductility, but more active in its influence on man. It is a
greater tyrant
than a
slave.
It drives repeated millions of the human race to death and hell. King of metals as it is, bright and glorious to behold, and what procures innumerable blessings to mankind; yet, without the grace of God, to moderate the passion for it, and to direct the mind in a true use of it, it is more dangerous to beings on a trial in a first state, than even poverty can be in this lower hemisphere. What villainies are daily committed to get it! What iniquities daily perpetrated by those who have plenty of it!
Lead us not into temptation,
should relate as well to too much of it, as to a total want of it; and it is well prayed,—
In all time of our wealth, good Lord deliver us.
Mr.
Ribble
's conclusion, containing his religious thoughts and advice.
In my opinion, neither poverty nor riches, but a middle state, is the thing we should desire. It is in this condition, we can best live
soberly,
or with a sound mind, and conduct ourselves as those who have an intelligent spirit to preside in body. Too much gold most commonly inverts this order, and produces an apostasy that sets the inferior powers in the throne, and enslaves the mind to the body: It gives the
passions
the
commanding influence,
and makes
reason
receive
law
from
appetite.
If we look into the world, we find too often, in this case, that wealth is big with innumerable sins. The rich are filled with wine, wherein is excess, and shew an unbridled dissoluteness of manners. Their eyes behold strange women, and their hearts utter perverse things. Instead of regarding the common good, they commit the most extravagant injuries. Of such a hardning nature is too much
gold,
that it tends to make conscience insensible and stupid, and renders it for ever unapt for impression. Then whoredom and wine, and new wine, take away the heart, and men are made to forget the law of God.
But having neither poverty nor riches, in the calm middle state, having all reasonable conveniencies, we can fairly come by; a vast variety of creatures for our food, and
wine
in its season, to
make glad the heart;
we may then partake of the bounties of providence, with a sober freedom, and at the same time, can best lay up for ourselves a good foundation, or secuity for the time to come, that we may lay hold of eternal life.
Tho' it is with a prospect of difficulties, that all must enter upon religion, and with labour and difficulty, maintain our ground, and acquit ourselves like christians, that is, resist the devil in all his assaults, overcome the world in its ensnaring influence, and mortify the irregular inclinations of nature; yet in the happy middle state, where there is no poverty nor riches, that is, great wealth, we can make everlasting glory and felicity our governing aim, and bound our ambition and desires by nothing short of the resurrection of the dead. We may live in a full and ready submission of the soul to the authority of God's word. Things eternal may have the ascendant in our practical judgment, and then with pleasure we become followers of them, who through faith and patience inherit the promises.
Good Sir, this is all our sowing time, and whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. He that soweth to his flesh, shall of his flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap everlasting life. And therefore, whether your lot be cast in the happy middling state, or you were born to thousands a year, let wisdom be your rule, and prefer that happiness which has everlasting duration, in the realms of light above, to any present good that can come in competition with it. Do not spend money for that which is not bread— and your labour for that which satisfieth not. Do not employ your pains for that which hath
vanity
written upon it, by the word of God, by the testimony of the wisest men, and by frequent experience: but let your principal regard be for your immortal soul, when nothing can be given in exchange for the soul. Implore the light and grace of the good spirit, and by the quickening influences of the Father of the universe, and the exertion of your whole strength, let it be the principal labour of your every day, to make advances in the divine life, and be a blessing to society wherever you come. In
virtue
and
charity
may you excel.
You will pardon old
Ribble,
I hope, good Sir, and excuse his addressing himself to you in this manner. It is an odd conclusion, I own, to a discourse on
metals
and
semi-metals;
but it is from an extreme regard I have conceived for you, that I talk as I do, and presume to call upon you, (as you are a young man of fortune, I suppose) to consider seriously of that
decree,
which is the result of unerring wisdom, and the will of the Rector of the universe, to wit, that we are all under the
law of death,
and through that gate must pass, perhaps at a day's, an hour's warning, to the
resurrection of the dead,
to be adjudged to happiness or misery, as time has been employed, and life spent here. This is the
decree
of the Most High God, and of consequence, it is incumbent on us, to prepare for the
awful hereafter,
and endeavour by good actions, and a virtuous mind, by purity of conscience, and an exalted piety, to
come off well
in judgment. Happy—thrice happy they that do so.
Here little
Ribble
the
Chemist
had done, and I had reason to return him my very hearty thanks for the favour of his whole discourse. I was vastly obliged to him for the knowledge he had given me, in relation to the philosophy of metals, and taking him by the hand, promised him, that I would ever gratefully remember his moral conclusion. This pleased the old gentleman, and at four in the afternoon we parted.
A charming vale, and country house, in
Nottinghamshire,
the feat of Mr.
Moncktes.
§ 3. Reflecting on the wonders of the metals, which I had heard old
Ribble
so well discourse of, and being more intent on what had been told me of these things, that I might never forget such useful learning, I trotted on for several hours without minding the road, and arrived as the sun was setting in a deep and melancholy vale, through which a pleasant river run, that by the murmur of its streams, seemed to be marked out for the rendezvous of the thoughtful, who love the deep recesses, and embowring woods, with the soft thrillings of gliding streams, as much as the sprightly court the gayest scenes. In this sweet spot, I found a pretty country house, and not knowing where I was, rid up to the door, to enquire my way. A gentleman, who seemed to be about forty, immediately appeared, let me know I was at a considerable distance from any town, and as it was near ten, told me I had best rest with him that night, and I was most heartily welcome. This was humane and civil. I accepted the kind invitation, and immediately went in with him. He brought me into a decent room, and gave me a handsome meal. We had a couple of bottles after supper, talked of a thousand things, and then withdrew to wind up the machines. He would not let me stir the next morning, and after dinner we became well acquainted. Six days this gentleman prevailed with me to stay at his house, and then I left him with regret. He was so generous, so civil, and in every thing so agreeable, that I could not avoid admiring him, and regarding him to an extreme degree. His name was
Monckton.
Character of Mr.
Monckton.
§ 4.
Avery Monckton
had seen the world, when he was a young man, and by reading much, and thinking a great deal, had acquired an extensive knowledge, and a deep penetration. In him the gentleman and the scholar were visible. He seemed superior to folly, and his philosophy appeared to be an assiduous examination of his ideas, fancies, and opinions, in order to render them true and just. His religion consisted in a chearful submission to the divine pleasure, with respect to all things independent of us, or absolutely external to us; and in a continued exertion of benevolence, in doing all the good he could. What the theology of sects was, and the notions of divines, he never minded. It was his opinion, that an
active charity
is the only thing that can
liken
and
approve
us to the original benevolent mind: and that it is reasonable to submit to all his dispensations, since the providence of an infinitely perfect Being, must do all for the best in the whole. This was
Avery Monckton,
Esq
In his person he was tall, and very thin.
This gentleman told me the following remarkable story relating to himself, on my asking him, if he had ever been married?— Yes, Sir, he replied: When I was about five and twenty, a young lady came in my way, who had all the external charms that ever adorned a woman, and I thought her mind as perfect in goodness of every kind, as minds can be on this earth. I made my addresses to her, and with some difficulty persuaded her to accept of a good jointure, and be a wife; for she had got it into her head, that christian perfection consisted in a virgin-life. I loved her to an extreme degree, and fancied myself beyond mortals happy, as her fondness seemed equal to my passion, and she expressed it in a most transporting way. Three months passed on in this delightful manner, and I should have thought an age but minutes, if the scene was to have no change. But every thing must have an end in this poor state. Business called me one morning early into the city, and till it was late at night, I thought not to return: Back however I was compelled to go for some papers, I had forgot, and designing to surprize agreeably my wife, came in by a key I had, at the wash-house door, and unseen went softly up to my chamber, where I expected to find my beloved in a sweet sleep. Gently I touched the lock, and intended, as my charmer slumbered, to give this idol of my heart a kiss: But, as I opened the door without being heard, I saw a man by my bed-side, and my fond faithful wife, buttoning up his breeches. Amazement seized me, but I was not in a rage. I only said, is that
Louisa
I see, and shut the door. Down stairs I went immediately, and out again the same way I came in. I was done with love for ever, and from that time never saw my wife more. A ship being to sail the next day for
Constantinople,
I went a passenger in it, and resolved to live abroad some years.
Six years I resided in
Greece,
and visited every curious place: Four I spent in
Asia minor,
and two in
Italy
and
France.
I diverted myself with noting down the extraordinary things I saw, and I purchased several fine antiquities by the way. When done, I came back to my country again, and this little seat I now live at, being to be sold, I bought it immediately, and have resided here ever since. My study, my garden, and my horse, divert me fully and finely every day. I have all I desire in this world, and reign more happily over my few subjects, in this airy, silent, secret spot, than the greatest monarch can do on a throne. My people are only one young man, who is my gardener, my footman, and my groom, and two old women, my maids. These are ever attentive to my will, and by their good behaviour and management, make my lodge as agreeable, and life as pleasing, as can be expected in this system of things.
Monckton
's story pleased me much, and I wondered greatly at his happy temper, when he saw his beloved wife buttoning up the breeches of the man. But did you ever hear what became of her after?—And faulty as she was, may there not be found an honest charming woman, to render your hours more delightful than study and contrivance can make them, without a soft partner thro' life? Come into the world with me, Sir, and I will engage to find out for you a mere primitive christian of a woman, with all the beauties of body that
Lucian
gives his images.
You are very good, Sir, (
Monckton
replied) in offering to look out for another wife for me, and I thank you very heartily, for your well-meant kindness; but as I never enquired what became of my first wife, from the morning I left her, and know only that she is dead, as her jointure has not been demanded for several years past; so shall I never be concerned with a second. Perhaps there are some honest women in the world. I hope so: but I have had enough of marriage. Beside, I think it time now to turn my thoughts a better way. In the forty-fifth year of my age, it cannot be weak, to begin to consider the great change before me, and fix my hopes on a good remove into some better and happier region. If I was unfortunate with a wife when a young man, I have little reason to expect better days with one, as age comes on. I might find myself again most sadly mistaken. But there can be no disappointment in making it the principal work of life, to prepare, in such a retirement as this, for that approaching hour, when we must submit to the power and tyranny of death and corruption. By this means, the greatest happiness may be secured. In every thing else, there is uncertainty and vanity. I speak principally in respect of my time of life, who am hastning fast to fifty: but at every time, it is my opinion, that men, as rationals, and beings who take on themselves the honourable profession of the christian religion, should not comply with the criminal liberties allowed in the world, and give into the illicit usages and customs of place and company, for fear of ridicule, or to avoid giving offence; but keep strictly to the will and laws of their higher country, and in all things have a special regard to holiness, and truth, and purity.
I do not say this by way of preaching, but that you may thereby have a truer idea of the man you chanced to find in a lone house on this vast common. Seven years have I now lived here, and in all that time, have not been once in
London:
but sometimes I ride to a neighbouring village, and if on the road, or at an inn, I can pick up a sensible agreeable man, I love to dine with him, and drink a pint of wine. Such a man I frequently ride in quest of, and if he be intirely to my mind, (which is very rarely the case,) I invite him home with me, to pass at my lodge two or three days. Far then am I from being unsocial, though I live in solitude; but I left the world, because I was ill-used in it, and happen to think very differently from the generality of men. Here
Monckton
ended his story, and a little after we parted.
A bait at a lone inn, and the arrival of Miss
Turner
of
Skelsmore
vale.
§. 5. I rid for six hours without meeting with any thing remarkable; but as I baited about three o'clock at a lone inn, the situation of which was so fine in forest and water, that I determined to go no further that day, there arrived a little after, a young lady, her maid, and two men servants. They were all well-mounted, and the lady's beast in particular, as great a beauty of its kind, as its mistress was among women. I thought I had seen the face before, and had been some where or other in her company; but as it must be several years ago, and her face and person were a little altered, I could not immediately recollect her: but
Finn,
my lad, coming up to me, asked me, if I did not remember Miss
Turner
of
Skelsmore-vale
See the Life of
John Buncle,
Vol. I. p. 404.
? Miss
Turner,
I said;—to be sure, now I think, it is she; but this lady just arrived here is much fatter, and, if it be possible, something handsomer. It is her, believe me, quoth
Finn,
and you ought to wait upon her instantly. I went. It was Miss
Turner,
one of the beauties that adorns a
gallery
of
pictures
in the North, and who is with great truth in the following lines described, in a Poem written on this collection of paintings.
The picture of Miss
Turner.
But see!
Emilia
rises to the sight
In every virtue, in every beauty bright!
See those victorious eyes, that heav'nly mien!
Behold her shine like Love's resistless
Queen!
Thou fairest wonder of thy fairest kind!
By heav'n some image of itself design'd!
As if in thee it took peculiar care,
And form'd thee like some
fav'rite seraph
there,
But tho' thy beauty strikes the ravish'd sight▪
Thy virtue shines distinguishingly bright!
And all the graces of thy form combin'd,
Yield to the charms of thy unblemish'd mind;
Where all is spotless, gentle, and serene,
One calm of life untouch'd by guilt or pain!
Could I in equal lays thy worth design,
Or paint exalted merit such as thine!
To latest ages should thy name survive,
And in my verse
Emilia
ever live;
Th' admiring world should listen to thy praise,
And the fair
portrait
charm succeeding days.
This lady knew me at once, on my entring the room where she was, and we dined together. She told me, her brother, my friend, died in
Italy,
on his return home; and Miss
Jaquelot,
her cousin and companion, was happily married; and that being thus left alone, by these two accidents, she was going up to
London,
to reside in the world.
My address to Miss
Turner.
§. 6. Miss
Turner,
(I said then) as you are now your own mistress, I may with justice make my addresses, and tell you, that from the first hour I saw you, I was in love with you, and am so still: that if you will do me the honour to be my wife, I will make the best of husbands. I have now some fortune, and if you will allow, that an honest man is the best companion for an honest woman, let us marry in the country, and instead of going up to that noisy tumultuous place called
London,
retire to some still delightful retreat, and there live, content with each other, as happy as it is possible for two young mortals to be in this lower hemisphere. What do you say, Miss
Turner?
Miss
Turner
's answer: and our marriage.
§. 7. You shall have my answer, Sir, in a few days: But as to going up to
London,
I think I had best see it, since I am come so far. It may give me a new relish for still life, and make the country seem more charming than I thought it before. On the other hand, it may perhaps make me in love with the town, and put me out of conceit with the country. In short, on second thoughts; I will not go up to the
Capital.
I will return to
Skelsmore-vale.
I think so now: But how I may think in the morning, at present I do not know. In the mean time, (
Caesia
continued,) ring, if you please, for a pack of cards, and let us pass the evening in play. The cards were brought in, the game began, and before we had played, many hours, I saw this dear charming creature was all my own. She sat before me, like blushing beauty in the picture, (in the gallery of
Venus,
) enriched with thought, warm with desire, and with delicate sensations covered over: I could not help wishing for father
Fleming,
my friend, to qualify us for the implanted impulse, and sanctify the call. Early the next morning I sent
Finn
for him, and he was with me in a few days. The evening he arrived we were married. Man and wife we sat down to supper.
The Author's apology for marrying again so soon.
§. 8. Here the
morose,
the
visionary,
and the
dunce,
will again fall upon me, for marrying a fifth wife, so quickly after the decease of the fourth; who had not been three months in her grave: But my answer is, that a dead woman is no wife, and marriage is ever glorious. It is the institution of heaven, a blessing to society, and therefore hated by the
devil
and
mass-priests. Satan
by opposing it, promotes fornication and perdition. The priests by preaching against it, drive the human race into cloysters; destroy every thing gentle, generous, and social; and rob the people of their property.
Celibacy
is
popery
and
hell
in perfection. It is the doctrine of devils, and a war with the Almighty. It is against the institutions of nature and providence; and therefore, for ever
execrable
be the memory of the
mass-priests,
who dare to call it
perfection.
My dear Reader, if you are unmarried, and healthy, get a wife as soon as possible, some charming girl, or pretty widow, adorned with modesty, robed with meekness, and who has the grace to attract the soul, and heighten every joy continually;—take her to thy breast, and bravely, in holy wedlock,
propagate.
Despise and hiss the
mass-priests,
and every
visionary,
who preaches the contrary doctrine. They are foes to heaven and mankind, and ought to be drummed out of society.
SECTION XI.
Quid quaeri, Labiene, jubes?—
An noceat vis ulla bono? Summaque perdat
Opposita virtute minas? Laudandaque velle
Sit satis, et nunquam successu crescat honestum?
Scimus, et hoc nobis non altius inferet Ammon.
Cato
's answer to
Labienus,
when he requested him to consult the oracle of
Jupiter Ammon. Lucan,
B.
9.
Where would thy fond, thy vain enquiry go?
What mystic fate, what secret would'st thou know?
If this sad world, with all its forces join'd,
The universal malice of mankind,
Can shake or hurt the brave and honest mind?
If stable virtue can her ground maintain,
While fortune feebly threats and frowns in vain ?
If truth and justice with uprightness dwell,
And honesty consist in meaning well?
If right be independent of success,
And conquest cannot make it more nor less?
Are these, my friend, the secrets thou would'st know,
Those doubts for which to oracles we go?
'Tis known, 'tis plain, 'tis all already told,
And horned Ammon can no more unfold.
ROWE.
Or thus.
What should I ASK, my friend,—if best it be
To live enslav'd, or thus in arms die free!
If it our real happiness import,
Whether life's foolish scene be long or short?
If any force true honour can abate,
Or fortune's threats make virtue bow to fate?
If when at noble ends we justly aim,
The bare attempt entitles us to fame?
If a bad cause, that justice would oppress,
Can ever grow more honest by success?
All this we know, wove in our minds it sticks,
Which Ammon nor his priests can deeper fix.
They need not teach with venal cant and pains,
That God's inevitable will holds our's in chains,
Who act but only what he pre-ordains.
He needs no voice to thunder out his law,
Or keep his creatures wild desires in awe:
Both what we ought to do, or what forbear,
He once for all did at our births declare:
What for our knowledge needful was or fit,
With lasting characters in human soul he writ.
But never did he seek out desert lands
To skulk, or bury truth in desert sands,
Or to a corner of the world withdrew,
Head of a sect, and partial to a few.
Nature's vast fabrick he controuls
alone;
This globe's his footstool, high heaven his throne.
Estque Dei sedes, ubi terra, et pontus, et aer,
Et caelum, et virtus. Superos quid quaerimus ultra?
In earth, sea, air, and what e'er else excels,
In knowing heads, and honest hearts he dwells.
Why vainly seek we then in barren sands,
In narrow shrines, and temples built with hands,
HIM, whose dread presence does all places fill,
Or look, but in our reason for his will!
Whate'er we see is GOD, in all we find
Apparent prints of his eternal mind.
Sortileges egeant dubii semperque, futuris
Casibus Ancipetes: me non oracula certum,
Sed mors certa facit: pavido fortique cadendum est.
Hoc satis est dixisse Jovem. Sic illa profatur.
Let floating fools their course by prophets steer,
And live of future chances still in fear;
No oracle or dream the crowd is told,
Shall make me more or less resolv'd and bold;
Death is my sure retreat, which must on all,
As well on cowards, as on the gallant fall.
This said he turn'd him with disdain about,
And left scorn'd Ammon to amuse the rout.
The
temple
of
Jupiter Ammon
was situated on the south part of the
desarts
of
Lybia,
about 200 miles from the borders of
Egypt.
These
desarts
consisting of fluctuating sands are of a vast unknown extent, and by the rising of the wind, roll like waves of the sea, fall like snow, and have buried whole armies: But the spot in the middle of which the
temple
stood, is fine fixed land, seven miles in circumference, richly planted and watered with fountains and streams; a delightful and healthful place, though the vast desarts all round are scorching sands, without so much as one well or rivulet to be seen any where.
Alexander
the Great was there in the year 332, or 1 before
Christ.
And
Cato
in the year before
Christ
46.
Lucan
gives a fine description of this
march
of
Cato
in his IXth book. — And of the spot where
Ammon
reigned, says—
Here, and here only, through wide
Lybia
's space,
Tall trees, the land, and verdant herbage grace.
Here the loose sands by plenteous springs are bound,
Knit to a mass, and moulded into ground:
Here smiling nature wears a fertile dress,
And all things here the present God confess.
The Latin is vastly fine.
Esse locis superos testatur sylva per omnem
Sola virens Libyen, nam quicquid pulvere sicco
Separat ardentem tepida berenicida lepti,
Ignorat frondes. Solus nemus abstulit Ammon.
Sylvarum fons causa loco, qui putria terrae
Alligat, et domitas unda connectit arenas.
This spot in
Lybia
is to this day the same beautiful and wonderful place; the most charming piece of ground in the world, in the midst of the most horrible desarts; but instead of
Corniger,
(as
Lucan
calls
Ammon
) an
African
prince named
Abu Derar,
now reigns there, and his palace stands where the temple stood in
Alexander
's and
Cato
's time. I saw not long ago a gentleman who had been on the spot and told me this. He further said, that this king and his people had been converted to the christian religion by an
Abyssinian priest,
and had better notions of christianity than many of our great divines; for they have not a thought of
trinity in unity;
nor would they say, to gain the whole world, what the great Dr.
Potter
does in one of his sermons, to wit,
that whatsoever pain or misery God himself did suffer
in his human nature: Or as
Trapp
expresses himself in his discourse on the marriage at
Cana, —A sweet smile sat on the face of the great God:
— meaning
Jesus:
— Horrible sayings! O wretched orthodoxy! But they think, without daring to invent and add to the gospel, that
Jesus Christ
was (and was no more than) the
Messias, sent by God for the salvation of mankind.
At what time this
Oracle
of
Jupiter Ammon
ceased is not certain. We are sure it was of no reputation in the time of
Trajan.
All the
Oracles
ceased, when men opened their eyes, and laid aside their impertinent credulity. This was the true cause of the cessation; though the fathers ascribe it to the coming of the Saviour of the world. It was mere priestcraft to make money.
Non exploratum populis Ammona relinquens.
The unfortunate death of Miss
Turner,
the author's fifth wife.
§. 1. FOR six weeks after our marriage, we resided at the inn, on account of the charms of the ground, and seemed to be in possession of a lasting happiness it is impossible for words to describe. Every thing was so smooth and so round, that we thought prosperity must be our own for many years to come, and were quite secure from the flames of destruction; but calamity laid hold of us, when we had not the least reason to expert it, and from a fulness of peace and felicity, we sunk at once into an abyss of afflictions. Instead of going back to
Skelsmorevale,
as we had resolved, my wife would go up to
London,
and pass a few weeks there, and thereabout, before she retired to the mountains. I was against it, but her will was my law. We set out for the Capital, and the first day's journey was delightful: But her fine beast having met with an accident in the night, by a rope in the stable, which got about it's foot, cut it deep, and rendered it unable to travel; we took a chariot and four to finish our way; but on driving by the side of a steep hill, the horses took fright, ran it down, over came the carriage, and my charmer was killed. This was a dismal scene. She lived about an hour, and repeated the following fine lines from
Boissard,
when she saw me weeping as I kneeled on the ground by her;—
Nil prosunt lacrumae, nec possunt fata moveri:
Nec pro me queror; hoc morte mihi est tristius ipsa,
Moeror Atimeti conjugis ille mihi.
Homonoea
and
Atimetus:
and the epitaph of
Homonoea
at large.
These lines from the antiquities of
Boissard,
are a real inscription on a tomb in
Italy,
which this antiquary found in his travels, and copied it as a curiosity to the world. It is to be seen on the monument to this day.
Homonoea
was a great beauty at the court of the Emperor
Honorius,
and married to
Atimetus,
a courtier and favourite, who preferred her to the most illustrious of ladies of that time, on account of her extraordinary charms, and uncommon perfections; but the did not long enjoy the honour and happiness she was married into. Before the was twenty, death snatched her away, in the year of the reign of
Honorius,
A. D. 401. and the following beautiful
epitaph
was cut on her monument, and remains to this day: I place it here for the entertainment of my readers, and likewise
La Fontaine
's elegant translation of it.
Homoea
's Epitaph.
Si pensare animas sinerent crudelia fata,
Et posset redimi morte aliena salus:
Quantulacunque meae debentur tempora vitae
Pensarem pro te, cara
Homonoea,
libens.
At nunc quod possum, fugiam lucemque deosque,
Ut to matura per stuga morte sequar.
[Atimetus
the husband, is the speaker of these six lines.
]
Parce tuam conjux fletu quassare juventam,
Fataque merendo sollicitare mea.
Nil prosunt lacrumae, nec possunt fata moveri.
Viximus: hic omnes exitus unus habet.
Parce, ita non unquam similem experiare dolorem.
Et faveant votis numina cuncta tuis!
Quodque mihi cripuit mors immatura juventae,
Hoc tibi victuro proroget ulterius.
[Homonoea is
supposed to speak these eight lines, to her hushand; and then relates her case to the traveller, who is passing by.
]
Tu qui secura procedis mente parumper
Siste gradum quaeso, verbaque pauca lege.
Illa ego quae claris fueram praelata puellis,
Hoc
Homonoea
brevi condita sum tumulo,
Cui formam paphia, et charites, tribuere decorem,
Quam Pallus cunctis artibus eruduit.
Nondum bis denos aetas compleverat annos,
Injecere manus invida fata mihi.
Nec pro me queror; hoc morte mihi est tristius ipsa,
Moeror Atimeti conjugis ille mihi.
Sit tibi terra levis, mulier dignissima vitâ
Quaeque tuis olim perfruerêre bonis.
[
These two lines may be the words of the Public, or of whoever crected the monument to the memory of
Homonoea.
Now see how finely
La Fontaine
has done this inscription into verse.
Si l'on pouvoit donner ses jours pour ceux d'un autre
Et que par cet échange on contentat le sort,
Quels que soint les momens qui me restent encore
Mon ame, avec plaisir, racheteroit la votre.
Mais le destin l'ayant autrement arrété,
Je ne sçaurois que fuir les dieux & la clarté,
Pour vous suivre aux enfers d'une mort avancée.
Quittez, ô chere epoux, cette triste pensée,
Vous alterez en vain les plus beaux de vos ans:
Cessez de fatiguer par de cris impuissans,
La parque et le destin, deitez inflexibles.
Mettez fin â des pleurs qui ne le touchent point;
Je ne suis plus: tout tent â ce suprême poinct.
Ainsi nul accident, par des coups si sensibles
Ne vienne à l'avenir traverser vos plaisirs!
Ainsi l'Olimpe entier s'accorde a vos desirs!
Veüille enfin atropos, au cours de vôtre vie
Ajoûter l'etenduë à la mienne ravire!
Et toy, passant tranquille, apprens quels sont nos maux,
Daigne icy t'arréter on moment a les lire,
Celle qui preserée aux partis les plus hauts,
Sur le ceur d'Atimete acquir un doux empire;
Qui tenoit de venus la beauté de ses traits,
De Pallas son sçavoir, des graces ses attraits,
Gist sous ce peu d'espace en la tombe enserrée,
Vingt soleils n'avoient pas ma carriere éclairés,
Le sort jetta fur mois ses envieuses mains;
C'est Atimete seul quit fait que je mens plains,
Ma mort m'afflige moins que sa douleur amere.
O femme, que la terre à tes os soit legere?
Femme digne de vivre; et bientôt pusses tu
Recommencer de voir les traits de la lumieres,
Et recouvrer le bien que ton ceur a perdu.
Or thus in prose.
S'il suffisoit aux destins qu'on donât sa vie pour celle d'un autre, et qu'il fût possible de racheter ainsi ce que l'on ayme, quelque soit le nombre d'années que les parques m'ont accordé, je le donnerois avec plaisir pour vous tirer de tombeau, ma chere
Homonée;
mais cela ne se pouvant, ce que je puis faire est de fuïr le jour et la presence de dieux, pour alter bientôt vous suivre le long du Styx.
O mon chere epoux, cessez de vous affliger; ne corrompez plus le fleurs de vos ans; ne fatiguez plus ma destinée par de plaintes continuëlles: toutes les larmes sont icy vaines; on ne sauroit émouvoir la parque: me voila morte, chacun arrive à ce terme la. Cessez done encore un fois: Ainsi puissiez-vous ne sentir jamais une semblable douleur! Ainsi tous les dieux soient favorable a vos souhaits! Et veüille la parque ajoûter a vôtre vie ce qu'elle a ravi à la mienne.
Et toy qui passes tranquillement, arreté icy je te prie un moment ou deux, afin de lire ce peu de mots.
Moy, cette
Homonée
que preferra Atimete a de filles considerables; moy a qui Venus donna la beauté, les graces et les agrémens; que Pallas enfin avoit instruite dans tous les arts, me voilà icy renfermée dans un monument de peu d'espace. Je n'avois pas encore vingt ans quand le sort jetta ses mains envieuses sur ma personne. Ce n'est pas pour moy que je m'en plains, c'est pour mon mari, de qui la douleur m'est plus difficile à supporter que ma propre mort.
Que la terre te soit legere, ô épouse digne de retourner à la vie, et de recouvrer un jour que tu a perdu!
N. B.
The reader who does not understand French, will find this in English at the end of this
XIth Section.
Just as she expired, she took me by the hand, and with the spirit of an
old Roman,
bid me adieu.
Can you form an idea, Reader, of the distress I was then in? If is not possible I think, unless you have been exactly in the same situation; unless you loved like me, and have been as miserably separated from as charming a woman. But it was in vain for me to continue lamenting. She was gone for ever, and lay as the
clod of the valley
before me. Her body I deposited in the next churchyard, and immediately after, rid as fast as I could to
London,
to lose thought in dissipation, and resign the better to the decree. For some days I lived at the inn I set up at, but as soon as I could, went into a lodging, and it happened to be at the house of the famous
Curl
the bookseller; a man well known in the
Dunciad,
and
Pope
's
letters to his friends,
on account of
Curl
's frauds in purchasing and printing stolen copies of Mr.
Pope
's works. It is in relation to these
tricks,
that
Pope
mentions
Curl
in his
Dunciad
and
Letters.
A succinct history of him I shall here give: but had I complied with his requests, it would have been a long relation, to the advantage and glory of this extraordinary man: For he came one morning into my closet, with an apron full of papers; being letters, memorandums, parodies, and notes, written by or concerning himself; and requested I would, on a good consideration, write his life, to his profit and honour, and make it a five shilling book. That I said was not then in my power to do: but I would, one time or other, give the public a true account of him, and make it conclude I hoped to the glory of his character. Here it is.
The picture and character of
Curl
the Bookseller.
§. 2. CURL was in person very tall and thin, an ungainly, aukward, white-faced man. His eyes were a light-grey, large, projecting, gogle and pur-blind. He was splay-footed, and baker-kneed.
He had a good natural understanding, and was well acquainted with more than the title pages of books. He talked well on some subjects. He was not an infidel as Mrs.
Rowe
misrepresents him in one of her letters to lady
Hartford,
(afterwards Dutchess of
Somerset
). He told me, it was quite evident to him, that the
scriptures
of the Old and New Testament contained a
real revelation.
There is for it a
rational, a natural, a traditionary,
and a
supernatural
testimony; which rendered it quite certain to him. He said, he no more doubted the truth of the christian religion, than he did the existence of an independent supreme Creator; but he did not believe the expositions given by the divines. So far
Curl
was right enough. His fault was, that with such a belief, he took no pains with his heart. Trusting intirely to the
merits the Saviour,
like too many other mistaken christians, he had no notion of religion as an
invisible thing within us,
called the
kingdom of God:
He did not even consider it as a good outside thing, that recommends a man to his fellow-creatures. He was a debauchee to the last degree, and so injurious to society, that by filling his translations with wretched notes, forged letters, and bad pictures, he raised the price of a four shilling book to ten. Thus, in particular, he managed
Burnet
's Archiology: And when I told him he was very culpable in this, and other articles he sold, his answer was, What would I have him do? He was a bookseller. His
translators
in
pay,
lay three in a bed, at the
Pewter-Platter
Inn in
Holborn,
and he and they were for ever at work, to deceive the Public. He likewise printed the lewdest things. He lost his ears for the
Nun in her Smock,
and another thing. As to drink, he was too fond of money, to spend any in making himself happy that way; but at another's expence, he would drink every day till he was quite blind, and as incapable of self-motion as a block. This was
Edmund Curl:
But he died at last as great a penitent, (I think in the year 1748) as ever expired. I mention this to his glory.
As
Curl
knew the world well, and was acquainted with several extraordinary characters, he was of great use to me at my first coming to town, as I knew nobody, nor any place. He gave me the true characters of many I saw, told me whom I should avoid, and with whom I might be free. He brought me to the play-houses, and gave me a judicious account of every actor. He understood those things well. No man could talk better on theatrical subjects. He brought me likewise to Sadler's Wells, to the night-cellars, and to
Tom King
's, the famous night-house at
Covent Garden.
As he was very knowing, and well-known at such places, he soon made me as wise as himself in these branches of learning; and, in short, in the space of a month, I was as well acquainted in
London,
as if I had been there for years. My kind preceptor spared no pains in lecturing.
But what of all things I thought most wonderful was the company I saw at the Sieur
Curl
's. As he was intimate with all the high whores in town, many of them frequented his shop, to buy his dialogues, and other lively books. Some of these girls he often asked to dine with him, and then I was sure to be a guest. Many very fine women I thereby saw, but none worth mentioning, till
Carola Bennet
arrived. She did surprize me. Her mind and body were very wonderful, and I imagine a description of her, and her story afterward will not be ungrateful to my readers.
The picture of
Carola Bennet.
§. 3.
Carola Bennet
was at this time in the two and twentieth year of her age, a dazzling beauty in the height of life and vigour. Her eyes were black and amazingly fine: Her mouth charming: Her neck and breast very beautiful: Her stature was just what it ought to be. She had a glow of health, a luscious air, and a bewitching vivacity: Her manners were wonderfully winning, and the tone of her voice so sweet and insinuating, that her words and looks went directly to the heart. She had read many books of gaiety, wit, and humour; especially the French; and talked delightfully on such subjects. She sang to perfection: but her conversation was too free, and she seemed to have no sense of any religion. It was a fine entertainment to be in her company, as I often was, yet I could not help sighing, to see so many any perfections on the brink of everlasting destruction.—This young lady all of a sudden disappeared.
Curl
knew not what was become of her: but as I rid ten years after through
Devonshire,
in the finest part of that romantic county, I saw her one morning, (as I stopped to water my horse in a brook that ran from a park,) sitting on a seat, under a vast beautiful cedar tree, with a book in her hand. I thought I was no stranger to the fine face, and as I was pretty near to her, I called out, and asked, if she was not Miss
Bennet?
She knew me at once, and pointing to a gate that was only latched, desired I would come to her. I went and found she was the mistress of the fine seat at a small distance off. She brought me into the house, would not suffer me to stir that day, and told me the story of her life. I think it worth placing here.
History of Miss
Bennet.
§. 4.
Carola Bennet
was the daughter of
John Bennet,
Esq
a
Yorkshire
gentleman, who died when she was in her 19th year, and left her in the care of her aunt, an old lady who was outwardly all saint, and within a devil. This
Carola
knew well, and requested her father to get another guardian for her, or leave her to manage herself; for Mrs.
Hunfleet,
her aunt, was far from being that primitive christian he took her for, and so great a miser, that exclusive of all her other vices, her avarice alone was enough to ruin her niece. She would sacrifice the whole human race for half a thousand pounds. But all his daughter said was in vain. He believed his sister was godliness itself, in its utmost latitude and extent; that she lived a continued opposition to our mortal enemies, the world, sin, and the devil; and that her heart was a mere magazine of universal honesty, probity of manners, and goodness of life and conversation. Integrity and rectitude, and benevolence, as he thought, were the bright criterions of her soul. She will teach you,
Carola,
to fast and pray, and make you like herself, a mere saint.
It was to no purpose then for the daughter to remonstrate: She could only weep, as her father was positive, and after his death was obliged to go home with Mrs.
Hunfleet.
There, as she expected, she had too much of the outward bodily exercise of religion, every thing that can be named within the circle of external worship; such as public and private services, fastings, macerations, bowings, expanded hands and lifted eyes, which Lord
Halifax
(in his advice to a daughter,) calls the
holy goggle:
but that all this accompanied the internal acts of the old woman's mind, and went along with her heart and soul,
Carola
had reason to doubt. She saw it was but outward profession, — all hypocrisy, — that her life belied her creed, and her practice was a renunciation of the christian religion. This appeared to be the case very quickly. The aunt sold her to one
Cantalupe
for five hundred pounds. Under pretence of taking her to visit a friend, she brought her to a private
bagnio,
or one of those houses called
convents.
A description of a
London
convent: and an adventure there.
§. 5. Such houses stand in back courts, narrow lanes, or the most private places, and seem to be uninhabited, as the front windows are seldom opened, or like some little
friary,
where a company of visionaries reside; but within are elegantly furnished, and remarkable for the best wines. The woman who keeps the house is the only person to be seen in them, unless it be sometimes, that a high-priced whore, who passes for the gentlewoman's daughter, by accident appears.
In these
brothels
the Sieur
Curl
was well known, and as the wine in them is always excellent, (but a shilling a bottle dearer than at the tavern,) and one sits without hearing the least noise, or being seen by any one, I have often gone with this ingenious man to such places, on account of the purity of the wine, and the stillness of the house; as there are no waiters there, nor any well-drest hussies to come in the way. You are as silent as in a cave; nor does a woman appear, except as before excepted, unless it be by appointment at this kind of
meeting-house,
as such places may well be called: for there not seldom does many a married woman meet her gallant. One evening that I was there with
Curl,
there came in the wife of a very eminent merchant, a lady of as excellent a character as any in the world; who was never so much as suspected by any of her acquaintance, but allowed by every body to be a woman of pure morals and unspotted chastity. She came in first with a black mask on her face, from her chair, and was by the woman of the house shewn into a chamber up stairs: Half an hour after, there was another soft tap at the door, and a gentleman was let in, who was shewed up to the chamber the lady was in: As the door of the room
Curl
and I were sitting in, happened to be open as this adventurer passed by, I knew the man. He was an
Irish
gentleman of large fortune, with whom I was well acquainted. He was ever engaged in amours, and was some years after this hanged at
Cork,
for ravishing
Sally Squib,
the quaker. His name then can be no secret: But as to the the lady's name, I shall never tell it, as she left several children, who are now living in reputation; but only observe, that there are, to my knowledge, many women of such strict virtue in the world. If you ask me reader, how I came to know who she was? I will tell you. As she came down stairs in a mask at ten at night, in the manner she went up, I concluded she was a married woman of distinction, and followed her chair, when it went off. She changed at
Temple Bar,
and then took a hackney coach, which drove beyond the
Royal Exchange;
I followed till it stopped at a grand house, into which she went without a mask, and had a full view of her fine face. I enquired next day who lived in the house I saw her go into, and was told it was Mr. *****, a merchant of the greatest repute. Often did I see this lady after this, was several times in her company, and if I had not known what I did, should have thought her a woman of as great virtue as ever lived. There was not the least appearance of levity or indecency in her. To all outward appearance, she was chastity and discretion in flesh and blood. — But as to
Carola Bennet.
The history of Miss
Bennet
continued.
§. 6. Soon after her aunt and she arrived at Mrs.
Bedewell
's, in came
Cantalupe
as a visiter, and after tea, they went to cards. Then followed a supper, and when that was over, they gave the innocent Miss
Bennet
a dose, which deprived her of her senses, put her to bed, and in the morning she found herself ruined in the arms of that villain
Cantalupe.
Distraction almost seized her, but he would not let her stir. She called, but no one came near to her relief. He swore a million of oaths, that it was pure love made him buy her of her aunt, as he heard she was going to marry another man, and if she would but share with him in his great fortune, since the thing was done, he would, (by every sacred power he vowed) marry her that evening or the next, the first time they went out, and be the truest and most tender husband that ever yet appeared in the world. This, and the situation she was in, naked and clasped in his strong arms, without a friend to aid her, within doors or without, made her sensible her resentments were in vain, and that she had better acquiesce, and make the man her husband, if she could, since it was her hard fate, and that in all probability she might conceive from the transactions of the night. This made her have done. She lay as he requested till noon, and hoped he would prove as faithful as he had solemnly swore to be.
But when the night came, an indisposition he feigned, made him unable to stir out that evening, and he requested the idol of his heart, whom he loved more than life, to give him leave to defer it till the next. For six days he put it off in the same manner, during which time, they never stirred out of the bagnio, and the seventh day he left her fast asleep in bed. A billet-doux on the dressing-table informed her, that he was obliged to set out that morning for
France,
and as he intended to be back in a few months, he hoped she would not think him faithless at once. He left her a hundred pound bank note, which was all he had then to spare, as he had paid to her aunt 500
l.
a few days before.
Thus fell the beautiful Miss
Bennet
by the treachery of her ever-cursed aunt, and was made a whore very much against her will. The aunt, in the mean time, had shut up her house, and was gone no one knew where. She took several jewels with her, and a large sum of money, both the property of her niece. She left her but little of her fortune, and reported every where, that
Carola
was gone into keeping with a great man, and had before been debauched by her footman. In short, all that could be done this woman did, to impoverish and defame her niece, and as she had passed upon the world for a praying virtuous old piece, her reports were thought so true, that all the female acquaintance Miss
Bennet
had, laughed at the story she told, and shunned her as a foul fiend. She was banished from all modest company. They considered her as the most detestable prostitute, for excusing herself (they said) by blackning the character of so pious and upright a woman as Mrs.
Hunfleet,
her aunt, was.
A reflexion on hypocrites.
§. 7. Thus did iniquity ruin and triumph over innocence in the mask of religion, and a thousand times, to my own knowledge, it has done the same thing. I have often known wretches pretend to seek the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, in the first place, and by believing all the monks have invented, by constantly attending public worship, and an unnatural kind of sobriety, pass for people that were ready and willing to suffer every thing the cause of God and truth can require from rationals: yet these holy mortals could make the service of God not only stand with unwilling infirmities, (the common case of the best humanity,) but consist with wilful and presumptuous sinning, and a malevolence as great as the devil had against our first parents. A minister of the gospel, who passed for an admirable man, did his best to ruin my character for ever with my father. One of the holiest men in the world, cheated me of a thousand pounds, left in his hands for my use, for fear I should spend it myself. And a rich man, commonly called piety and goodness, from the seeming simplicity of his manners, the softness of his temper, and the holy goggle of his eyes in his public devotion, arrested me on a note of hand, one third of which was interest thrown into the principal, and made me pay interest upon interest, without mercy, or waiting as I in-treated, till it was more convenient. Many more such praying, sanctified villains I could mention, in respect of whom
Edmund Curl
was a cherubim, fond as he was of a girl and a flask.
Curl
owned he was a sinner, and that he was led by thirst and repletion to indulge: but the
hypocrites
with professions of esteem for the
pearl of great price,
and that they have parted with their
Herodias,
for the sake of eternal life; yet wilfully disobey from a passion for substance; and the shrine of bright Mammon in this world, has a greater influence on their souls than all the joys of an everlasting heaven to come. What they
do
is a farce. Upon what they
have,
they rest their all.
But as to Miss
Bennet:
In this sad condition, she secreted herself for some months from the world, and notwithstanding her constitution and taste, intended to retire among the mountains of
Wales,
and live upon the little she had left: but unfortunately for so good a design, the matchless Sir
Frederic Dancer
came in her way, and by money, and the force of love, persuaded her to be his companion while he lived, which was but for a short time. A young nobleman prevailed on her next, by high rewards, to be the delight of his life for a time; and at his death, she went to the arms of an
Irish
peer. She had what money she pleased from these great men, and being now very rich, she determined, on the marriage of her last Lord, to go into keeping no more, but to live a gay life among the agreeable and grand. She had lost all her notions of a
weeping and gnashing of teeth
to come, in the conversation of these atheistical men, and on account of her living as happily as she could in this world. What religion she had remaining, was placed in giving money to the sick and poor, which she did with a liberal hand: And her charity, in all its charms, she often shewed to the most deserving men. Those who had much of this world's goods paid dear: but she had compassion on the worthy, though they could not drive in a chariot to her door. This was the case of Miss
Bennet,
when I saw her at
Curl
's.
But all of a sudden she disappeared, and no one could tell what was become of her: that I learned from herself, when I chanced to see her under the cedar tree, (as before related) in the park.
A young clergyman, Mr.
Tench,
an Irishman of the county of
Galway,
who was very rich, and had a fine seat in
Devonshire,
saw her at the opera, and fell in love with her. He soon found out who she was, waited upon her, and offered to marry her, if she would reform. At first, she shewed very little inclination to a virtuous course, and, as her manner was, ridiculed the interest of another life. The blessedness of heaven she laughed at, and made a jest of riches, honours, and pleasures to be found on the other side the grave. This did not however dishearten
Tench.
He was a scholar and a man of sense, and as he loved most passionately, and saw she had a fine capacity, he was resolved, if possible, to reclaim her, by applying to her bright understanding.
Mr.
Tench
's conversation with Miss
Bennet,
in relation to religion.
§. 8. He observed to her, in the first place, (as she informed me) that, exclusive of future happiness, godliness was profitable in all things, that is, even in this life, in prosperity and adversity, in plenty and in want, in peace and in war, in confusion and security, in health, in honour and disgrace, in life and in death, and in what condition soever we may be. This he proved to her satisfaction, and made it plain to her conception, that by it only we can acquire a right judgment of persons and things, and have a just and due estimate of ourselves: that unless held in by
reason
and
religion,
pleasure, though innocent of itself, becomes a thing of deadly consequence to mortals; and if we do not use it in due time, place, circumstance, measure and limits, it necessarily involves us in difficulties and troubles, pain and infamy: if we stifle the grand leading principles,
reason
and
religion,
by sin and vice, and let desire and inclination range beyond bounds, we must not only plunge into various woes in this world, but as creatures degenerated below the beast, become the contempt and abhorrence of the wise and honest. To this sad condition must be annexed a reflective misery, as we have conscience or reason, that will examine, now and then, the whole procedure of life, do all we can to prevent it, and the remorse that must ensue, on account of our wretched and ridiculous conduct, is too bitter a thing for a reasonable creature to acquire, for the sake of illicit gratification only; and this becomes the more grievous in reflexion, as pleasures are not forbidden by religion, but allowed to the most upright, and ordained for the holy service of God; to recruit nature, and enliven the spirits; to propagate the human species, and preserve the flame of love in the married state. If there was then no other life but this, it is most certainly our interest in regard to fame and advantage, to be governed by reason and religion.
And if we are not to be annihilated with the beast, but are to answer hereafter for what we have done, whether it be good or bad, surely the main business of life should be to govern ourselves by godliness, that is, to be christians in our principles, holy in our conversation, and upright in our behaviour. If the gospel be true, (as has been proved a thousand and a thousand times, by the wisest men in the world, to the confusion and silence of infidelity,) and the Son of God came into the world, not to make
Judea
the seat of absolute and universal empire, and establish a temporal dominion in all possible pomp and magnificence, (as the
Jews
most erroneously and ridiculously fancied, and to this day believe,) but to prepare greater things for us; to relieve us from the power of sin, and the endless and unspeakable miseries of the life which is to come; to propose a prize far more worthy of our expectations than the glories of civil power, and to secure to us the happiness both of soul and body to all eternity, in the kingdom of God; then certainly, in regard to ourselves, we ought to attend to his heavenly lessons, and turn from the unlawful enjoyments of this life, to the endless and solid happiness of a future state. As this is the case, we should cherish and improve a faith of invisible things, by serious and impartial consideration. We should attend to the evidence which God has given us for the truth of christianity, evidence very cogent and sufficient; and then shew our faith by works suited to the doctrine of
Christ;
that is, by recommending the practice of virtue, and the worship of one God, the Creator of the universe.
Consider then, Miss
Bennet,
that you stand on the brink of death, resurrection, and judgment; and it is time to begin by serious and humble enquiry to arrive at a faith of strength and activity; that by your eminence in all virtue and holiness, you may make the glorious attempt to be greatest in the kingdom of heaven. This will be a work worthy of an immortal Soul: Nor will it hinder you from enjoying as much happiness in this lower hemisphere, as reason can desire. For godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.
Thus (Miss
Bennet
that was, continued) did this excellent young clergyman talk to me, and by argument and reasoning in the gentlest manner, by good sense and good manners; made me a convert to christianity and goodness, He snatched me from the gulph of eternal perdition, and, from the realms of darkness, and the society of devils, brought me into the kingdom of the Messiah. To make me as happy as it was possible even in this world, he married me, and landed me in this charming spot you found me in. For seven years, we lived in great happiness, without ever stirring from this fine solitude, and since his death, I have had no inclination to return to the world: I have one lady for my companion, an agreeable sensible woman, a near relation of Mr.
Tench
's, and with her, and some good books, and three or four agreeable neighbours, have all the felicity I care for in this world. When you saw me at
Curl
's, I had no taste for any thing but the
comedy,
the
opera,
and a
tale
of
La Fontaine;
but you found me with a volume of
Tillotson
in my hand, under that aged and beautiful cedar, near the road; and in those sermons I now find more delight, in the solemn shade of one of those fine trees, than ever I enjoyed in the gayest scenes of the world. In these sweet silent walks I am really happy. Riches and honour are with me, yea durable riches and righteousness. To the blessings of time, I can here add the riches of expectation and comfort, the riches of future glory and happiness. This makes me fond of this fine retreat. In contentment, peace, and comfort of mind, I now live. By hearkning to the commandments, my peace is a river.
Here Mrs.
Tench
had done, and I was amazed beyond expression. This charming libertine was quite changed. It was formerly her wont (when I have sat an evening with her at
Curl
's,) to make a jest of the christian scheme, — to laugh at the devil and his flames; her life was all pleasure, and her soul all whim: but when I saw her last, she was serious, and seemed to enjoy as happy a serenity and composure of mind, as ever mortal was blessed with. Even her eyes had acquired a more sober light, and in the place of a wild and luscious air, a beautiful modesty appeared.
A reflexion on the conversion of Miss
Bennet.
§. 9. And now to what shall I ascribe this astonishing alteration? Shall I say with our methodists and other visionaries, that it must be owing to immediate impulse, and proceeded from inward impression of the Spirit? No: this will not do. It was owing to be sure, to the word (not in-spoken) but taught by
Christ
in his gospel. When her friend
Tench
opened the
New Testament
to her, her good understanding inclined her to hearken. She began to consider: She pondered, and had a regard to the gospel, now laid before her, by that sensible and excellent young clergyman. She became a
believer.
And as the Apostle says, We can do all things through
Christ
who strengthens us; that is, says Dr.
Hunt,
in one of his fine sermons,
through the directions of Christ, and through the arguments and motives of the christian doctrine.
Well said,
Hunt.
It must be our own choice, to be sure, to be good and virtuous. So far as men are passive, and are acted upon, they are not agents. Without power to do good or evil, men cannot be moral or accountable beings, and be brought into judgment, or receive according to their works.
Dr.
Lardner,
in his excellent sermon on the power and efficacy of
Christ
's doctrine, has a fine observation; — Would any say, that the necessity of immediate and particular influences from
Christ
himself, is implied in this context, where he says, that
he is a vine,
and his disciples
branches,
and that their bearing fruit depends as much upon influences from him, as the life and vigour of branches do upon the sap derived from the root of the tree? It would be easy to answer, that the argument in the text is a similitude, not literal truth. Neither is
Christ
literally a vine, nor are his disciples, strictly speaking, branches. Men have a reasonable, intellectual nature, above animals and vegetables. They are not governed by irresistible, and necessary, or mechanical powers. But it is sound doctrine, and right principles, particularly the
words
of
Christ,
which are the
words
of
God,
that are their life, and may, and will, if attended to, powerfully enable them to promote good works, and to excell, and persevere therein.
Two Irish gentlemen call upon me, and bring me to a gaming table, kept by a company of sharpers, where I lose all my fortune.
§. 10. But it is time to my own story. —While I lodged at
Curl
's, two Irish gentlemen came to see me,
Jemmy King
an attorney, and that famous master in chancery, who debauched
Nelly Hayden,
the beauty, and kept her several years. I knew these men were as great rakes as ever lived, and had no notion of religion; that they were devoted to pleasure, and chased away every sober thought and apprehension by company, by empty, vicious, and unmanly pleasures: The voice of the monitor was lost, in the confused noise and tumult of the passions: but I thought they had honour at the bottom, according to the common notion of it. I never imagined they were sharpers, nor knew, that being ruined in
Ireland,
they came over to live by a gaming table. The
Doctor
especially, I thought was above ever becoming that kind of man, as he had a large estate, and the best education; always kept good company; and to appearance, was as fine a gentleman as ever was seen in the world. With these two I dined, and after dinner, they brought me, as it were, out of curiosity, to a gaming table, they had by accident discovered, where there was a bank kept by men of the greatest honour, who played quite fair, and by hazarding a few guineas, I might perhaps, as they did, come off with some hundreds.
At entring the room, I saw about twenty well-drest men sitting round a table, on which lay a vast heap of gold. We all began to play, and for two or three hours, I did win some hundreds of pounds: the Doctor and the other cheat, his friend, seemed to lose a large sum; but before morning they won it all back from me, with a great deal more; and I not only lost what I had got then, but, excepting a few pounds, what I was worth in the world; the thousands I had gained by my several wives. I had sold their estates, and lodged the money in my banker's hands. The villains round this table got it all, and my two Irishmen were not to be seen. They disappeared, and left me madly playing away my all. I heard no more of them, till I was told several years after, that they were in the
Isle of Man,
among other outlawed, abandoned, wicked men; where they drank night and day, according to the custom of the place, and lived in defiance of God and man. There these two
advocates of impiety
dwelt for some time, and died as they had lived; enemies to all good principles, and friends to a general corruption.
As to the well-drest company round the table, they went off one by one, and left me all alone to the bitter thought, which led me to what I was some hours before, by what I then found myself to be. I was almost distracted. What had I to do with play, (I said)? I wanted nothing. And now by villains, with a sett of dice that would deceive the devil, I am undone. By sharpers and false dice I have sat to be ruined. The reflexion numb'd my senses for some time: and then I started, was wild, and raved.
Curl
's scheme to carry off an heiress, which I did in a successful manner.
§. 11. This transaction made me very thoughtful, and I sat within for several days, thinking which way to turn.
Curl
saw I was perplexed, and on his asking me if I had met with any misfortune, I told him the whole case; that I had but one hundred pounds left, and requested he would advise me what I had best do. To do justice to every one,
Curl
seemed deeply concerned, and after some silence, as we sat over a bottle at a Coffee-house, he bid me take notice of an old gentleman, who was not far from us. That is
Dunk
the
miser,
who lives in a wood about 20 miles off. He has one daughter, the finest creature in the universe, and who is to succeed to his great estate, whether he will or not; it being so settled at his marriage; but he confines her so much in the country, and uses her so cruelly every way, that I believe she would run away with any honest young fellow, who could find means to address her. Know then (continued
Curl
) that I serve Mr.
Dunk
with paper, pens, ink, wax, pamphlets, and every thing he wants in my way. Once a quarter of a year, I generally go to his country-house with such things, as he is glad to see me sometimes; or if I cannot go myself, I send them by some other hand. Next week I am to forward some things to him, and if you will take them, I will write a line by you to Miss his daughter, recommend you to her for a husband, as one she may depend on for honour and truth. She knows I am her friend, and who can tell, but she may go off with you. She will have a thousand a year, when the wretch her father dies, if he should leave his personal estate another way.
This thought pleased me much, and at the appointed time, away I went to Mr.
Dunk
's country-house with a wallet full of things, and delivered
Curl
's letter to Miss. As soon as she had read it, I began my address, and in the best manner I could, made her an offer of my service, to deliver her from the tyrant her father. I gave her an account of a little farm I had on the borders of
Cumberland,
a purchase I had made, on account of the charms of the ground, and a small pretty lodge which stood in the middle of it, by a clump of old trees, near a murmuring stream; that if she pleased, I would take her to that sweet, silent spot, and enable her to live in peace; with contentment and tranquility of mind; tho' far away from the splendors and honours of the world: and considering, that a christian is not to conform to the world, or to the pomps and vanities of it; its grand customs and usages; its dress and entries; its stage representations and masquerades, as they minister to vice, and tend to debauch the manners; but are to look upon ourselves as beings of another world, and to form our minds with these spiritual principles; it follows then, I think, that a pleasing country situation for a happy pair must be grateful enough. There peace and love and modesty may be best preserved; the truth and gravity of our religion be strictly maintained; and every lawful and innocent enjoyment be for ever the delights of life. Away from the idle modes of the world; perpetual love and unmixed joys may be our portion, through the whole of our existence here; and the inward principles of the heart be ever laudable and pure. So will our happiness as mortals be stable,—subject to no mixture or change; and when called away from this lower hemisphere, have nothing to fear, as
we used this world,
as
tho' we used it not;
as we knew no gratifications and liberties but what our religion allows us: as our enjoyments will be but the necessary convenience and accommodation, for passing from this world to the realms of eternal happiness: Follow me then, Miss
Dunk;
I will convey you to a scene of still life and felicity, great and lasting as the heart of woman can wish for.
The charming
Agnes
seemed not a little surprized at what I had said, and after looking at me very earnestly for a minute or two, told me, she would give me an answer to Mr.
Curl
's letter in less than half an hour, which was all she could say at present, and with it I returned to give him an account of the reception I had. It will do, he said, after he had read the letter I brought him from Miss
Dunk,
but you must be my young man for a week or two more, and take some more things to the same place. He then shewed me the letter, and I read the following lines.
SIR,
I am extremely obliged to you for your concern about my happiness and liberty, and will own to you, that in my dismal situation, I would take the friend you recommend, for a guide through the wilderness, If I could think his heart was as sound as his head. If his intentions were as upright as his words are fluent and good, I need not be long in pondering on the scheme he proposed.— But can we believe him true, as
Lucinda
says in the play?
The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale,
The garden and the grove,
Have echo'd to his ardent tale,
And vows of endless love.
The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain,
To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure time by pain.
To this
Curl
replied in a circumstantial manner, and vouched very largely for me. I delivered his letter the next morning, when I went with some acts of parliament to old
Dunk,
and I found the beauty, his daughter, in a rosy bower;—
Simplex munditiis,
neat and clean as possible in the most genteel undress; and her person so vastly fine, her face so vastly charming; that I could not but repeat the lines of
Otway,
—
Man when created first wander'd up and down,
Forlorn and silent as his vassal brutes;
But when a heav'n-born maid, like you appear'd,
Strange pleasures fill'd his soul, unloos'd his tongue,
And his first talk was love.—
A deal I said upon the occasion: we became well acquainted that day, as her father had got a disorder that obliged him to keep his bed, and by the time I had visited her a month longer, under various pretences of business invented by the ingenious
Curl, Agnes
agreed to go off with me, and commit herself intirely to my care and protection: But before I relate this transaction, I think it proper to give my readers the picture of this lady; and then an apology for her flying away with me, with whom she was but a month acquainted.
The picture of Miss
Dunk.
Agnes
in her person was neither tall nor thin, but almost both, young and lovely, graceful and commanding: She inspired a respect, and compelled the beholder to admire and love and reverence her. Her voice was melodious; her words quite charming; and every look and motion to her advantage. Taste was the characteristic of her understanding: Her sentiments were refined: And a sensibility appeared in every feature of her face. She could talk on various subjects, and comprehended them, which is what few speakers do: but with the finest discernment, she was timid, and so diffident of her opinion, that she often concealed the finest thoughts under a seeming simplicity of soul. This was visible to a hearer, and the decency of ignorance added a new beauty to her character. In short, possessed of excellence, she appeared unconscious of it, and never discovered the least pride or precipitancy in her conversation.—Her manner was perfectly polite, and mixed with a gaiety that charmed, because it was as free from restraint as from boldness.
In sum, exclusive of her fine understanding, in her dress, and in her behaviour, she was so extremely pleasing, so vastly agreeable and delightful, that she ever brought to my remembrance, when I beheld her, the
Corinna
described in the beautiful lines of
Tibullus:
Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit,
Componit furtim subsequiturque decor;
Seu solvit crines, fusis decet esse capillis;
Seu compsit comptis est veneranda comis.
Urit seu tyria voluit procedere pulla;
Urit seu nivea candida veste venit.
Talis in aeterno felix Vertumnus Olympo
Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet.
When love would set the gods on fire, he flies
To light his torches at her sparkling eyes.
Whate'er
Corinna
does, where'er she goes,
The graces all her motions still compose.
How her hair charms us, when it loosely falls,
Comb'd back and ty'd, our veneration calls!
If she comes out in scarlet, then she turns
Us all to ashes,—though in white she burns.
Vertumnus
so a thousand dresses wears,
So in a thousand, ever grace appears.
Such was the beautiful
Agnes,
who went off with me, and in so doing acted well and wisely, I affirm, on her taking me only for an honest man; for there is no more obedience due from a daughter to her father, when he becomes an unrelenting oppressor, than there is from a subject to an English king, when the monarch acts contrary to the constitution. Passive obedience is as much nonsense in a private family, as in the government of the prince. The parent, like the king, must be a nursing father, a rational humane sovereign, and so long all service and obedience are due. But if, like the prince, he becomes a tyrant, deprives his daughter of her natural rights and liberties; will not allow her the blessings of life, but keep her in chains and misery; self-preservation, and her just claim to the comforts of existence and a rational freedom, give her a right to change her situation, and better her condition. If she can have bread, serenity, and freedom, peace and little, with an honest man, she is just to herself in going off with such a deliverer. Reason and revelation will acquit her.
Thus justly thought Miss
Dunk,
and therefore with me she fled at midnight. We met within half a mile of her father's house, by the side of an antient wood, and a running stream, which had a pleasing effect, as it happened to be a bright moonshine. With her foot in my hand, I lifted her into her saddle, and as our horses were excellent, we rid many miles in a few hours. By eight in the morning, we were out of the reach of old
Dunk,
and at the sign of the
Pilgrim,
a lone house in
Esur-vale,
in
Hertfordshire,
we breakfasted very joyfully. The charming
Agnes
seemed well pleased with the expedition, and said a thousand things that rendered the journey delightful. Twelve days we travelled in a fulness of delights, happy beyond description, and the thirteenth arrived at a village not far from my little habitation. Here we designed to be married two days after, when we had rested, as there was a church and a parson in the town, and then ride on to
Foley
farm in
Cumberland,
as my small spot was called, and there sit down in peace and happiness.
But the second day, instead of rising to the nuptial ceremony, to crown my life with unutterable bliss, and make me beyond all mankind happy, the lovely
Agnes
fell ill of a fever. A sense of weight and oppression discovered the inflammation within, and was attended with sharp and pungent pains. The blood could not pass off as it ought in the course of circulation, and the whole mass was in a violent fluctuation and motion. In a word, she died in a few days, and as she had requested, if it came to that, I laid her out, and put her into the coffin myself. I kept her seven days, according to the custom of the old
Romans,
and then in the dress of sorrow, followed her to the grave.—Thus was my plan of happiness broken to pieces. I had given a roundness to a system of felicity, and in the place of it, saw death and horror, and disappointment before me.
What to do next I could not tell. One question was, should I return to
Orton-lodge,
to my two young heiresses? No: they wanted two years of being at age.—Then, shall I stay at
Foley-farm
where I was, and turn hermit? No: I had no inclination yet to become a father of the desarts.—Will you return to
London
then, and see if fortune has any thing more in reserve for you? This I liked best; and after six months deliberation on the thing, I left my farm in the care of an old woman, and set out in the beginning of
January.
A winter night-scene on the mountains of
Westmoreland.
§. 13. It was as fine a winter's morning as I had seen, which encouraged me to venture among the
Fells
of
Westmoreland;
but at noon the weather changed, and an evening very terrible came on. A little after three, it began to blow, rain, and snow very hard, and it was not long before it was very dark. We lost the way quite, and for three hours wandered about in as dismal a night as ever poor travellers had. The storm rattled: The tempest howled: We could not see the horse's heads, and were almost dead with cold. We had nothing to expect but death, as we knew not which way to turn to any house, and it was impossible to remain alive till the day appeared. It was a dismal scene. But my time was not yet come, and when we had no ground to expect deliverance, the beasts of a sudden stopt, and
Soto
found we were at the gate of a walled yard. There he immediately made all the noise he could, and it was not long before a servant with a lantern came. He related our case within, and had orders to admit us. He brought me into a common parlour, where there was a good fire, and I got dry things. The man brought me half a pint of hot alicant, and in about half an hour, I was alive and well again. On enquiring where I was, the footman told me, it was Doctor
Stanvil
's house; that his master and lady were above in the dining-room, with some company, and he had directions to light me up, when I had changed my cloaths, and was recovered. Upon this I told him I was ready, and followed him.
My arrival at Dr.
Stanvil
's house, and introduced to the Doctor, and company.
On the servant's opening a door, I entred a handsome apartment, well lighted with wax, and which had a glorious fire blazing in it. The doctor received me with great politeness, and said many civil things upon fortune's conducting me to his house. The conversation naturally fell upon the horrors of the night, as it still continued to rain, hail, and blow, beyond what any of the company had ever heard; and one of the ladies said, she believed the winter was always far more, boisterous and cold among the
Fells of Westmoreland,
than in any other part of
England,
for which she gave several good reasons: The solemn mountains, the beautiful vallies, the falling streams, form one of the most charming countries in the world in summer-time; but in winter, it is the most dreadful spot of earth, to be sure.
The surprising story of Mrs.
Stanvil.
The voice of the lady who talked in this manner, I thought I was well acquainted with, but by the position of the candles, and the angle of a screen in which she sat, I could not very well see her face: Amazement however began to seize me, and as an elegant supper was soon after brought in, I had an opportunity of seeing that Miss
Dunk
whom I had buried, was now before my eyes, in the character of Dr.
Stanvil
's wife; or, at least, it was one so like her, it was not possible for me to distinguish the figures:—there was the same bright victorious eyes, and chesnut hair; the complexion like a blush, and a mouth where all the little loves for ever dwelt; there was the fugitive dimple, the inchanting laugh, the rosy fingers, the fine height, and the mein more striking than
Calypso
's. O heavens! I said to myself, on sitting down to supper, What is this I see! But as she did not seem to to be at all affected, or shewed the least sign of her having ever seen me before that time, I remained silent, and only continued to look with admiration at her, unmindful of the many excellent things before me.—In a minute or two, however, I recovered myself. I ate my supper, and joined in the festivity of the night. We had music, and several songs. We were easy, free, and happy as well-bred people could be.
Finn
's obserration, and discourse in my bedchamber, on the company's retiring to their apartments.
At midnight we parted, and finding an easy-chair by the side of my bed, I threw myself into it, and began to reflect on what I had seen;
Finn
standing before me with his arms folded, and looking very seriously at me. This lasted for about a quarter of an hour, and then the honest fellow spoke in the following manner.—I beg leave, Sir, to imagine you are perplexing yourself about the lady of this house, whom I suppose you take for Miss
Dunk,
we brought from the other side of
England,
half a year ago, and buried in the next church-yard to
Blenkern.
This, if I may be so free, is likewise my opinion. I would take my oath of it in a court of justice, if there was occasion for that. However she got out of the grave, and by whatever casualty she came to be Mrs.
Stanvil,
and mistress of this fine house; yet I could swear to her being the lady who travelled with us from the west to
Cumberland.
But then, it seems very wonderful and strange, that she should forget you so soon, or be able to act a part so amazing, as to seem not to have ever seen you before this night. This has astonished me, as I stood behind your chair at supper, looking full at her; and I observed she looked at me once or twice. What to say to all this, I know not; but I will make all the enquiry I can among the servants, as to the time and manner of her coming here, and let you know to-morrow, what I have been able to collect in relation to her. In the mean time, be advis'd by me, Sir, tho' I am but a poor fellow, and think no more of the matter to the loss of your night's rest. We have had a wonderful deliverance from death by getting into this house, I am sure, and we ought to lie down with thankfulness and joy, without fretting ourselves awake for a woman, or any trifling incident that could befall. Beside, she is now another man's property, however it came to pass, and it would be inconsistent with your character to think any more of her. This may be too free; but I hope, Sir, you will excuse it in a servant who has your interest and welfare at heart. — Here the sage
Finn
had done. He withdrew, and I went to sleep.
Finn
's account of Mrs.
Stanvil,
which he had from the servants.
Betimes the next morning,
Finn
was with me, and on my asking what news, he said, he had heard something from all the servants, and more particularly had got the following account from the doctor's own man:—that Dr.
Stanvil
had a small lodge within three miles of the house we were in, and retired there sometimes to be more alone, than he could be in the residence we were at; that this lodge was a mere repository of curiosities, in the middle of a garden full of all the herbs and plants that grew in every country of the world, and in one chamber of this house was a great number of skeletons, which the doctor had made himself; for it was his wont to procure bodies from the surrounding church-yards, by men he kept in pay for the purpose, and cut them up himself at this lodge: that some of these dead were brought to him in hampers, and some in their coffins on light railed cars, as the case required: that near six months ago, the last time the doctor was at this lodge, there was brought to him by his men the body of a young woman in her coffin, in order to a dissection as usual, and the bones being wired; but as it lay on the back, on the great table he cuts up on, and the point of his knife at the pit of the stomach, to open the breast, he perceived a kind of motion in the subject, heard a sigh soon after, and looking up to the head saw the eyes open and shut again: that upon this, he laid down his knife, which had but just scratch'd the body, at the beginning of the
linea alba,
(as my informer called it) and helped himself to put it into a warm bed: that he took all possible pains, by administering every thing he could think useful, to restore life, and was so fortunate as to set one of the finest women in the world on her feet again. As she had no raiment but the shroud which had been on her in the coffin, he got every thing belonging to dress that a woman of distinction could have occasion for, and in a few days time, she sparkled before her preserver in the brightness of an Eastern princess: He was quite charmed with the beauties of her person, and could not enough admire her uncommon understanding: He offered to marry her, to settle largely on her, and as she was a single woman, she could not in gratitude refuse the request of so generous a benefactor: My informer further related, that they have both lived in the greatest happiness ever since; and the doctor, who is one of the best of men, is continually studying how to add to the felicities of her every day: that he offered to take her up to
London
to pass the winters there, but this she refused, and desired she might remain where she was in the country, as it was really most agreeable to her, and as he preferred it to the town.
A reflexion on Miss
Dunk
's marrying Dr.
Stanvil.
This account made the thing quite plain to me. And to judge impartially, considering the whole case, I could neither blame the lovely
Agnes
for marrying the doctor, nor condemn her for pretending to be a stranger to me. She was fairly dead and buried, and all connexion between us was at an end of course, as there had been no marriage, nor contract of marriage. And as to reviving the affair, and renewing the tenderness which had existed, it could answer no other end than producing unhappiness, as she was then Mrs.
Stanvil,
in a decent and happy situation. And further, in respect of her marrying the doctor so soon after her separation from me, it was certainly the wisest thing she could do, as she had been so intirely at his disposal, was without a stitch to cover her, and I in all probability, after burying her, being gone up to
London,
or in some place, where she could never hear of me more; I might likewise have been married, if any thing advantageous had offered after laying her in the church-yard. And beside, she neither knew the place she fell sick in, nor the country the doctor removed her to, as soon as ever he could get any cloaths to put on her. So that, naked and friendless as she was, without any money, and ignorant of what became of me; without a possibility of informing herself; I could not but acquit her. I even admired her conduct, and resolved so far to imitate her, in regard to the general happiness, that nothing should appear in my behaviour, which could incline any one to think, I had ever seen her before the night the tempest drove me to her house. I was vexed, I own, to lose her. But that could be no reason for making a senseless uproar, that could do nothing but mischief.
As composed then as I could be, I went down to breakfast, on a servant's letting me know they waited for me, and found the same company, who had so lately parted to slumber, all quite alive and chearful, easy and happy as mortals could be. At the request of Dr.
Stanvil,
who was extremely civil, I staid with them two months, and passed the time in a delightful conversation, intermixed with music, cards, and feasting.
My departure from Dr.
Stanvil
's house.
With sadness I left them all, but especially on account of parting for ever with the late Miss
Dunk.
It was indeed for the pleasure of looking at her, that I staid so long as I did at Dr.
Stanvil
's; and when it came to an eternal separation, I felt that morning of my departure, an inward distress it is impossible to give an idea of to another. It had some resemblance (I imagine) of what the visionaries call a dereliction; when they sink from extasy to the black void of horror, by the strength of fancy, and the unnacountable operation of the animal spirits.
Some observations on Mrs.
Stanvil
's coming to life again, after being taken out of the grave.
Here, before I proceed, I think I ought to remove some objections that may be made against my relation of Mrs.
Stanvil
's coming to life again, and her being brought from the couch of lasting night to a bridal bed. It is not easy to believe, that after I seemed certain she was dead, and kept her the proper number of days before interment; saw her lie the cold wan subject for a considerable time, and then let down into the grave; yet from thence she should come forth, and now be the desire of a husband's eyes. This is a hard account sure. But nevertheless, it is a fact. As to my being mistaken, no less a man than Dr.
Cheyne
thought Colonel
Townsend
dead: (See his
Nervous Cases:
) And that several have lived for many years, after they had been laid in the tomb, is a thing too certain, and well-known, to be denied. In
Bayle
's dictionary, there is the history of a lady of quality, belonging to the court of
Catharine de Medicis,
who was brought from the church vault, where she had been forty-eight hours, and afterwards became the mother of several children, on her marriage with the Marquis
D'Auvergne.
—The learned Dr.
Connor,
in his history of
Poland,
gives us a very wonderful relation of a gentleman's reviving in that country, after he had been seemingly dead for near a fortnight; and adds a very curious dissertation on the nature of such recoveries. The case of
Dun Scotus,
who was found out of his coffin, on the steps going down to the vault he was deposited in, and leaning on his elbow, is full to my purpose. And I can affirm from my own knowledge, that a gentleman of my acquaintance, a worthy excellent man, was buried alive, and found not only much bruised and torn, on opening his coffin, but turned on one side. This many still living can attest as well as I. The reason of opening the grave again, was his dying of a high fever in the absence of his lady, who was in a distant county from him; and on her return, three days after he was buried, would have a sight of him, as she had been extremely fond of him. His face was sadly broke, and his hands hurt in striving to force up the lid of the coffin. The lady was so affected with the dismal sight, that she never held up her head after, and died in a few weeks. I could likewise add another extraordinary case of a man who was hang'd, and to all appearance was quite dead, yet three days after his execution recovered as they were going to cut him up. —How these things happen, is not easy to account for; but happen they do sometimes. And this case of Mrs.
Stanvil,
may be depended on as a fact.
N. B.
The following is the thing promised the English reader at page 381.
The legend on the monument of Homonoea, translated into English.
If it was allowed to lay down one's life for another, and possible by such means, to save what we loved from the grave, whateever length of days was allotted me, I would with pleasure offer up my life, to get my
Homonoea
from the tomb; but as this cannot be done, what is in my power I will do,—fly from the light of heaven, and follow you to the realms of lasting night.
My dearest
Atimetus,
cease to torment your unhappy mind, nor let grief thus feed on your youth, and make life bitterness itself. I am gone in the way appointed for all the mortal race: All must be numbered with the dead. And since fate is inexorable, and tears are in vain, weep not for me, once more I conjure you. But may you be ever happy, may providence preserve you, and add to your life those years which have been taken from mine.
Stop, traveller, for a few minutes, and ponder on these lines.
Here lies
Homonoea,
whom
Atimetus
preferred to the greatest and most illustrious women of his time. She had the form of
Venus,
the charms of the graces; and an understanding and sensibility, which demonstrated that wisdom had given to an angel's form, a mind more lovely. Before she was twenty, she was dissolved. And as she had practised
righteousness,
by carrying it well to those about her, and to all that were specially related, she
parted
with them, as she had
lived
with them, in
justice
and
charity,
in
modesty
and
submission,
in
thankfulness
and
peace.
Filled with divine thoughts, inured to contemplate the perfections of God, and to acknowledge his providence in all events, she died with the humblest resignation to the divine will, and was only troubled that she left her husband a
mourner.
Excellent
Homonoea.
May the earth lie light upon thee, and in the morning of the resurrection, may you awake again to life, and rise to that immortality and glory, which God, the righteous Judge, will give to true worth and dignity; — as rewards to a life adorned with all virtues and excellencies, — the
dikaiómata,
— that is, the
righteous acts
of the Saints.
SECTION XII.
Opinion
's foot is never, never found
Where
knowledge
dwells, 'tis interdicted ground;
At
wisdom
's gate th'
opinion
's must resign
Their charge, those limits their employ confine.
Thus trading barks, skill'd in the wat'ry road,
To distant climes convey their precious load.
Then turn their prow, light bounding o'er the main,
And with new traffic store their keels again.
Thus far is clear. But yet untold remains,
What the good genius to the crowd ordains,
Just on the verge of life.
He bids them hold
A spirit with erected courage hold.
Never (he calls) on fortune's faith rely,
Nor grasp her dubious gift as property.
Let not her smile transport, her frown dismay,
Nor praise, nor blame, nor wonder at her sway,
Which reason never guides: 'tis fortune still,
Capricious chance, and arbitrary will.
Bad bankers, vain of treasure not their own,
With foolish rapture hug the trusted loan.
Impatient, when the pow'rful bond demands
Its unremember'd cov'nant from their hands.
Unlike to such, without a sigh restore
What fortune lends: anon she'll lavish more.
Repenting of her bounty, snatch away,
Yea, seize your patrimonial fund for prey,
Embrace her proffer'd boon, but instant rise,
Spring upward, and secure a lasting prize,
The gift which
wisdom
to her sons divides;
Knowledge, whose beam the doubting judgment guides,
Scatters the sensual fog, and clear to view
Distinguishes false int'rest from the true.
Flee, flee to this, with unabating pace,
Nor parly for a moment at the place,
Where
pleasure
and her
harlots
tempt, nor rest,
But at
false wisdom
's inn, a transient guest:
For short refection, at her table fit,
And take what science may your palate hit:
Then wing your journey forward, till you reach
True
wisdom,
and imbibe the truth she'll teach.
Such is th' advice the friendly
genius
gives,
He perishes who scorns, who follows lives.
SCOTT'S CEBES.
As the table of
Cebes
does best in prose, and the Rev. Mr.
Collier
the Nonjuror's translation of this fine
mythological picture
is not good, I shall place another version of this
table
at the end of this Section. I made it at the request of a young lady, who did not like Mr.
Collier
's version. The fine picture does to be sure, in his English, look more like a work in the cant language of
L'Estrange,
or
Tom Brown,
than the antient and charming painting of
Cebes
the
Theban
philosopher. It is fitter to make the learned men of a beer-house laugh, than to delight and improve people of breeding and understanding.
A reflexion as I rid from Dr.
Stanvil
's house.
§. 1. WITH this advice of the
genius
in my head, (which by chance I had read the morning I took my leave of Dr.
Stanvil,
) I set out, as I had resolved, for
York,
and design'd to go from thence to
London;
hoping to meet with something good, and purposing, if it was possible, to be no longer the
Rover,
but turn to something useful, and fix. I had lost almost all at the gaming-table, (as related) and had not thirty pounds of my last hundred remaining: This, with a few sheep, cows and horses at
Orton-lodge,
and a very small stock at my little farm, on the borders of
Cumberland,
was all I had left. It made me very serious, and brought some dismal apprehensions in view: But I did not despair. As my heart was honest, I still trusted in the providence of God, and his administration of things is this world. As the infinite power and wisdom of the Creator was evident, from a survey of this magnificent and glorious scene; — as his care and providence over each particular, in the administration of the great scheme was conspicuous; can man, the favourite of heaven, have reason to lift up his voice to complain, if he calls off his affections from folly, and by natural and supernatural force, by reason and revelation, overbears the prejudices of flesh and blood;—if he ponders the hopes and fears of religion,—and gives a just allowance to a future interest?
Hearken to the commandments,
(saith the Lord,)
and your peace shall be as a river.
A tempest.
§. 2. On then I trotted, brave as the
man of wood,
we read of in an excellent French writer,
In
Claude
's reply to
Arnaud,
the French papist, we are told it was the humour of the
Prince of Condé,
to have a
man of wood
on horse-back, drest like a field-officer, with a lifted broad sword in its hand; which figure was fastened in the great saddle, and the horse it was on always kept by the great
Condé
's side, when he travelled or engaged in the bloody field. Fearless the man of
wood
appeared in many a well-fought day; but as they pursued the enemy one afternoon through a forest, in riding hard, a bough knocked off the wooden warrior's head; yet still he galloped on after flying foes, to the amazement of the enemy, who saw a
hero
pursuing without a head.
Claude
applies this image to popery.
and hoped at the end of every mile to meet with something fortunate; but nothing extraordinary occurred till the second evening, when I arrived at a little lone public-house, on the side of a great heath, by the entrance of a wood. For an hour before I came to this resting-place, I had rid in a tempest of wind, rain, lightning and thunder, so very violent, that it brought to my remembrance old
Hesiod
's description of a storm.
Then
Jove
omnipotent display'd the god,
And all
Olympus
trembled as he trod:
He grasps ten thousand thunders in his hand,
Bares his red arm, and wields the forky brand;
Then aims the bolts, and bids his lightnings play,
They flash, and rend thro' heav'n their flaming way:
Redoubling blow on blow, in wrath he moves,
The sing'd earth groans, and burns with all her groves:
A night of clouds blots out the golden day,
Full in their eyes the writhen lightnings play:
Nor slept the wind; the wind new horror forms,
Clouds dash on clouds before th' outragious storms;
While tearing up the sands, in drifts they rise,
And half the desarts mount th' encumber'd skies:
At once the tempest bellows, lightnings fly,
The thunders roar, and clouds involve the sky.
It was a dreadful evening upon a heath, and so much as a bush was not to be met with for shelter: but at last we came to the thatched habitation of a publican, and I thought it a very comfortable place: We had bread and bacon, and good ale for supper, and in our circumstances, it seemed a delicious meal.
The Author is informed of an old acquaintance of his, who lived not far from the inn he arrived at.
§. 3. This man informed me, that about a mile from his habitation, in the middle of the wood, there dwelt an
old physician,
one Dr.
Fitzgibbons,
an Irish gentleman, who had one very pretty daughter, a sensible woman, to whom he was able to give a good fortune, if a man to both their liking appeared; but as no such one had as yet come in their way, my landlord advised me to try the adventure, and he would furnish me with an excuse for going to the doctor's house. This set me a thinking: Dr.
Fitzgibbons,
an Irish gentleman, I said: I know the man. I saved his son's life, in
Ireland,
when he was upon the brink of destruction, and the old gentleman was not only then as thankful as it was possible for a man to be, in return for the good I had done him, at the hazard of my own life; but assured me, a thousand times over, that if ever it was in his power to return my kindness, he would be my friend to the utmost of his ability. He must ever remember, with the greatest gratitude, the benefit I had so generously conferred on him and his. All this came full into my mind, and I determined to visit the old gentleman in the morning.
§. 4. Next day, as I had resolved, I went to pay my respects to Dr.
Fitzgibbons,
who remembered me perfectly well, was most heartily glad to see me, and received me in the most affectionate manner. He immediately began to repeat his obligations to me, for the deliverance I had given his son, and that if it was in his power to be of service to me in
England,
he would leave nothing undone that was possible for him to do, to befriend me.
The case was this. As I was returning one summer's evening from
Tallow-Hills,
where I had been to see a young lady, (mentioned in the beginning of my first volume,) I saw in a
deep glen
before me two men engaged; a black of an enormous size, who fought with one of those large broad swords which they call in
Ireland, Andrew Ferraro;
and a little thin man with a drawn rapier. The
white
man I perceived was no match for the
black,
and must have perished very soon, as he had received several wounds, if I had not hastned up to his relief. I knew him to be my acquaintance, young
Fitzgibbons,
my neighbour in the same square of the college that I lived in; and immediately drawing an excellent Spanish tuck I always wore, took the
Moor
to myself,
Fitzgibbons
not being able to stand any longer; and a glorious battle ensued. As I was a master at the small sword in those days, I had the advantage of the
black
by my weapon, (as the broad sword is but a poor defence against a rapier,) and gave him three wounds for every slight one I received: But at last he cut me quite through the left collar-bone, and in return, I was in his vast body a moment after. This dropt the
robber,
who had been a trumpeter to a regiment of horse; and
Fitzgibbons
and I were brought, by some people passing that way, to his father's house at
Dolfins-barn,
a village about a mile from the spot where this affair happened. A surgeon was sent for, and we recovered in a few weeks time; but my
collar-bone
was much more troublesome to me, than the wounds
Fitzgibbons
had were to him, tho' he lost much more blood. This was the ground of the obligation the doctor mentioned in his conversation with me.
He told me, that darling son of his, whose life I had saved, was an eminent physician at the court of
Russia,
where he lived in the greatest opulence and reputation: and as he owed his existence as such to me, his father could never be grateful enough in return. Can I any way serve you, Sir? Have you been fortunate or unfortunate, since your living in
England?
Are you married or unmarried? I have a daughter by a second wife, and if you are not yet engaged, will give her to you, with a good fortune, and in two years time; if you will study physic here, under my direction, will enable you to begin to practice, and get money as I have done in this country. I have so true a sense of that generous act you did to save my son, that I will with pleasure do any thing in my power that can contribute to your happiness.
To this I replied, by thanking the doctor for his friendly offers, and letting him know, that since my coming to
England
several years ago, which was occasioned by a difference between my father and me; I had met with several turns of fortune, good and bad, and was at present but in a very middling way; having only a little spot among the mountains of
Richmondshire,
with a cottage and garden on it, and three or four beasts, which I found by accident without an owner, as I travelled through that uninhabited land; and a small farm of fifty acres with some stock, on the borders of
Cumberland,
which I got by a deceased wife. This, with about fifty guineas in my purse, was my all at present; and I was going up to
London,
to try if I could meet with any thing fortunate in that place; but that, since he was pleased to make me such generous offers, I would stop, study physic as he proposed, and accept the great honour he did me in offering me his daughter for a wife. I told him likewise very fairly and honestly, that I had been rich by three or four marriages since my being in this country; but that I was unfortunately taken in at a gaming-table, by the means of two Irish gentlemen he knew very well, and there lost all; which vext me the more, as I really do not love play:—that as to my father, I had little to expect from him, tho' he had a great estate, as our difference was about religion; (which kind of disputes always have the cruellest tendency;) and the wife you know he married, a low cunning woman, does all she can to maintain the variance, and keep up his anger to me, that her nephew may do the better on my ruin. I have not writ to him since my being in
England:
Nor have I met with any one who could give me any account of the family. This is my case, Sir.
And what (Dr.
Fitzgibbons
said) is this fine religious dispute, which has made your father fall out with a son he was once so fond of?—It was about
trinity in unity,
Sir: a thing I have often heard your son argue against by lessons he had from you, as he informed me. My father is as
orthodox
as
Gregory Nazienzen,
among the antient fathers, or
Trapp
and
Potter, Webster
and
Waterland,
among the modern doctors; and when he found out, that I was become an
unitarian,
and renounced his
religion
of
three Gods,
the horrible
creed
of
Athanasius,
and all the despicable explications of his admired divines, on that subject; — that I insisted, that notwithstanding all the subtle inventions of learned men, through the whole christian world, yet God Almighty hath not appointed himself to be worshipped by precept or example in any one instance in his holy word, under the character of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; — that the worship of three persons and one God is expresly contrary to the solemn determination of
Christ
and his Apostles;— and in numbers of instances in the New Testament it is declared, that the one God and Father of all is the only supreme object, to whom all religious worship should be directed:— that for these reasons, I renounced the received doctrine of a co-equal trinity, and believed our great and learned divines, who laboured to prevent people from seeing the truth as it is in Jesus, would be in some tribulation at Christ's tribunal; where they are to appear stripped of all worldly honours, dignities, and preferments, poor, naked, wretched mortals, and to answer for their supplement to the gospel, in an invented
heresy
of
three Gods.
—When my father heard these things, and saw the religious case of his son, his passion was very great. He forbid me his table, and ordered me to shift for myself. He renounced me, as I had done the
triune God.
The doctor wondered not a little at the account I had given him, (as my father was reckoned a man of great abilities,) and taking me by the hand, said, I had acted most gloriously: that what lost me my father's affection, was the very thing that ought to have induced him to erect a statue to my honour in his garden: — that since I was pleased to accept of his offer, his friendship I might depend on:— that if I would, I should begin the next day the study of physic under his direction, and at the end of two years, he would give me his daughter, who was not yet quite twenty.
The picture of
Julia Fitzgibbons.
§. 5. Just as he had said this, Miss
Fitzgibbons
entred the room, and her father introduced me to her. The sight of her astonished me; tho' I had before seen so many fine women, I could not help looking with wonder at her. She appeared one of those finished creatures, whom we cannot enough admire, and upon acquaintance with her, became much more glorious.
What a vast variety of beauty do we see in the infinity of nature. Among the sex, we may find a thousand and a thousand perfect images and characters; all equally striking, and yet as different as the pictures of the greatest masters in
Italy.
What amazing charms and perfections have I beheld in women as I journeyed through life. When I have parted from one; well I said, I shall never meet another like this inimitable maid; and yet after all,
Julia
appeared divinely fair, and happy in every excellence that can adorn the female mind. Without that exact regularity of beauty, and elegant softness of propriety, which rendered Miss
Dunk,
whom I have described in these Memoirs, a very divinity,
Julia
charmed with a graceful negligence, and enchanted with a face that glowed with youthful wonders, beauties that art could not adorn but always diminished. The choice of dress was no part of
Julia
's care, but by the neglect of it she became irresistible. In her countenance there ever appeared a bewitching mixture of sensibility and gaiety, and in her soul, by converse we discovered that generosity and tenderness were the first principles of her mind. To truth and virtue she was inwardly devoted, and at the bottom of her heart, tho' hard to discover it, her main business to serve God, and fit herself for eternity. In sum, she was one of the finest originals that ever appeared among womankind, peculiar in perfections which cannot be described; and so inexpressibly charming in an attractive sweetness, a natural gaiety, and a striking negligence, a fine understanding, and the most humane heart; that I found it impossible to know her without being in love with her: Her power to please was extensive indeed. In her, one had the loveliest idea of woman.
The Author marries Miss
Fitzgibbons
his seventh wife.
§. 6. To this fine creature I was married at the end of two years from my first acquaintance with her; that is, after I had studied physic so long, under the care and instruction of her excellent father; who died a few weeks after the wedding, which was in the beginning of the year 1734, and the 29th of my age. Dying, he left me a handsome fortune, his library, and house; and I imagined I should have lived many happy years with his admirable daughter, who obliged me by every endearing means, to be excessively fond of her. I began to practise upon the old gentleman's death, and had learned so much in the two years I had studied under him, from his lecturing and my own hard reading, that I was able to get some money among the opulent round me; not by art and collusion, the case of too many doctors in town and country, but by practising upon consistent principles. The method of my reading, by Dr.
Fitzgibbon
's directions, was as follows; and I set it down here for the benefit of such gentlemen, as chuse to study in the private manner I did.
A
METHOD
of studying
PHYSIC
in a private Manner: By which means a Gentleman, with the Purchase of a
Diploma,
may turn out
DOCTOR,
as well as if he went to
PADUA,
to hear
MORGANNI.
THE first books I got upon my table, were the
lexicons
of
Castellus
and
Quincy;
one for the explication of antient terms; and the other of modern. These, as Dictionaries, lay at hand for use, when wanted.
I then opened the last edition of
Schelhammer
's
Herman Conringius
's
Introductio in universam artem medicam, singulasque ejus partes;
I say the last edition, 1726, because that has an excellent preface by
Hoffman.
This book, which comes down to the beginning of the 17th century, I read with great care; especially
Gonthier Christopher Schelhammer
's notes, and additions, which have enriched the work very much. (By the way, they were both very great men, and bright ornaments to their profession. They writ an amazing number of books on medicine.
Conringius
died December 1681, aged 75.
Schelhammer,
in January 1716, in the 67th year of his age.)
The next introductory book to the art, was
Lindenius renovatus de scriptis medicis, quibus praemittitur manuductio ad medicinam.
This book was first called
Libro duo de scripturis, &c.
and written by
Vander Linden,
a famous
Leyden
professor, who published it in the year 1637, in a small octavo. In the same form it was printed in 1651 and 1662: these three editions at
Amsterdam:
But the valuable edition is that of
Nuremburg,
1686, by
George Abraham Merklinus,
who made very many and excellent additions to this fourth edition, and called it
Lindenius renovatus,
as he had augmented it to a vast 4 to.
John Antonides Vander Linden
died in March 1664, aged 55. And
Merklinus
in April 1702, in the 58th year of his age. They both writ many books in physic: but there have been such improvements made by the diligence and success of modern physicians, that it would be only loss of time to read over all their works, or all the authors of the 17th century.
The next books I opened, were the learned
Daniel Le Clerc's history of physic,
which commences with the world, and ends at the time of
Galen;
and the great Dr.
Friend
's
history,
which is a continuation of
Le Clerc,
down to
Linacre,
the founder of the College of Physicians, in the reign of
Henry
VIII. —These books shewed me the origin and revolutions of physic, and the antient writers and their works on this subject. By the way,
Daniel Le Clerc
died in June 1728, aged 76, and some months.
When I had read these things,
If
Mangetus
had published his
Bibliotheca scriptorum medicorum,
2 vols. folio, at the time I am speaking of, the Doctor, my friend, would have recommended it to a beginner.
I turned next to
botany,
and read
Raii Methodus plantarum emendata, Londini
1703.
Raii Synopsis methodica stirpium,
Ed. 3. And
Tournefort's Institutiones rei herbariae.
These books with a few observations of my own, as I walked in the gardens, the fields, and on the plains, furnished me with sufficient knowledge of this kind for the present. The vast folio's on this subject are not for beginners.
Chemistry
was the next thing my director bid me look into, and to this purpose I perused
Boerhaave
's
Elementa chemiae:
and
Hoffman
's
Observationes physico-chemiae:
These afford as much chemistry as a young physician need set out with: but as books alone give but an imperfect conception, I performed most of the common operations in the
portable furnace of Becher.
The
materia medica
in the next place had my attention, that is, those animal, vegetable, and fossil substances, which are used to prevent, cure, or palliate diseases. And in order to know the names of all the drugs, their history, the adulterations they are subject to, their virtues, their dose, their manner of using them, and the cautions which they require, — to get a sufficient knowledge of this kind, I looked into
Geoffrey
's
materia medica,
and made a collection of the
materia
at the same time, that I might conceive and remember what I read.
Pharmacy,
or the art of preparing and compounding medicines, was the next thing I endeavoured to be a master of. And that I might know how to exalt their virtues, to obviate their ill qualities, and to make them less nauseous, I read to this purpose,
Quincy
's
pharmaceutical lectures
and
dispensatory:
and took care to be well versed in all the
pharmacopoeia
's, those of
London, Edinburgh, Paris, Boerhaave, Bate,
and
Fuller.
And I read very carefully
Gaubin
's
methodus praescribendi.
This gave me the materials, and taught me the form of prescribing.
Anatomy
I studied next, that is, the art of dividing the several parts of a body, so as to know their size, figure, situation, connexions, and make. I began with
Drake
and
Keil,
and then read over
Winslow.
I had likewise open before me at the same time, at my entrance upon this study, a good set of plates, the tables of
Eustachius
and
Cooper,
and turned them carefully over as I read. The doctor then shewed me how to dissect, but chiefly by the direction of a book called the
Culter Anatomicus
of
Michel Lyserus,
ou methode courte, facile, & claire de dissequer les corps humaines. I was soon able to perform myself. It was the third edition of
Lyserus,
1679; which has many curious anatomical observations added to it by
Gaspard Bartholin,
the son of the celebrated
Thomas Bartholin, Copenhagen
professor. (
Michel Lysére
was the disciple of the great
Thomas Bartholin. Thomas
died, December 1680, in his 64th year.
Michel
in 16
9.) a young man; regretté à cause de son merite. I had also
Nichol
's
Compendium,
and
Hunter
's
Compendium.
By these means, and by reading the authors who have written upon some one part only; such as
Peyerus de glandulis intestinus. Experimenta circa pancras. De Graaf de organis generationis. Gasp. Bartholin de diaphragm. Malpigius de pulmonibus — de venibus — de liene, et de cornuum vegetatione. Lower de corde—de ventriculo, et de cerebri anat. Willis de respiratione. Glisson de hepatoe. Cass
rius de vocis auditusque organis. Walsalou de aure. Havers on the bones. Munro on the bones. Douglas on the muscles. Morgagni adversaria. Ruyshii opera. Nuck's Adenographia. Wharton's Adenographia. Ridley's anatomy of the brain. Santorini observationes. Boneti sepulchrum anatomicum. Blasii anatomia animalium. Tyson's anatomy of the oran-outang.
By these means, I cut up the body of a young woman, I had from a neighbouring church-yard, and acquired knowledge enough of anatomy.
N. B.
If all the pieces written upon some one part of the body, are not to be had single, the reader inclined to the delightful study of
physic,
will find them in the
Bibliotheca Anatomica,
2 vols. folio.
Here before I proceed, I will mention a very curious case, which occurred in my dissecting the body I have spoken of. It was as remarkable an example of a preternatural structure as ever appeared.
Case of a young woman with a double vagina.
In cutting her up, there was found
two vaginas,
and a right and left
uterus.
Each
uterus
had its corresponding
vagina,
and the
uteri
and the
vaginae
lay parallel to each other; there was only one
ovarium;
but two perfect
hymens.
The
labia
stretched so as to take in the
anus,
terminating beyond it; and as they were in large ridges, and well armed, the whole had a formidable appearance. If it should be asked, Could a perfect superfoetation take place in such a person? Most certainly there might be one conception upon the back of another at different times; therefore, I should not chuse to marry a woman with two
vaginas,
if it was possible to know it before wedlock.
But to proceed, — The next things I read, were the
Institutes of Medicine,
that is, such books as treat of the oeconomy and contrivance of nature in adapting the parts to their several uses. The books purely
physiological,
are,
Keil
's
Tentamina. Sanctorii aphorismi. Bellini de pulsibus et urina. Borellus de motu animalium. Harvey de motu cordis:
—And
de generation animalium.
(two admirable pieces.)
Friend
's
Emmenologia. Simpson
's System of the Womb. And
Pitcairne
's Tracts. These are the best things relating to
physiology,
which may be called the
first part
of the
Institutions of Physic.
The 2d part of the Institutes is the
Art of preserving such a system as the body, in an order fit for the exercise of its functions as long as possible.
The 3d part is
pathology,
which teaches the different manners in which diseases happen; and the various causes of these disorders, with their attendants and consequences: The 4th part is the
doctrine of signs,
by which a judgment is formed of the sound or bad state of the animal: And the 5th is
Therapentica,
that is, the means and method of restoring sanity to a distempered body. Treatises on all these matters, are what we call
institutions of physic,
and in relation, to the four last mentioned, the best books are,
Hoffman
's
Systema medicinoe rationalis,
and
Boerhaave
's
Institutions, with his lectures upon them.
These books I read with great attention, and found them sufficient.
Being instituted in this manner, I turned next to the practical writers, and read the history of diseases and their cure from observations of nature. This is called
pathologia particularis,
and is the great business of a physician. All that has been said is only preparatory to this study. Here then I first very carefully read the authors who have written a system of all diseases; and then, such writers as have considered particular cases. The best system writers are
Boerhaave
's
aphorisms and comment. Hoffman
's
pathologia particularis;
being the last part of his
Systema medicinae. Jumher
's
cospectus medicinae. Allen
's
Synopsis. Shaw
's
Practice of physic;
and
Lomnii opusculum aureum.
The writers on a few and particular distempers are,
Sydenham opera. Moreton
's
Puretologia. Bellini de morbis capitis et pectoris. Ramazzini de morbis artificium. Wepsemus de apoplexia. Floyer on the asthma. Astruc de lue venerea. Turner
's
synopsis:
And
of the skin. Musgrave de arthritide. Highmore de passione hysterica et hypocondria. Glisson de rachitide. Clericus de lumbrico lato. Daventer ars obstetricandi. Mauriceau des femmes grosses. Harris de morbis infantium. Turner
's
letter to a young physician.
All these books very carefully I read, and to your reading add the best observations you can any where get, or make yourself. I writ down in the shortest manner, abstracts of the most curious and useful things, especially the representations of nature; and refreshed my memory by often looking into my notebook. Every thing taken from nature is valuable. Hypothesis is entertaining rather than useful.
And when I was reading the history of diseases in the authors I have just mentioned, I looked into the antient Greek and Latin medical writers; for all their merit lies in this kind of history. Their pharmacy and anatomy is good for nothing. They scarce knew any thing of the human bodies, but from the dissections of other animals, took their descriptions. The great
Vesalius
in the beginning of the 16th century, was the first that taught physicians to study nature in dissecting human bodies; which was then considered by the church as a kind of sacrilege.
When
Vesalius
began to dissect human bodies, he was considered by the people as an impious cruel man; and before he could practice publicly, he was obliged to get a decision in his favour from the
Salamanca divines.
C'est ce qui engagea
Charles
V. de faire faire une consultation aux theologiens de
Salamanque,
pour savoir si en conscience on pouvoit dissequer un corps humain, pour en connoître la structure. (
Niceron
Memoirs:) They would not let him settle in
France;
but the republic of
Venice
gave him a professor's chair at
Padua,
where he dissected publicly, and taught anatomy seven years. He was but 18, when he published his famous book,
La fabrique du corps humain,
which was the admiration of all men of science: And a little after, he made a present of the first
skeleton
the world ever saw, to the university of
Bale;
where it is still to be seen. This great man,
Andrew Vesal,
was born the last of April, 1512; and in the 58th year of his age, October 15, 1564, he was shipwreck'd on the isle of
Zante,
and in the deserts there was famished to death. His body was found by a goldsmith of his acquaintance, who happened to land there not long after, and by this man buried.
Vesal
's works are two volumes in folio, published by
Herman Boerhaave, Lugduni Batavorum,
1725. Every physician ought to have them.
As to
chemistry,
they had no notion of it. It was not heard of till some hundred years after the latest of them. In botany they had made little progress. In short, as they knew little of botany;—nothing of chemistry; as their systems of natural philosophy and anatomy were false and unnatural, (and it is upon anatomy and natural philosophy, that physiology or the use of the parts is founded,) we can expect nothing from the antients upon these heads, but mere imaginations, or notions unsupported by observation or matter of fact. It is their history of diseases supports their character.
Hippocrates,
in particular, excels all others on this head: but this great man was not perfect even in this. Knowledge in nature is the daughter of time and experience. Many notions of the animal oeconomy were then absurd; and if
Hippocrates
was too wise to act always up to his theory, yet he could not be intirely free from its influence.
The names of the antient original greek medical writers are,
Hippocrates, Dioscorides, Aritaeus, Galen,
and
Alexander.
The latin writers of physic are,
Celsus, Scribonius Largus, Caelius Aurelianus, Marcellus Empericus, Theodorus Priscianus,
and
Sextus Placitus.
We have besides several
collectors,
as
Oribasius, Aetius, Paulus Aeginita,
&c.
Nicander,
the medical poet; and the
fragments
of
Soranus, Rufus Ephesius, Zonorates, Vindicianus, Diocles Carystius, Cassius,
and a few others: but all these may be looked into afterwards. The original authors are sufficient in the noviciate.
As to the latin medical writers,
Celsus,
and
Caelius Aurelianus
only, are worth reading.
Celsus
lived in the latter end of the reign of
Augustus,
and is admirable for the purity of his latin, and the elegance of his sense. You must have him night and morning in your hands, till you are a master of the terms and expressions peculiar to physic, which occur in him. The style of
Caelius
is very bad, and his cavils tedious: but his description of diseases is full and accurate. In this respect he is a very valuable writer. He lived in the second century, as did
Galen
likewise.
As to
Hippocrates,
who was contemporary with
Socrates,
he was born the first year of the Soth Olympiad, 460 before Christ.
René Chartier
's Edit.
Paris,
1639, is the most pompous: but
Vander Linden
's,
Leyden,
1668, 2 vols. in 8vo, is the best. When I read
Hippocrates,
I did also look into
Prosper Alpini
's good book,
De presagienda vita, et morte aegrotantium:
In which he has with great care collected and methodized all the scattered observations of
Hippocrates,
relating to the dangerous or salutary appearances in difeases. At the same time, I likewise read this great man's
Medicina Methodica.
(He died professor of botany at
Padua,
Feb. 1617, Aet 64. and was born November, 1553.) I did likewise look into the best commentators on
Hippocrates;
whose names you will find in
Conringius
's Introduction, which I have mentioned.
N. B.
The best edition of
Dioscorides
's
Materia medica,
is that of
Frankfort,
1598, folio. The best edition of
Aritaeus,
who lived before
Julius Cesar
's time (as
Dioscorides
did,
A.D.
46) is
Boerhaave
's, 1731, folio. The best edition of
Galen
's works, are that of
Bâle,
1538, in 5 vols. and that of
Venice,
1625, in 7 volumes.
Alexander
of
Tralles
flourished in the 6th century, under
Justinian the Great,
and left the following works,
Therapentica, Lib
12.
De singularum corporis partium vitiis, aegritudinibus, & injuriis, Lib.
5.
Epist. de lumbricis: Tractatus de puerorum morbis: Liber de febribus.
The best
greek
copy is that of
Stephens, Paris,
1548, folio. In
greek
and
latin, Basil,
1658. But in neither of these editions is to be found the Epistle
de lumbricis.
You must look for that in the 12th volume of
Fabricius
's
Bibliotheca Graeca.
In the last place, besides all the authors I have mentioned, I likewise looked into the original
observation writers,
and
miscellaneous books
relating to
physic.
They afford excellent knowledge, where the authors are faithful and judicious. Such are the
observationes medicae
of
Nicolaus Tulpius
(a curious book; and the dedication of it to his son
Peter,
a student in physic, good advice; 2d edition, 1652, is the best: it is a fourth part larger than the 1st edition, that came out in 1641.) The
observationes et curationes medicinales
of
Petrus Forestus, Lib.
22. — The
observationes medicae
of
Joannes Theodorus Schenkius.
— And the various Journals, and Transactions of learned Societies; which are repositories in which the physician finds much rare and valuable knowledge. And as a physician ought to have a little acquaintance with the modern practice of surgery, I concluded with
Heister
's,
Turner
's, and.
Sharp
's
Surgery.
By this method of studying
physic
in the middle of a wood, and employing my time and pains in reading the antients, and considering their plain and natural account of diseases, I became a
Doctor,
as well as if I had been a
regular collegiate
in the world. — But it is time to think of my
various story,
and I shall detain my Reader no longer from it, than while he reads the following translation of the charming
mythological picture of Cebes;
which is placed here, as the golden 10th
Satire
of
Juvenal
is put after the XIIIth Section of this work, by way of
entertainment between
the
acts.
A Translation of the
Table of Cebes.
The thing is a Dialogue between an Old Man and a Traveller.
WHILE we were walking in the
temple
of
Saturn,
(in the city of
Thebes,
) and viewing the votive honours of the God, the various offerings which had been presented to that deity, we observed at the entrance of the Fane, a picture tablet that engaged our attention, as it was a thing intirely new, both with regard to the painting and the design. For some time, we stood considering the device and fable, but still found ourselves unable to guess the meaning. The piece did not seem to be either a city or a camp; but was a kind of a walled court, that had within it two other inclosures, and one of them was larger than the other. The first court opened at a gate, before which a vast crowd of people appeared, impatient to enter; and within a group of female figures was represented. Stationed at the porch without, was seen a venerable form, who looked like some great teacher, and seemed to warn the rushing multitude. Long we gazed at this work, but were not able to understand the design, till an old man came up to us, and spoke in the following manner.
§ 1.
O.
It is no wonder strangers, that you cannot comprehend this picture: for even our inhabitants are not able to give a solution of the allegoric scene. The piece is not an offering of any of our citizens, but the work of a foreigner, a man of great learning and virtue, and a zealous disciple of the
Samian
or
Elean
sages, who arrived here many years ago, and by his conversation instructied us in the
best learning,
which is
morality.
It was he built and consecrated this
temple
to
Saturn,
and placed here this picture you see before you.
A Translation of the
Mythological Picture of Cebes:
By the Rev. and famous Jeremy Collier.
AS we were taking a turn in
Saturn
's
temple,
we saw a great many consecrated presents, remarkable enough for their curiosity: Amongst the rest, we took particular notice of a picture hung over the door; the piece we perceived was all emblem and mythology; but then the representation was so singular and out of custom, that we were perfectly at a loss whence it should come, and what was the meaning of it. Upon a strict view, we found it was neither a city, nor a camp, but a sort of court, with two partitions of the same figure within it, tho' one of them was larger than the other. The first court had a crowd of people at the gate, and within we saw a great company of women. Just at the entrance of the first gate, there stood an old man, who by his gesture and countenance, seemed to be busy in giving advice to the crowd as they came in. And being long
at a stand
about the design of the fable, a grave man somewhat in years,
making up,
begins to
discourse us
in this manner.
Gentlemen,
says he, I understand you are strangers, and therefore 'tis no wonder the history of this picture should
puzzle you:
For there are not many of our own countrymen than can explain it. For you are to observe, this is none of our
town manufacture
The Greek words which Mr.
Collier
renders
town-manufacture,
are
.
But along while ago, a certain
outlandish
man
And what he calls
outlandish, is
.
of great sense and learning, and who by his discourse and behaviour, seem'd to be a disciple of
Pythagoras
and
Parmenides;
this gentleman, I say, happening to travel hither, built this structure, and dedicated both the temple and this piece of painting to
Saturn.
Sir, said I, had you any acquaintance with this gentleman. Yes, says he, I had the benefit of his conversation, and was one of his admirers a long time. For, to my thinking, tho' he was but young, he talked at
a strange significant rate
The Greek is,
.
.
N. B.
The remainder of
Collier
's facetious version, is omitted for want of room.
And did you know, (I said) and converse with this wise man?
Yes, (he replied) I was long acquainted with him, and as he was but young, and talked with great judgment upon the most important subjects, with astonishment I have listned to him, and with pleasure heard him explain the moral of this fable.
Expound to us then, (I conjure you) the meaning of the picture, if business does not call you away; for we long to be instructed in the
design
of the
piece.
I am at leisure, (the old man answered) and willingly consent to your request; but I must inform you first, there is some danger in what you ask. If you hearken with attention, and by consideration understand the precepts, you will become wise, virtuous, and blest
.
: if otherwise, you will be abandoned, blind, and miserable
.
The explanation of the picture resembles the
enigma
of the
Sphinx,
which she proposed to every passenger that came that way. If they could expound the riddle they were safe; but if they failed in the attempt, they were destroyed by the monster
This monster, who lived near
Thebes,
was said to be the daughter of
Typhon
and
Echidna,
and had a head and face like a girl, wings like a bird, and in the rest, like a dog.
Folly
is as it were a
Sphinx
to mankind. She asks you, How is good and ill defined? If you cannot explain the problem, and happen to misjudge, you perish by degrees, and become the victim of her cruelty. You do not die immediately, as the unhappy did by the
Theban
monster; but by the force and operation of folly, you will find yourself dying from day to day, your rational part wounded and decayed, every noble power of the foul confounded, and like those given up to punishment for life, feel the last of those pangs, which guilt prepares for the stupid: but if by thinking, you can understand and discern the boundaries of good and ill, then
folly
like the
Sphinx
must perish, and your life will be blest with happiness and serenity.—Hear me then with all your attention.
These things being previously observed by the old man, and we intreating him to begin, he lifted up a wand he held, and pointing to the
picture,
said, the first inclosure represents
human life,
and the multitude at the gate, those who are daily entring into the world. That aged person you see on an eminence, directing with one hand, and holding in the other a roll, which is the code of reason, is the
genius
of
mankind;
benevolent, he seems to bend, and teach the people what they ought to do; shews them as they enter into life the path they ought to take; the way which leads to danger, and that which bears to safety and happiness.
And which is the way, (I said) and how are they to find it?
That you shall know hereafter: but at present you must take notice of that painted woman seated on a throne very near the gate. She is called
Delusion,
and by every art, with fawn and soft infection, presents a
bowl
of
ignorance
and
error
to all that enter into life. They take the cup, and in proportion to what they have drank of the intoxicating mixture, are led away by the
women
you, see, at a little distance from
Imposture,
to
destruction
some, and some to
safety;
less erring and less blind those being who have but tasted of delusion's cup.
These women so variously drest, and so profusely gay, are called the
Opinions, Desires,
and
Pleasures:
You observe how they embrace each mortal as he arrives within the gate, promise the greatest blessings, and compel their votaries to wander with them where they please.
But who (I asked) is that woman placed on a globe, who appears not only blind, but seems to be wild and distracted? Incessantly she walks about, and flings her favours capriciously: From some she snatches their effects and possessions, and bestows them upon others.
They call her
Fortune,
(replied the old man). Her attitude marks her character. Her gifts are as unstable as her tottering ball; and all who depend upon her specious promises, are deceived when most they trust her, and find themselves exposed to the greatest misfortunes.
There is a great crowd I perceive surrounding her, and if too commonly she meditates mischief, whene'er the smiles, what is the meaning of their attendance?
These are the
inconsiderate,
and stand there to catch the toys she blindly scatters among them; (wealth, fame, titles, an offspring, strength or beauty, the victor's laurel, and arbitrary power:) Those who rejoice, and are lavish in their praises of this divinity, have received some favours from her, and call her the goddess of
good fortune:
But those whom you see weeping and wringing their hands, are such whom she has deprived of every good; they curse her as the goddess of
ill fortune.
But (replied I) as to riches, glory, nobility, a numerous posterity, power, and honour, which you called
toys,
why are they not
real advantages?
Of these things (our
Instructor
answered) we shall speak hereafter more fully: At present it is better to continue the explication of the picture.
§ 2. Cast your eyes next then on that higher
inclosure,
(proceeded the old man) and take notice of the women on the outside thereof. You observe how wantonly they are drest: The first of them is
Incontinence,
loosely zoned, her bosom bare; and the other three are,
Riot, Covetousness,
and
Flattery.
They watch for the
favourites
of
fortune.
You see they caress them, and try to bring them to the pleasures of their soft retreat; where the bowl sparkles, the song resounds, and joys to joys succeed in every jocund hour: But at length
Distress
appears, and the favourite of a day discovers, that his
happiness
was merely
imaginary,
under a delusion; but the
evils
that attend his pleasures
real.
When he has wasted all he had received from fortune, he is forced to enter himself into the service of those mistresses, and by them compelled to dare the foulest and most desperate deeds; villain and knave he becomes; stabs for a purse; his country sells for gold; and by deceit and sacrilege, by perjury, treachery, and theft, endeavours for some time to live. But shiftless at length, and unable to acquire support by crimes, they are consigned to the dire gripe of
Punishment.
What is she, I beg you will inform us?
Look beyond those women, called the Opinions, (continued the old man) and you will see a
low gate,
opening into a dark and narrow cave: you may observe at the entrance of it, three female figures very swarthy and foul, covered with rags and filthiness; and near them, standing naked by their side, a frightful lean man
This man Mr.
Collier
calls, an
ill-looking skeleton of a fellow,
with scarce a tatter to his limbs. Cant! The Greek is,
.
. Close to him is another woman, so meagre and ghastly you perceive, that it is not possible for any thing to resemble him more.
We see them, and request to be informed who they are?
The first with a whip in her hand, is
Punishment,
and next to her sits
Sadness,
with her head reclining on her knees; that woman tearing her hair is
Trouble;
the naked lean man is
Sorrow,
and the image by his side
wild Despair.
You see they are all going to seize the unhappy man of pleasure, and make him feel the greatest pain and anguish: For they carry him to the house of
Misery,
and in the pit of
Woe
he is to pass the remainder of life, unless
Repentance
comes to his relief.
And what then follows, (I said) if
Repentance
interposes?
She rescues him from his tormentors, and gives him a new view of things. He has from her some account of
true learning,
but the hint so short, that it may lead him likewise to
false learning.
If he be so happy as to understand, and chuse right, he is delivered from prejudice and error, and passes the rest of his days in tranquillity and peace: but if he be mistaken, instead of
wisdom,
he only gains that amusing
counterfeit,
which turns him from
vice
to
studious folly.
Great (I replied) are the risks we mortals run: But who is this
false learning?
§. 3.
At the entrance of the second inclosure
The three inclosures in
Cebes,
allude to the division of human life into the
sensual,
the
studious,
and the
virtuous.
, you may observe a woman neatly drest, and of a good appearance; decent the port,—spotless the form: This is the
counterfeit,
but the vulgar call her
true learning:
Even the happy few, who succeed in the pursuit of wisdom, are commonly detained too long by this deceiving fair one: Nor is it strange; for, skilled as she is in all the learning, and in every art can grace the head, you see what crouds of admirers she has;
poets, orators, logicians, musicians, arithmeticians, geometricians, astrologers,
and
critics.
But who, (I asked my instructor,) are those
women,
so busy on every side, and so earnest in their addresses to this company? They look like
Incontinence
and her companions, and the
opinions
whom you shewed us in the first court. Do they also frequent the second inclosure?
Yes, (replied the old man,)
Incontinence
is sometimes seen here. The
opinions
do likewise enter; for the early potion these men received from
Imposture
still operates.
Ignorance
finds a place here; and even
Extravagance
and
Folly.
They remain under the power of these, till having left
false learning,
they enter upon the path that leads to
Wisdom.
When they arrive at the enlightned ground of
Truth,
they get her
sovereign remedy
Mr.
Collier
translates it,—
they enter into a course of physic.
The Greek is,
. And what Mr
Collier
a little before translates, —
She opens a vein, and gives then a glass of her constitution:
— when the have taken the
stirrup cup:
—
brimmers:
—the
lasses frisk
about: Salute with
a deal of welcome,
and the
lug them off,
—some to
ruin,
and some to the
gallows:
—All this, and much more
night-cellar stuff,
the
Theban philosopher
had not an idea of, as any one may see who can turn to the
Greek.
How
Collier
learned such guard-phrases, and why he use them, seemed for some time very strange to me, till I was informed by one who knew this
Divine
well, that in the days of his youth, he kept very low company, and was known at several night-houses. In that period of his life, he translated
Cebes.
, and are freed from the ill effects of
Ignorance
and
Error.
This enables them to throw off the
wild hypothesis,
— the
learned romance,
— and to employ the precious hours of life in thinking to the wisest purposes. Had they staid with
false learning,
they never could have delivered themselves from these evils.
Proceed then, I pray you, (said I) and shew us the way that leads to
Happiness
and
Wisdom.
§. 4.
Do you see (proceeded the venerable man,) that rising ground, which appears so
desart
and
uninhabited.
You may observe upon it a
little gate,
that opens in a narrow and unfrequented path; the avenue a rugged rocky way. You perceive a little onward, a steep and craggy mountain with precipices on either side, which sink to a frightful depth. This is the way to
Wisdom.
It seems a dreadful way, as painted in this table.
Yet higher still observe that rock, towards the mountain's brow, and take notice of the two figures which sit upon it's edge, and appear to be as beautiful and comely as the goddess of health. They are sisters;
Temperance
the one,
Patience
the other. With friendship in their looks, and arms protended over the verge of the cliff, you see them lean, to encourage those who pass this way, and rouze the spirits of the fainting sons of Wisdom, who has stationed these two sisters there. They urge the brave men on; tell them the hardships will lessen by degrees,— the passage will become more easy and agreeable as they advance, and offer them their assistance to ascend the summit, and reach the top of the rock. That being gained, they shew them the easiness and pleasantness of the rest of the way to wisdom: The charming road invites one's eyes: How smooth and flowery, green and delightful, does it appear!
It does indeed.
§. 5.
Look next (the excellent old man continued,) at that distant blooming wood, and near it you will see a beautiful meadow, on which there seems to fall a light as from a purer heaven, a kind of
double day.
In this
lightsome field
.
, you may perceive a gate which opens into another
inclosure,
which is the abode of the blessed. Here the
Virtues
dwell with
Happiness.
In this region of eternal beauty, the
righteous rest.
It does appear a charming place.
Observe then near the
portal,
a
beauteous form
of a composed aspect: She seems mature in life, and her robe is quite plain, without affectation or ornaments. Her eyes are piercing; her mien sedate: She stands not on a
globe,
(like
Fortune
) but upon a
cube
of marble, fixed as the rock she is on before the gate. You see on either side of her two
lovely nymphs,
the very copies of her looks and air. This
matron
in the middle is
true learning,
Wisdom herself; and the two young beauties are
Truth
and
Persuasion.
Her standing on a
square,
is an expressive type of certainty in the way to her; and denotes the unalterable and permanent nature of the blessings she bestows on those who come to
. constanti vultu,
or
constans vultum.
her. From her they receive courage and serenity; that confidence and contempt of fear, which exempts the happy possessors from any disturbance, by the accidents and calamities of life.
These are valuable gifts. But why without the walls does
Wisdom
stand?
To present the purifying bowl to those who approach, and restore them to themselves. As a physician by degrees first finds out the cause of a violent disorder, and then removes it, in order to restore the man to health; so
Wisdom,
as she knows their malady, administers her sovereign medicine, and frees them from all their evils. She expels the mischiefs they had received from delusion, their
ignorance
and
error,
and delivers them from
pride, lust, anger, avarice,
and all the other vices they had contracted in the first
inclosure.
In a word, she restores them to sanity, and then sends them in to
Happiness.
and the
Virtues.
Who are, they? (I said).
§. 6.
Do you not see within the gate, (my instructor replied) a society of
matrons,
beautiful and modest, drest unaffected, and without any thing of the gay excess? These are
Science
and her sisters,
Fortitude, Justice,
and
Integrity, Temperance, Modesty, Liberality, Continence, Clemency,
and
Patience.
They hail their guests, and the company seem to be in raptures.
But when the friends to virtue are admitted into this charming society, where do they lead then to?
See you not (resumed the good old man,) the hill beyond the grove; that eminence which is the highest point of all the inclosures, and commands a boundless prospect. There, on a glorious throne, you may observe a majestic person in her bloom, well drest, but without art or lavish cost, and her temples adorned with a beautiful
Tiar:
This is
Happiness,
the regent of that blessed abode, and as the moral heroes approach her, you may perceive her, with the Virtues who stand assistant round her, going to reward the friends of wisdom with such crowns as are bestowed on conquerors.
Conquerors! (I said) In what conflicts have these persons been victorious?
They have, in their way to the realm of Happiness, destroyed the most formidable and
dangerous monsters,
who would have destroyed them, if they had not been subdued: These
savage beasts
at war with man are,
ignorance
and
error; grief, vexation, avarice, intemperance,
and every thing that is
evil.
These are vanquished, and have lost all their power. The moral hero triumphs now, tho' their slave before.
Great atchievements indeed! A glorious conquest. But exclusive of the honour of being crowned by
Happiness
and the
Virtues,
is there any salutary power in the crown that adorns the hero's head?
There is, young man. The virtue of it is great. Possessing this, he is happy and blessed. He derives his felicity from no external object, but from himself alone.
O happy victory! And being thus crowned, what does the hero do —where next his steps?
Conducted by the
Virtues,
he goes back to survey his first abode, and see the crowd he left;—how miserably they pass their time; waste all their hours in crimes, and in the whirl of passions live.
Slaves
to
ambition, pride, incontinence, vanity,
and
avarice,
they appear tormented with endless anxiety. They have forgot the instructions the good
genius
gave them, at their entrance into life, and suffer thus because they cannot find the way to
Wisdom.
True: (I said) But I cannot comprehend, why the
Virtues
should bring the heroes back to the place they came from: Why should they return to view a well-known scene?
The reason (answered my instructor) is, because they had not a true idea of what they had seen. Surrounded by a confusion of things as they passed on, they could not distinctly perceive what was done. The mists of ignorance and error obscured the prospect as they journied on, and by that means, they were subject to mistakes. They could not always distinguish between
good
and
evil.
But now that they have attained to
true learning,
with concern they behold the
mad world
the
virtues
shew them again, and being enlightned by wisdom, are perfectly happy in themselves. The misery of the numberless fools they behold now, strikes them very strongly, and gives them a delightful relish for their present happiness.
It must be so. And when they have seen these things, where do they then go?
Wherever they please. Safely they may travel where they will: In all times, and in all places they are secure, as their
integrity
is their
defence.
Every where they live esteemed and beloved by all. The
female monsters
I have mentioned,
Grief, Trouble, Lust, Avarice,
or
Poverty,
have now no power to hurt them; but as if possessed of some virtuous drug, they can grasp the viper, and defy destruction.
What you say is just. But who are all these persons descending the hill?
Those that are crowned (the old man said) are the happy few I have described. You see what joy is in their faces: And those who seem forlorn and desperate, under the command of certain women, are such who by their folly have not found the way to
true learning;
or stopping at the rough and narrow ascent you observed, went to look for an easier path, and so quite lost the road. The tormentors who drive them on are,
Trouble, Despair, Ignominy,
and
Ignorance.
Wretched you see them return into the first
inclosure,
to
Luxury
and
Incontinence▪
and yet they do not accuse themselves as the authors of their own ruin, which is very strange; but rail at Wisdom, and revile her ways; asserting, that the true pleasures of life are only to be found in
luxury
and
riot.
Like the
brutes,
they place the
whole satisfaction of man
in the
gratification of sensual appetite.
But who are those other lovely women, who return down the hill so full of gaiety and mirth?
They are the
opinions,
who having conducted the virtuous to the region of light, are coming back to invite and carry others thither, by shewing them the felicity and success of those they brought to the mansion of Wisdom.
And do the
opinions
never enter with those they bring into that happy place, where the virtues and
true learning
reside?
No:
Opinion
can never reach to
science;
they only deliver their charge into the hands of wisdom, and then, like ships that give up their lading, in order to sail for a new cargo, they return to bring other
Eleves
to reason and felicity.
This
explanation
of the
table,
(I said) is quite satisfactory: But you have not yet informed us, what the
good genius
bids the multitude do, as they appear on the verge of life?
He charges them to act with courage, and be magnanimous and brave in all events; a thing I recommend to you, young man; and that you may have a true idea of this, I will tell you what I mean by a
bold spirit,
in passing through this world.
§ 7.
Then lifting up his arm again, and pointing with his wand to a
figure
in the
picture;
that
blind woman
standing on a
globe,
as I told you before, is
Fortune.
The
genius
forbids us to trust her, or imagine her smiles will be lasting happiness. Reason is never concerned in what the does. It is Fortune still; without principle she acts, is arbitrary and capricious, and inconsiderately and rashly for ever proceeds. Regard not then her favours, nor mind her frowns: But as she gives and takes away, and often deprives of what we had before, we are neither to esteem or despise her; but if we should receive from her a gift, take care to employ it immediately to some good purpose, and especially in the acquisition of true science, the most lasting and precious possession. If we act otherwise, in respect of Fortune, we imitate those wretched usurers, who rejoice at the money paid in to them, as if they received it for their own use; but pay it back with regret, forgetting the condition, that it was to be returned to the proprietor on demand. Regardless of Fortune then, and all her changes in this mortal life, the
genius
advises to pass bravely on, without hearkning to the sollicitations of
Incontinence
and
Luxury
in the first inclosure, to reject their
temptations,
and go on to
false learning:
With her he would have us make a short stay, to learn what may be of service to use in our journey to Wisdom. This is the advice of the
genius
to those who enter into life.
Here the good
old man
had done, and I thanked him for his explanation of the
picture.
Only one thing (I said) there was more, which I must request he would tell me the meaning of. What is it we can get by our stay with
false learning?
Things (he answered) that may be of use to us. The
languages,
and other parts of education, which
Plato
recommends, may hinder us from being worse employ'd, and keep us from illicit gratification. They are not absolutely necessary to true happiness; but they contribute to make us better. Something thing good and useful they do afford; tho' virtue, which ought to be the principal business in view, may be acquired without them. We may become wise without the assistance of the arts, tho' (as observed before,) they are far from being useless: as by a good translation made into our own tongue, we may know what an author means, and yet by taking the pains to become masters of the original language, might gain more advantages,—such as entring better into the writer's sense, and discovering some beauties which cannot otherwise be found: So the useful things in the sciences may be very quickly and easily learned, and tho' by great labour in becoming accurately acquainted with them, we might fill our heads with speculations, yet this cannot make us the wiser and better men.
Without being learned,
we may be
wise
and
good.
And are the
learned
then in no better a condition than the
people
in respect of
moral excellence?
(I said). Are the
speculations
of the
scholar,
and the
arts
and
fine inventions
of the
schools,
of no use in
perfecting
the
moral character?
This to me seems a little strange.
Blind
as the
crowd
is the
man of letters,
in this particular (my instructor replied): All his
studies
and
curious knowledge
have no
relation
to his
living right.
With all the
tongues,
and all the
arts,
he may be a
libertine,
a
sot,
a
miser,
or a
knave,
a traitor to his country, and have no moral character at all. This we see every day.
But what is the cause of so strange a thing, I requested to know? I observe that these
men of letters
seem to sit down contented in the
second inclosure,
and do not attempt to go on to the
third
where
Wisdom
resides; tho' they see continually before their eyes so many passing on from the
first court,
where they had lived for some time in lewdness and excess, to the habitation of
true learning.
It is their remaining in this
second inclosure,
that occasions their being inferior in moral things to those who have not had a learned education.
Proud
and self-sufficient on account of their
languages, arts,
and
sciences,
they despise what Wisdom could teach them, and will not give themselves the trouble of ascending with difficulty to the mansion of
true learning.
They have no taste for the
lessons
of
Wisdom;
while the
humble
mount to her exalted dwelling, those
scholars,
as you see, are satisfied with their
speculations
and
vain conceits. Dull
and
untractable
in the
improvement
of their
hearts,
and regardless of that
exact rectitude of mind and life,
which is only worth a rational's, toiling for (as he is an
Eleve
for eternity), they never think of
true wisdom,
nor mind her
offered light.
Their
curious ingenious notions,
are what they only have a relish for; the
imaginations
of those
men of letters
cannot reach that ineffable peace and contentment, that satisfaction and pleasure, which flow from a
virtuous life
and an
honest heart.
This is the case of our
learned heads,
uless
repentance
interferes to make them
humble,
and scatters the
vain visions
they had from
false opinion.
This (concluded the venerable teacher) is the
explication
of this
parable
or
allegory.
May you oft revolve upon these
lessons,
and lend your whole attention to the attainment of
true wisdom,
that you may not embrace her
shadow,
the
speculations
and
inventions
of the
learned,
but, by this
instruction,
acquire the
true principles
of
morality
and
goodness.
This is not all the
table of Cebes.
There follows a
disputation
in the
Socratic
method, concerning the claim of
wealth,
and other
externals,
to the
title
of
good things:
but it is
dry,
and no part of the
picture
or
mythology.
For this reason I stop here.
As to the
picture of Cebes,
it is to be sure a fine thing, and greatly to the honour of the
Theban philosopher,
who was one of the disciples of
Socrates;
and about twenty at the time of the death of his master:
Socrates
died by the executioner, in the 70th year of his age, before our Lord, 402.—
Cebes
was about eighty, at the birth of
Epicurus.
A remark on the table of
Cebes.
But after all that can be said in praise of this excellent remain of antiquity, still the little
systen of ethics
is but a
poor performance,
in respect of any section of the
gospel
of
Christ. Cebes
says nothing of the
Deity:
Nor does he mention the
mischiefs
of
vice,
and the
benefits
of
virtue,
as a
divine constitution.
An Apostle, on the contrary, (to mention only one particular out of a thousand from the
christian books,
) calls to the human race in the following manner: "I beseech you, brethren, by the mercies of Almighty God, the Father of the Universe, who hath graciously admitted you to, the faith, and revealed the terms of acceptance; that ye present your bodies now a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to the Deity, which is the reasonable and spiritual service required of you in the time of the gospel; and not offer the bodies of beasts any more as the Heathen world were wont to do.
And, as persons now wholly devoted to the Lord of heaven and earth, be not conformed to the fashions and ways of this world; but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind; that ye may prove what is the good, the acceptable, and perfect will of God. Abhor that which is evil, in all your dealings: Cleave to that which is good: Let love be without dissimulation, and be kindly affectioned one to another; not advancing yourselves, but in honour preferring one another. Be not slothful in business, but fervent in spirit; as serving the Lord Jehovah in your several stations. Rejoice in hope of a refreshment to come, in the realms of bliss: Be patient in tribulation, which God will reward, and continue instant in prayer.
In sum, let us follow the steps of
Christ,
and in imitation of his
divine humility,
his
devotion,
his
love,
be for ever
meek
and
forbearing, gentle
and
charitable,
and
live in the spirit of prayer.
"
What is there in the
table of Cebes
like this
spiritual and religious virtue,
this
love to God,
this
zeal for his honour and service,
and an
intire dependence upon him
in all conditions of life? The
virtues
of the
heroes of antiquity
are noble and excellent qualities; — their courage, and justice, and temperance, and gratitude, and love to their country are fine things: but they seem to have been calculated for the
civil life.
Those
heroes
were virtuous without being pious, and appear rather as self-sufficient independent beings, than as servants and votaries of God Almighty. It is these
Christian virtues
I hove mentioned, that
adorn
and
perfect human nature.
It is these things that
mostly
contribute to the
happiness of the world,
and
of every man in it.
N. B.
Mr.
Scott,
at the end of his
Notes
on
Cebes,
has the following remark. — If this philosopher had represented the effects of virtue and vice as a
divine constitution,
he would have ennobled his instruction, and done greater service to the interest of morality. But those important interests are effectually provided for by revelation. There the precepts of virtue are the laws of God. There we find a clear and compleat system of his will. There our obedience is encouraged by hope in his pardoning mercy and powerful assistance, by the life, death, and resurrection of his own son; and by promises and threatnings which extend the reward of righteousness, and the punishment of wickedness unto a future state of existence.
SECTION XIII.
Look round the habitable world, how few
Know their own good; or knowing it, pursue.
How void of reason are our hopes and fears!
What in the conduct of our life appears
So well design'd, so luckily begun,
But, when we have our wish, we wish undone?
The tenth Satire of
Juvenal. DRYDEN.
Omnibus in terris quae sunt a Gadibus usque
Auroram et Gangem, pauci dignoscere possunt
Vera bona, atque illis multum diversa remota
Erroris nebula: quid enim ratione timemus
Aut cupimus? Quid tam dextro pede concipis, ut te
Conatus non paeniteat, votique peracti?
JUVENALIS,
Sat.
X.
Sir
Robert Stapylton
has done this
Satire
in the following manner.
In all th' earth, from
Cales
westward to the streams
Of
Ganges
gilded with the
morning beams.
To few men good and ill unmask'd appear,
For what with reason do we hope or fear?
What hast thou by thy happiest project gain'd,
But thou repent'st thy pains and wish obtain'd?
Mr.
Dryden
's translation is by far the finest, to be sure. It is a charming thing: but whether it comes so near the intended
humour
and
brisk turns
of
Juvenal,
as a
third translation
the Reader will find at the end of this section, may admit of some consideration. — I add here the sixteen last lines of
Dryden's Version,
the most beautiful part of the Satire; that it may be near for comparing with the translation I have mentioned.— And for the same reason, I likewise place here the same number of lines done by
Stapylton.
Yet not to rob the priests of pious gain,
That altars be not wholly built in vain:
Forgive the gods the rest, and stand confin'd
To health of body, and content of mind;
A soul that can securely death defy,
And count it nature's privilege to die;
Serene and manly, hardned to sustain
The load of life, and exercis'd in pain;
Guiltless of hate, and proof against desire;
That all things weighs, and nothing can admire;
That dares prefer the toils of
Hercules
To dalliance, banquets, and ignoble ease.
The path to peace is virtue: What I show,
Thyself may freely on thyself bestow:
Fortune was never worshipp'd by the wise;
But, set aloft by fools, usurps the skies.
DRYDEN.
Yet that for sacrifice thou may'st prepare
Thy white hog, and for something make thy pray'r.
Pray that the Gods be graciously inclin'd,
To grant thee health of body, and of mind.
Ask a strong soul that may death's terrors scorn,
And think to die, as good as to be born:
As great a gift of nature, that no cross
Can daunt, that knows no passion, fears no loss:
That
Hercules
his labours can digest,
Far better than
Sardanapalus
's feast,
His wenches, or his feather-beds; I show
What thou thyself may'st on thyself bestow.
The path to peace is virtue; All the powers
Will be our own, if wisdom be but ours:
And yet to thee, vain fortune, we have given
The name of goddess, and plac'd thee in heav'n.
STAPYLTON.
Ut tamen et poscas aliquid, voveasque sacellis
Exta, et candiduli divina tomacula porci:
Orandum est, ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.
Fortem posce animum, et mortis terrore carentem,
Qui spatium vitae extremum inter munera ponat
Naturae, qui ferre queat quoscunque labores,
Et venere, et coenis, et pluma
Sardanapali;
Monstro, quod ipse tibi possis dare: semita certè,
Tranquillae per virtutem patet unica vitae.
Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia: sed te
Nos facimus, fortuna, deam, coeloque locamus.
JUVENAL.
The unfortunate death of
Julia.
§. 1. HAVING married the illustrious
Julia,
as related in my last Section, and by the death of her father soon after the wedding, acquired a handsome settlement, a considerable sum of money, and a valuable collection of books; I thought myself so happily situated in the midst of flourishing mercies, and so well secured from adversity, that it was hardly possible for the flame of destruction to reach me. But when I had not the least reason to imagine calamity was near me, and fondly imagined prosperity was my own, infelicity came stalking on unseen; and from a fulness of peace, plunged us at once into an abyss of woe. It was our wont, when the evenings were fine, to take boat at the bottom of a meadow, at the end of our garden, and in the middle of a deep river, pass an hour or two in fishing; but at last, by some accident or other, a slip of the foot, or the boat's being got a little too far from the bank-side,
Julia
fell in and was drowned. This happened in the tenth month of our marriage. The loss of this
charming angel
in such a manner, sat powerfully on my spirits for some time; and the remembrance of her perfections, and the delights I enjoyed while she lived, made me wish I had never seen her. To be so vastly happy as I was, and be deprived of her in a moment, in so shocking a way, was an affliction I was hardly able to bear. It struck me to the heart. I sat with my eyes shut ten days.
A reflexion on the death of
Julia.
§. 2. But losses and pains I considered were the portion of mortals in this trying state, and from thence we ought to learn to give up our
own wills;
and to get rid of all
eager wishes,
and
violent affection,
that we may take up our
rest
wholly in that which
pleaseth
God: Carrying our submission to him so far, as to bless his
correcting
hand, and
kiss
that
rod
that cures our passionate eagerness, perverseness, and folly.
We ought likewise to learn from such things, to look upon the sad accidents of life, as not worthy to be compared with what
Christ
underwent for our sakes, who,
though he was a Son, yet he learnt obedience by the things that he suffered;
and with christian resignation live in a quiet expectance of a future happy state, after our patience has had its perfect work: Considering that these light and momentary afflictions, are not worthy to be
compared
with the
glory
that
Christ
hath purchased for us; and if we are
faithful to death,
hath promised to bestow upon us.
In all these things resigning to the
wisdom
of God, and not merely to his will and authority, believing his disposal to be wisest and best; and that his declarations and promises are true, though we cannot in some cases discern the reason of such an
end,
and such
means
being connected: Nor can imagine how some
promises
can be made good.
Patience,
(I said) my soul!
Patience,
and what thou knowest not now, thou shalt know in a
little time.
Thus I reasoned, as I sat with my eyes shut.
Thoughts on wives and whores.
§. 3. And when I had done, I called to
Soto ô Finn,
my man, to bring the horses out immediately, and I would go some where or other to see new scenes, and if I could, get
another wife:
As I was born with the disease of repletion, and had made a resolution not to fornicate; it was incumbent on me to have a sister and companion, with whom I might lawfully carry on the succession. As a friend to society, and passively-obedient to the laws of my higher country, a wife for ever, I declared; for, if on losing one, we can be still so fortunate as to get another, who is pretty without pride; witty without affectation; to virtue only and her friends a friend:
Whose sense is great, and great her skill,
For reason always guides her will;
Civil to all, to all she's just,
And faithful to her friend and trust:
Whose character, in short, is such,
That none can love or praise too much.
If such a charmer should again appear, and ten thousand such there ever are among the sex, silly and base tho' the majority may be; what man could say he had had enough of
wedlock,
because he had buried seven such wives? I am sure I could not. And if, like the men who were but striplings at fourscore, in the beginning of this world, I was to live for ages, and by accidents lost such partners as I have described; I would with rapture take hundreds of them to my breast, one after another, and piously propagate the kind. The most despicable of all creatures is a
whore.
An
abomination
to
heaven:
And if
God
was a mere fanciful fear; yet such a wretch the
prostitute
is, that neither
honour
nor
honesty
can ever be expected from her. But, in
defiance
to
divine
and
human laws,
she lives a
fee
to
mankind;
to
ruin
the
fortune, pox
the
body,
and for ever
damn
the
soul
of the miserable man, who is dunce enough to become a
Limberham
to the
execrable wretch.
The misfortunes I have known happen to gentlemen of my acquaintance, by
street-whores, chamber-whores,
and
kept-whores,
would make a volume as large as this I am writing: and leave another world quite out of the history. I have seen gentlemen of the best fortunes and education, become
worn-out beggars
in the streets of
London,
without any thing hardly to cover them, by the means of those execrable harlots; some have become
bullies
to bawdy-houses; and many I have beheld going to the gallows, by maintaining the falsest and least-engaging of women: But take a modest sensible woman to your heart, who has the fear of the great God before her eyes, and a regard to the laws of her country: Share your fortune generously with her, that she may have her innocent amusements and dress, be for ever good-humoured, be true to her bed, and every felicity you may taste that it is possible to enjoy in this lower hemisphere. Let a
wife
be our choice, as we are
rationals.
The state of
Orton-lodge,
on my arrival there.
§. 4. With these notions in my head, I mounted my horse; and determined, in the first place, to pay a visit to my two beauties at
Orton-lodge,
who were by this time at age, and see what opinions they had acquired, and if they had any command for me: But when I arrived at my romantic spot, I found the ladies were gone, all places shut up, and no soul there; the key of the house-door was left for me, and a note fastned to it, to inform me how the affair was.
SIR,
Not having had the favour of hearing from you for almost three years, and despairing of that honour and happiness any more, we have left your fine solitude, to look after our fortunes, as we are of age; and on enquiry have found, that old
Cock,
our cruel guardian, is dead and gone. We are under infinite obligations to you, have an extreme sense of your goodness, and hope, if you are yet in the land of the living, that we shall soon be so happy as to get some account of you, to the end we may return the weighty balance due from,
SIR,
Your most obliged, and ever humble servants,
From the date of this letter it appeared, that they were not a month gone before my arrival; but to what place they said not, and it was in vain for me to enquire. I found every thing in good order, and all the goods safe; the garden full of fruits and vegetables, and plenty of various eatables in the house, pickled, potted, and preserved. As it was in the month of
June,
the solitude looked vastly charming in it's vales and forest, its rocks and waters; and for a month I strove to amuse myself there, in fishing, shooting, and improving the ground; but it was so dull, so sad a scene, when I missed the bright companions I had with me in former days; who used to wander with me in the vallies, up the hills, by the streams, and make the whole a paradise all the long day, that I could not bear it longer than four weeks; and rid from thence to Dr.
Stanvil
's seat, to ask him how he did, and look once more at that fine curiosity, Miss
Dunk
that was, but at the time I am speaking of, his wife. However, before I left my lodge, I made a discovery one day, as I was exploring the wild country, round my little house, that was entertaining enough, and to this day, in remembrance, seems to me so agreeable, that I imagine a relation of this matter may be grateful to my Readers. It contains the story of a lady, who cannot be enough admired, can never be sufficiently praised.
The History of the beautiful LEONORA.
§. 5. As I rambled one summer's morning, with my gun and my dog; over the vast mountains, which surrounded me at
Orton-lodge,
I came as the sun was rising to a valley about four miles from my house, which I had not seen before, as the way to it, over the
Fells,
was a dangerous road. It was green and flowery, had clumps of oaks in several spots, and from the hovering top of a precipice at the end of the glin, a river falls ingulphed in rifted rocks. It is a fine rural scene.
Here I sat down to rest myself, and was admiring the natural beauties of the place, when I saw three
females
turn into the vale, and walk towards the
water-fall.
One of them, who appeared to be the mistress, had an extravagance of beauty in her face, and a form such as I had not often seen. The others were pretty women, drest like quakers, and very clean. They came very near the water where I was, but did not see me, as I was behind two rocks which almost joined: And after they had looked a while at the headlong river, they went back, and entring a narrow-way between two hills disappeared. I was greatly surprised at what I had seen, not imagining I had such a neighbour in
Richmondshire,
and resolved to know who this beauty was. The wonders of her face, her figure, and her mien, were striking to the last degree.
Arising then as soon as they were out of sight, I walked on to the turning I saw them enter; and in half an hour's time came to a plain, thro' which several brooks wandered, and on the margin of one of them, was a grove and a mansion. It was a sweet habitation, at the entrance of the little wood; and before the door, on banks of flowers, sat the illustrious owner of this retreat, and her two maids. In such a place, in such a manner, so unexpectedly to find so charming a woman, seemed to me as pleasing an incident as could be met with in travelling over the world.
At my coming near this lady she appeared to be astonished, and to wonder much at seeing such an inhabitant in that part of the world: but on pulling off my hat, and telling her I came to visit her as her neighbour; to pay my humble respects to her, and beg the honour of her acquaintance; she asked me, from what vale or mountain I came, and how long I had been a resident in that wild part of the world ? This produced a compend of some part of my story, and when I had done, she desired, me to walk in. Coffee and hot rolls was soon brought, and we breakfasted chearfully together. I took my leave soon after, having made her a present of some black cocks and a hare I had shot that morning; and hoped, if it was possible to find an easy way to my lodge, which I did not yet know, that I should some time or other be honoured with her presence at my little house; which was worth her seeing, as it was situated in the most delightful part of this romantic silent place, and had many curiosities near it; that in the mean time, if it was agreeable, I would wait upon her again, before I left
Richmondshire,
which would be soon: For I only came to see how things were, and was obliged to hasten another way. This
beauty
replied, that it would give her pleasure to see me, when I had a few hours to spare. Three times more then I went very soon; we became well acquainted, and after dinner one day, she gave me the following relation.
My name was
Leonora Sarsfield
before I married an Irishman, one
Burk,
whom I met at
Avignon
in
France.
He is one of the handsomest men of the age, tho' his hopes were all his fortune; but proved a villain as great as ever disgraced mankind. His breeding and his eloquence, added to his fine figure, induced me to fancy him an angel of a man, and imagine I had well bestowed a hundred thousand pounds, to make him great, and as happy as the day is long: For three months he played the
god,
and I fondly thought there was not such another happy woman as myself in all the world. I was mistaken.
Burk
found out by some means or other, that I had concealed five thousand pounds of my fortune from his knowledge; and that I was in my heart so good a
protestant,
that it was impossible to bring me over to
popery,
or ever get me to be an
idolater
at the
mass,
before the
tiny god of dough:
—that I could never be brought to look upon the
invented superstitions,
and
horrible corruptions
of the
church of Rome,
as the true religion; nor be ever persuaded to assist at the
Latin service
in that communion, as it must be an
abomination
to
Christ
and to
God,
if the
gospel
may be depended upon as the
rule of faith:
—When
Burk
perceived these things, he threw off the disguise, and appeared a
monster
instead of a man, as he was a
bigot
of the first order, a furious
papist,
(which I did not know, when we married;) and as he was by nature as
cruel,
as he was
avaricious
by principle, he began to use me in the vilest manner, and by
words
and
deeds,
did all he could to make my life a burthen to me. He was for ever abusing me in the vilest language; cursing me for a heretic for ever damned; and by blows compelling me to inform him where my money was. He has left me all over blood very often, and when he found I still held out, and would not discover to him what remained of my fortune; nor, which I valued much more than my money, violate my religion, by renouncing the customs and practice of the reformed church, and joining in the
sinful worship
of the
mass;
he came to me one night with a small oak sapling, and beat me in such a manner as left me almost dead. He then went out of the house, told me he would return by twelve, and make me comply, or he would break every bone in my body. This happened at a country-seat of mine in this shire; all the servants being obliged to lie every night in an out-house, that he might have the more power over me. His
excessive avarice
was but one cause of this inhuman behaviour: It was the
zeal
of this
raging bigot
for his
ever-cursed popery,
that made him act the unrelenting inquisitor.
A reflexion on popery.
I asked you, Sir, before I began my story, if you were a
catholic,
and as you assured me you were the very reverse, I may indulge myself a little in expressing my resentments against that
religion
of
Satan,
which the
Popish doctors
drew out of the
bottomless pit.
It is a
religion formed in hell
by
devils,
and from them brought by those
arch-politicians,
the
mass-priests,
to make the
world
their
slaves,
or rack the human race to death, by torments that would perhaps
melt even devils. O bloody and infernal scheme of worship!
Surely there is some chosen curse, some hidden thunder in the stores of heaven, red with uncommon wrath, to blast the men, who owe their greatness to their
apostasy
from the religion of Christ Jesus; and to the woes and pains they lay on mankind. By the
religion
of
modern Rome,
you see in me a wife almost tortured to extinction by a
holy Roman catholic husband:
Nor am I the only married protestant woman, who has felt the stripes and bruises of a merciless popish companion. Thousands to be sure have suffered as well as I upon the same account, tho' none in so miserable a manner. Even fathers have lost all bowels for their children, and become the most violent persecutors, when the
blessed religion
of
popery
has been in dispute. Children, for it's sake, have destroyed their parents; and the world has been turned into a
field of blood,
to feed and support those dreadful
slaughterers,
the
mass-priests;
and
gratify
the
blind
and
impious religious fancies
of their
well-taught religionists,
commonly called
catholics.
What I have suffered gives me a true sense of
popery.
It has made me consider its
errors
and
iniquities
with double attention. I tremble at the thoughts of its prevailing in this land.
An Address to the Protestant Ladies of
Great Britain.
What a thing, Ladies, is
Popery!
Whether we consider it in a religious view, or regard it as a political contrivance, to gratify the avarice, and ambition of the clergy, it appears the just object of our contempt, as well as of our abhorrence. It does not only make its priests the slaughterers of mankind; witness the
inquisition,
the
Morisco's, Thorn
The
Morisco
's were expelled
Spain, A. D.
1492.—The
inquisition
was erected four years after;—and the
doings
at
Thorn,
(by which the quantity of blood formerly spilt on the ground by
ever-cursed Popery
was increased) in the year 1724.
,
England, Ireland, France,
the
Low Countries, Hungary,
and other theatres of barbarity, the most shocking and inhuman; but it causes even
husbands
to become
mere devils
to wives, who are angels of women in mind and body, and can only be charged with their being
protestants.
So
Burk
the
papist
behaved to one of the finest and most excellent women I have seen. Nor was this lady the only unhappy one I have known made so by
popish
husbands. I have seen a thousand
protestant
wives, the most amiable and worthy women, as wretched as cruelty could make them, by their husband's zeal for the
mass-priests religion;
a religion fit only for hell, and that ought to make every protestant female tremble at the idea of a
catholic
husband: He may be as kind and good to a Romish wife, as it is possible for man to be to a woman; but if he marries a
protestant,
he must be a
Satan
to her by virtue of his religion. Never hearken then, O ye protestant ladies, to a
popish suitor;
however rich or outwardly agreeable he may be. Think of the principles and spirit of that church, whose unsuccessful attempts on our religion and liberties, have given occasion for the solemnity of the 5th of
November,
and that of the 23d of
October. Blood
and
cruelty
are her
constitution:
And by those principles and practices with regard to civil society, as well as by her
doctrines,
she
promotes infidelity,
and strives to render the
word of God of none effect.
She
destroys
the
credibility
of the gospel. — Could that religion come down from heaven, which claims a right not only to persecute single persons, but to devote whole nations to destruction by the blackest treachery, and most inhuman massacres;—and which teaches such
absurdities
as
transubstantiation, masses, purgatory, penances, indulgences,
and
attrition:
— Absurdities that dissipate the poor
Romans
of those guilty fears, which natural conscience might otherwise keep alive in men. Such things (without mentioning the
adoration
of the
cross
and other
images,
and the increasing multitude of
imaginary mediators
), intirely destroy the
credibility
of any system with which they are connected. God cannot be the author of a scheme which
weakens
and
corrupts
the law of nature.— No popery then for you.
But as to my tragical relation, (continued
Leonora:
) — Being thus left by
Burk
in this sad situation, bleeding, and miserable with pains, but still in dread of worse usage on his return; I crawled down stairs, to a small door in a back place, which opened to a private way out of the house. This was known only to myself, as it was a passage my father had made, (in case of thieves, or any villains,) from a little unfrequented cellar, by a narrow ascending arch, to a thicket in the corner of a shrubby field, at a small distance from the house. To a labyrinth made in this small grove I made what haste I could, and had not been long there, before I perceived through the trees my inhuman husband; and as he came near me, heard him say, she shall tell me where my money is, (for all she has is mine;) and worship our
lady
and the
host,
or I will burn her flesh off her bones, and make her feel as many torments here, as the
heretics
are tortured with in everlasting pain. The sight of the monster made me tremble to so violent a degree, that I was scarcely able to proceed to the cottage of a poor woman, my sure friend, about two miles from the place I was hid in; but I did my best to creep through cross ways, and after many difficulties, and suffering much by going over ditches, I got to my resting-place. The old woman, my nurse, screeched at the sight of me, as I was sadly torn, and all over gore. Such a spectacle to be sure has seldom been seen. But by peace and proper things, I got well again in two months, and removed to this lone house, which my father had built in this spot for his occasional retirement. Here I have been for two years past, and am as happy as I desire to be: Nay vastly so, as I am now free and delivered from a monster, whose avarice and cruelty made me a spectacle to angels and men: Because, Sir, I would not reduce myself to the state of a beggar, to satisfy his insatiable love of money: nor worship his
dead-woman,
and
bit of bread;
his
rabble
of,
saints, images, relicks,
and that
sovereign cheat,
the
Pope;
because I would not give up all I had, and become an
idolater,
as far more
despicable
and
sinful
than the
antient Pagans;
as the
Romish ritual
and
devotions,
are more
stupid
and
abominable
than the
Heathen religion;
for disobedience in these respects,
pains
and
penalties
without ceasing were my appointment, and I was for some months as miserable as the damned.
Such, Sir, was my
fatal marriage,
which I thought would be a stock of such felicities, that time only by many years could reduce to an evanescent state, and deprive me of: As
Venus
was at the
bridal
with her whole retinue; the
ardent amorous boy,
the
sister-graces
in their loose attire;
Aglavia, Thalia,
and
Euphrosine,
bright, blooming, and gay; and was attended by
Youth,
that
wayward thing
without her; was conducted by
Mercury,
the
god
of
eloquence,
and by
Pitho,
the
goddess
of
persuasion;
as all seemed pleasurable and inchanting, my young imagination formed golden scenes, and painted a happiness quite glorious and secure. But how precarious and perishing is what we mortals call felicity!
Love
and his
mother
disappeared very soon, as I have related; and to them succeeded
impetuous passion,
intense, raging, terrible, with all the
furies
in the train. The
masked hero
I had married was a
Phalaris,
a
miser,
a
papist;
a wretch who had no taste for love, no conception of virtue, no sense of charms; but to
gold
and
popery
would sacrifice every thing that is
fair
and
laudable.
Le
Diable a quatre
he shined in as a player, and was the
Devil himself
in
flesh
and
blood.
Where is the rest of your with uplifted arm, was the thundering
cry
in my ears. You shall be a
catholic,
damn you, or I'll pinch off the flesh from your bones.
A remark on this lady.
Here the beautiful
Leonora
had done, and I wondered very greatly at her relation: Nor was her
action
in speaking it, and the
spirit
with which she talked, less surprising. With admiration I beheld her, and was not a little pleased, that I had found in my neighbourhood so extraordinary a person, and so very fine an original. This lady had some reason to abhor the word
catholic,
and might well be angry with
popery,
tho' she carried her resentment a little too far; but had the Reader seen her
attitude,
her
energies,
and the
faces
she made, when she mentioned the
corruptions
of
popery,
or the word
husband;
sure I am, it would be thought much more striking than
Garrick
in
Richard,
or
Shuter
in his
exhibition
of Old
Philpot.
I was greatly delighted with her, and as she was very agreeble in every thing, I generally went every second day to visit her, while I continued in
Richmondshire;
but this was not long. I journeyed from thence to pay my respects to Dr.
Stanvil
and his lady, whom I have mentioned before. And what happened there, I shall relate in the next Section: Only stop a few minutes my good Reader, to peruse the translation of the
tenth Satire
of
Juvena1;
which is placed here by way of entertainment, as I said in another place, and to make good my assertion, that we know not what we would be at in our fancies and our fears.
The Tenth Satire of
Juvenal.
SURVEY mankind, muster the herd
From smoothest chin to deepest beard;
Search ev'ry climate, view each nation,
From lowest to the highest station;
From Eastern to the Western
Indies,
From frozen
Poles
to th' line that singes;
Scarce will you find one mortal wight,
Knows
good
from
ill,
or wrong from right:
The design of this fine
Satire
is to shew, that
endowments
and
blessings
of the
mind,
as
wisdom, virtue, justice,
and
integrity
of
life,
are the only things worth praying for.
'Cause clouds of lust and passion blind,
And bribe with interests the mind;
And while they combat in our heart,
Our fondness crowns the conqu'ring part.
What is the thing under the sun,
That we with reason seek or shun?
Or justly by our judgment weigh'd,
Should make us fond of, or afraid?
Whate'er is luckily begun,
Brings sure repentance at long-run.
The distant object looming great,
Possest proves oft an empty cheat;
And he who wins the wish'd-for prize,
A trouble often dearly buys.
Some for their family importune,
And beg their ruin for a fortune.
The courteous gods granting their prayers,
Have intail'd curses on their heirs.
Of wizards some inquire their doom,
Greedy to know events to come,
And by their over caution run▪
On the same fare they strove to shun:
Some have petition'd to be great,
And eminent in church and state.
This in the war's a famous leader,
T'other at bar a cunning pleader;
The cause on either-side insure you,
By dint of noise stun judge and jury:
And if the business won't bear water,
Banter and perplex the matter.
But their obstrep'rous eloquence
Has fail'd ev'n in their own defence:
And saving others by haranguing,
Have brought themselves at last to hanging.
Milo
presuming on his strength,
Caus'd his own destiny at length.
The greedy care of heaping wealth,
Damns many a soul and ruins health,
And in an apoplectic fit,
Sinks them downright into the pit.
How many upstarts crept from low
Condition, vast possessions show?
Whose estate's audit so immense
Exceeds all prodigal expence.
With which compare that spot of earth,
To which these mushrooms owe their birth:
Their manners to dad's cottage show,
As
Greenland
whales to dolphins do.
In
Nero
's plotting dismal times,
Riches were judg'd sufficient crimes.
First swear them traitors to the state,
Then for their pains share their estate.
Fat forfeitures their toils reward:
Poor rogues may pass without regard.
Some are hook'd in for sense and wit,
And some condemn'd for want of it.
The over-rich
Longinus
dies,
His bright heaps dazzled envious eyes.
Neither could philosophy,
Wisdom, desert, or piety,
Rich
Seneca
from his pupil save,
'Tis fit he send him to a grave,
And then resume the wealth he gave.
The guards the palaces beset,
For noble game they pitch their net:
While from alarms and pangs of fear,
Securely sleeps the cottager.
If you by night shall happen late,
To travel with a charge of plate;
With watchful eyes and panting heart,
Surpriz'd, each object makes you start:
While rack'd with doubts, opprest with fear,
Each bush does an arm'd thief appear:
A shaken reed will terror strike,
Mistaken for a brandish'd pike.
Before the thief, the empty clown
The Latin of these two lines is— Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.
Which
Dryden
translates thus—
The beggar sings, ev'n when he sees the place
Beset with thieves, and never mends his pace.
Shadwell,
Poet Laureat in King
William
's time, does it thus—
While the poor man, void of all precious things,
In company of thieves, jogs on and sings.
Holiday
thus —
Before the thief, who travels empty, sings.
Stapylton
thus —
The poor wayfaring man, that doth not bring
A charge along, before the thief will sing.
Sings unconcern'd and travels on
The Latin of these two lines is— Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator.
Which
Dryden
translates thus—
The beggar sings, ev'n when he sees the place
Beset with thieves, and never mends his pace.
Shadwell,
Poet Laureat in King
William
's time, does it thus—
While the poor man, void of all precious things,
In company of thieves, jogs on and sings.
Holiday
thus —
Before the thief, who travels empty, sings.
Stapylton
thus —
The poor wayfaring man, that doth not bring
A charge along, before the thief will sing.
.
With warm petitions most men ply
The gods, their bags may multiply;
That riches may grow high and rank,
Outswelling others in the bank.
But from plain wood and earthen cups,
No poison'd draught the peasant sups.
Of the gold goblet take thou care,
When sparkling wine's spic'd by thy heir:
Then who can blame that brace of
wise men,
That in diff'ring moods despise men:
Th' old merry lad saunters the streets
And laughs, and drolls at all he meets:
For pastime rallies, flouts, and fools 'em,
Shams, banters, mimics, ridicules 'em.
The other sage in maudling wise,
Their errors mourns with weeping eyes.
Dull fools with ease can grin and sneer,
And buffoons flout with saucy jeer.
What source could constant tears supply,
To feed the sluices of each eye;
Or t'others merry humour make,
His spleen continually to shake?
Could he in sober honest times
With sharp conceit tax petty crimes:
And every where amongst the rout,
Find follies for his wit to flout;
Juvenal
here means
Democritus.
Which proves that
Gotham
and gross climes,
Produce prodigious wits sometimes.
The joys and fears of the vain crowd,
And whimp'ring tears he'd jear aloud;
Wisely secure, fortune deride,
By foppish mortals deified;
Bid her be hang'd, and laugh at fate,
When threatned at the highest rate;
Whilst fools for vain and hurtful things,
Pour out their prayers and offerings,
Fast'ning petitions on the knees
The Latin of these two lines is — Propter quae fas est genua incerare deorum.
Which Mr.
Dryden
does not translate at all: — His lines are —
He laughs at all the vulgar cares and fears:
At their vain triumphs, and their vainer tears:
An equal temper in his mind he found,
When Fortune flatter'd him, and when she frown'd:
'Tis plain from hence that what our vows request,
Are hurtful things, or useless at the best.
,
Of their regardless deities
The Latin of these two lines is — Propter quae fas est genua incerare deorum.
Which Mr.
Dryden
does not translate at all: — His lines are —
He laughs at all the vulgar cares and fears:
At their vain triumphs, and their vainer tears:
An equal temper in his mind he found,
When Fortune flatter'd him, and when she frown'd:
'Tis plain from hence that what our vows request,
Are hurtful things, or useless at the best.
.
For place and power, how many men vie,
Procuring mortal hate and envy;
Heralds long-winded titles sound,
Which the vain owners oft confound.
Down go their statues in disgrace;
The party hangs up in the place.
In rage they break chariot triumphant,
Because a knave 'fore set his rump on't:
Poor horses suffer for no fault,
Unless by bungling workmen wrought.
The founder's furnace grows red hot,
Sejanus
statue goes to pot:
That head lately ador'd, and reckon'd
In all th' universe the second,
Melted, new forms and shapes assumes,
Of piss-pots, frying-pans, and spoons
Mr.
Dryden
's English is,—
Sejanus,
almost first of Roman names,
The great
Sejanus,
crackles in the flames:
Form'd in the forge, the pliant brass is laid
On anvils: And of head and limbs are made,
Pans, cans, and piss-pots, a whole kitchen trade.
The Latin is,—
Jam strident ignes, jam follibus atque caminis
Ardet adoratum populo caput, et crepat ingens
Sejanus:
Deinde ex facie toto orbe secunda
Fiunt urceoli, pelves, sartago, patellae.
.
The crowd o'erjoyed that
Caesar
's living,
Petition for a new thanksgiving;
How the base rout insult to see
Sejanus
dragg'd to destiny
Sejanus,
the vile minister of
Tiberius,
was executed by order of the Emperor,
A. D.
31. and to prevent his suspecting any such thing, and providing against the calamity, which the
favourite
might easily have done, as he commanded the
Praetorians,
and had all power given him, his master named him his collegue in the consulship; which of all things
Sejanus
most desired, and thought the highest mark of his sovereign's affection. So true it is that we know not what we wish for.
,
Would you on these conditions, Sir,
Be favourite and prime minister,
As was
Sejanus?
Stand possest
Of honours, power, and interest;
Dispose supreme commands at will,
Promote, disgrace, preserve, or kill;
Have foot and horse-guards, the command
Of armies both by sea and land.
Had you not better ask in prayer,
To be some petty country mayor;
There domineer, and when your pleasure's
Condemn light weights, break false measures;
Though meanly clad in safe estate,
Than chuse
Sejanus
robes and fate?
Sejanus
then, we must conclude,
Courting his bane, mistook the good.
Crassus
and
Pompey
's fate of old,
The truth of this sure maxim told:
And his who first bow'd
Rome
's stiff neck,
And made the world obey his beck
Julius Caesar,
who acquired the sovereign sway by art and slaughter, and when a tyrant, fell by his own desires.
.
The novice in his accidence,
Dares pray his wit and eloquence
May rival Roman
Cicero
's fame,
And Greek
Demosthenes'
high name:
Yet to both these their swelling vein
Of wit and fancy prov'd their bane.
No pleading dunce's jobbernowl
Revenge e'er doom'd to grace a pole.
The trophies which the vanquish'd field
Do to the glorious victors yield,
Triumphant conquerors can bless,
With more than human happiness:
This, Roman, Grecian, and barbarian,
Spurr'd to acts hazardous and daring;
In sweat and blood spending their days,
For empty fame, and fading bays.
'Tis the immoderate thirst of fame
Much more than virtue does inflame:
Which none for worse or better take,
But for her dower and trapping's sake.
The fond ambition of a few,
Many vast empires overthrew;
While their atchievements with their dust,
They vainly to their tombstones trust.
For sepulchres like bodies lie,
Swallow'd in death's, obscurity
The beautiful Latin is,—
—Et laudis titulique Cupido
Haesuri saxis cinerum custodibus: ad quae
Discutienda valent sterilis mala robora ficus:
Quandoquidem data sunt ipsis quoque fata sepulchris.
Which Mr.
Dryden
renders in the following manner.
This avarice of praise in times to come,
Those long inscriptions crowded on the tomb,
Should some wild fig-tree take her native bent,
And heave below the gaudy monument,
Would crack the marble titles, and disperse
The characters of all the lying verse.
For sepulchres themselves must crumbling fall
In time's abyss, the common grave of all.
.
Behold how small an urn contains
The mighty
Hannibal
's remains:
That hero whose vast swelling mind
To
Afric
could not be confin'd:
Nature's impediments he past,
And came to
Italy
at last:
There, after towns and battles won,
He cries,
comrades,
there's nothing done,
Unless our conqu'ring powers
Break down
Rome
's gates, level her towers,
Root up her posts, and break her chains,
And knock out all opposers brains:
Whilst our troops scour the city thorough,
And fix our standard in
Saburra
The greatest street in
Rome.
.
But what catastrophe of fate,
Does on this famous leader wait:
His conduct's baffled, army's broke,
Carthage
puts on the
Roman
yoke:
Whilst flight and banishment's his fate,
His ruin'd country's scorn and hate.
Go, madman, act thy frantic part,
Climb horrid
Alps,
with pains and art,
Go, madman, to be with mighty reputation,
The subject of a declamation
The Latin is,—
—I demens currepur
Alpes.
Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias.
Go, climb the rugged
Alps,
ambitious fool,
To please the boys, and be a theme at school.
DRYDEN.
One world's too mean, a trifling thing,
For the young
Macedonian
king;
He raves like one in banishment,
In narrow craggy island pent:
In one poor globe does sweat and squeeze,
Wedg'd in and crampt in
little-ease.
But he who human race once scorn'd,
And said high
Jove
King
Philip
horn'd,
While
manag'd oracles
declare
The spark great
Ammon
's son and heir;
At
Babylon,
for all his huffing,
Finds ample room in narrow coffin.
Man swells with bombast of inventions,
When stript, death shews his true dimensions.
So do we read wild
Xerxes
rent
Mount
Athos
from the continent,
And in a frolic made a shift,
To set it in the sea adrift:
With ships pav'd o'er the
Hellespont,
And built a floating bridge upon't:
Drove chariots o'er by this device,
As coaches ran upon the ice.
He led so numberless a rout,
As at one meal drank rivers out.
This tyrant we in story find,
Was us'd to whip and flog the wind;
Their jailor
Eolus
in prison,
Ne'er forc'd them with so little reason:
Nor could blue
Neptune
's godhead save him,
But he with fetters must enslave him.
Yet after all these roaring freaks,
Routed and broke he homeward sneaks;
And ferries o'er in fishing-boat
Through shoals of carcases afloat;
His hopes all vanish'd, bilked of all
His gaudy dreams: See pride's just fall.
The frequent subject of our prayers,
Is length of life and many years:
But what incessant plagues and ills,
The gulph of age with mischief fills!
We can pronounce none happy, none,
Till the last sand of life be run.
Marius
's long life was th' only reason,
Of exile and
Minturnian
prison.
Kind fate designing to befriend
Great
Pompey,
did a fever send,
That should with favourable doom,
Prevent his miseries to come:
But nations for his danger griev'd,
Make public prayers, and he's repriev'd:
Fate then that honour'd, head did save,
And to insulting
Caesar
gave.
'Tis the fond mother's constant prayer,
Her children may be passing fair:
The boon they beg with sighs and groans,
Incessantly on marrow-bones.
Yet bright
Lucretia
's sullen fate,
Shews fair ones are not fortunate.
Virginia
's chance may well confute you,
Good luck don't always wait on beauty.
Let not your wills then once repine,
Whate'er the gods for you design.
They better know than human wit,
That does our exigence befit.
Their wise all-seeing eyes discern,
And give what best suits our concern.
We blindly harmful things implore,
Which they refusing, love us more.
Shall men ask nothing then? Be wise,
And listen well to sound advice.
Pray only that in body sound,
A firm and constant mind be found:
A mind no fear of death can daunt,
Nor exile, prison, pains nor want:
That justly reckons death to be
Kind author of our liberty:
Banishing passion from our breast,
Resting content with what's possest:
That ev'ry honest action loves,
And great
Alcides
toil approves,
Above the lusts, feasts, and beds of down,
Which did
Sardanapalus
drown.
This mortals to themselves may give;
Virtue
's the happy rule to live.
Chance bears no sway where wisdom rules,
An empty name ador'd by fools.
Folly blind Fortune did create,
A goddess, and to heaven translate.
As I had not room for all the Xth
Satire,
what is seen here, is rather an
abridgement
than an intire version: But the whole
sense
of the author is preserved, though several of his examples and illustrations are left out.
And so excellent a thing, Dr.
Burnet
bishop of
Salisbury
thought this
Satire,
that in his famous
Pastoral Letter
he recommmends it, (and the
Satires
of
Persius
), to the perusal and practice of the divines in his diocese, as the best
common places
for their sermons; and what may be taught with more profit to the audience, than all the new speculations of divinity, and controversies concerning faith; which are more for the profit of the shepherd, than for the edification of the flock. In the Satires, nothing is proposed but the quiet and tranquillity of the mind. Virtue is lodged at home, (as Mr.
Dryden
expresses it, in his fine dedication to the Earl of
Dorset
), and diffused to the improvement and good of human kind.
Passion, interest, ambition, mystery, fury,
and every cruel consequence, are banished from the doctrine of these
stoics,
and only the
moral virtues
inculcated, for the
perfection
of
mankind.
But so
unreasonable
and
infatuated
are our
shepherds,
too many of them I mean, that a rational christian cannot go to church without being shocked at the
absurd
and
impious
work of their pulpits. In town and country, almost every Sunday, those
bright theologers
are for ever on the
glories
of
trinity in unity,
and teaching their
poor people
that
God Almighty came down from heaven to take flesh upon him,
and make
infinite satisfaction
to himself. This is the
cream
of christianity, in the account of those
teachers.
The
moral virtues
are nothing, compared to a man or a woman's swallowing the
divine mystery
of an
incarnate God Almighty.
Over and over have I heard a thousand of them on this
holy topic, sweating
and drivelling at each
corner
of their mouths with eagerness to convert the world to
their mysteries.
—The
adorable mystery!
says one
little priest,
in my neighbourhood in
Westminster.
—The more
incomprehensible
and
absurd
it appears to
human reason,
the
greater honour
you do to
heaven
in
believing
it, says another
wise man
in the country. But tell me, ye excellent divines, tell me in print if you please, if it would not be doing more honour to the
law of heaven,
to inform the people, that the
true christian profession
is, to
pray to God our Father for grace, mercy, and peace, through the Lord Jesus Christ;
without ever mentioning the
Athanasian scheme,
or
trinity in unity:
(which you know no more of than so many pigs do, because it is a
mere invention,
and
not to be found
in the
Bible
): And in the next place, to tell your
flocks
in serious and practical address, that their
main business
is, as the
disciples
of the
holy Jesus,
a
good life;
—to
strive against sin
continually, and be
virtuous
and
useful
to the utmost of our power;—to
imitate
the
purity
and
goodness
of their
great master, (the Author of eternal salvation to all them that obey him),
and by
repentance
and
holiness of heart, in a patient continuance in well-doing,
make it the labour of their every day, to
live soberly, righteously,
and
godly
in this present world: You must become
partakers of a divine nature, having escaped the corruption
that is in the world through lust, and by acquiring the true
principles
of
christian perfection,
render yourselves
fit
for the
heavenly bliss.
This, my dearly beloved brethren, is the great design of
Christ
and his
gospel.
You must receive
Jesus Christ
as your
Saviour
and
Mediator,
—you must be
exercised unto godliness,
and have the
ways of God
in your
hearts.
By a course of
obedience
and
patience,
you must
follow
the
captain of our salvation
to
his glory.
To this purpose, I say, our clergy ought to preach; and if in so saying, they think me wrong, I call upon them to tell me so in
print,
by
argument;
that I may either publicly acknowledge a mistaken judgment;—or prove, that too many ministers mislead christian people in the article of faith and practice. By the strict rules of christian simplicity and integrity, I shall ever act.
SECTION XIV.
Bear me, ye friendly powers, to gentler scenes,
To shady bow'rs, and never-fading greens;
To flow'ry meads, the vales, and mazy woods,
Some sweet soft seat, adorn'd with springs and floods
Where with the muses, I may spend my days,
And steal myself from life by slow decays.
With age unknown to pain or sorrow blest,
To the dark grave retiring as to rest;
While gently with one sigh this mortal frame,
Dissolving turns to ashes whence it came;
And my freed soul departs without a groan;
In transport wings her flight to worlds unknown.
The Author goes to visit Dr.
Stanvil
and his lady. Aet. 29. July 2, 1734.
§. 1. FROM
Orton-lodge
I went to
Bassora,
to pay my respects to Dr.
Stanvil
and his charming consort. I was received by them both with the greatest goodness and civility; but as before, this lady did not seem to have had any former acquaintance, one might well think from the part she acted, that she had never seen me, till the accident I have related brought me to her husband's house. I did not however even hint any thing to the contrary, but turning to the Doctor a little after my arrival, began to ask him some questions.
A question proposed to Dr.
Stanvil,
how the Spanish fly acts in blister-stupors.
§. 2. As he had an Essay on fevers in his hand, when I entred the room, I requested to know, how he accounted for the effects of
Cantharides,
in raising and strengthning a low trembling pulse, and driving the natural heat and efflatus of the blood outward,—in giving relief in delirious ravings, stupors, and loss of reason,—in reducing continual fevers to distinct remissions,—and in cleansing and opening the obstructed glands and lymphatics, so as to bring on the critical sweats, let loose the saliva and glandular secretions, and bring down the thick soluble urine? How does
blistering,
so happily brought in by the physical bully of this age, Dr.
Radcliff,
so wonderfully cool and dilute the blood? It seems to me somewhat strange.
The Doctor's opinion, how the cantharides act on the body in blisters.
§. 3. Dr.
Stanvil
replied: It is easily accounted for. The
Spanish fly,
that extremely hot and perfectly caustic insect, is stocked with a subtile, active, and extremely pungent salt, which enters the blood upon the application of the blister, and passes with it through the several glandular strainers and secretory ducts. This stimulating force of the fly's salt, occasions the pain felt in making the water with a blister, (which may be taken off by a thin emulsion made with the pulp of roasted apples in milk and water), and causes the liberal, foul and stinking sweats, while the
Epispastic
is on.
This being evident, it is plain from thence, that the penetrating salts of the
fly,
that is, the volatile pungent parts of the
cantharides,
act in the blood by dissolving, attenuating, and ratifying the viscid cohesions of the lymph and serum; by stimulating the nervous coats of the vessels, throw off their stagnating viscidities, and by cleansing the glands, and forcing out the coagulated serum, restore the circulation and freedom of lymph from the arteries to the veins; opening, scouring and cleansing at the same time, the expurgatory glands.
The wisdom and goodness of God in the production of the Spanish fly, for the benefit of man.
In short, as common cathartics purge the guts and cleanse and throw off their clammy, stagnating, and obstructing contents, by rarifying and dissolving the viscid cohesions of the fluids, and by stimulating the solids; so do the active salts of the
fly
penetrate the whole animal machine, become a glandular lymphatic purge, and perform the same thing in all the small straining conveying pipes, that common purgatives effect in the intestines: and as by this means, all the sluices and outlets of the glandular secretions are opened, the cantharides must be cooling, diluting, and refrigerating in their effects to the greatest degree, tho' so very hot, caustic, and pungent in themselves. So wonderfully has the great
Creator
provided for his
creature, man;
in giving him not only a variety of the most pleating food; but so fine a medicine, (among a thousand others) as the
Spanish fly,
to save him from the
destroying fever,
and restore him to health again. It is not by a
discharge
of
serum,
as too many doctors imagine, that a
blister
relieves, for five times the quantity may be brought off by bleeding, vomiting, or purging; but the benefit is intirely owing to that
heating, attenuating,
and
pungent salt
of this
fly,
(and this fly only), which the
divine power
and
goodness
has made a
lymphatic purgative,
or
glandular cathartic
for the relief of man, in this fatal and tormenting malady. Vast is our obligation to God for all his providential blessings. Great are the wonders that he doth for the children of men.
Dr.
Stanvil
's sudden death, and the cause of it.
§. 4. Here the
Doctor
dropt off his chair, just as he had pronounced the word men, and in a moment became a lifeless sordid body. His death was occasioned by the blowing up of his stomach, as I found upon opening his body, at the request of his lady.—When the blood which is confined within the vessels of the human body, is agitated with a due motion, it maintains life; but if there be a stagnation of it in an artery, it makes an
aneurism;
in a vein, a
varix;
under the skin, a
bruise;
in the nose, it may excite an
haemorrhage;
in the vessels of the brain, an
apoplexy;
in the lungs, an
haemoptoe;
in the cavity of the
thorax,
an
empyema;
and when it perfectly stagnates there, immediate
death.
An animal (observe me Reader) must live so long as this fluid circulates through the conical pipes in his body, from the lesser base in the centre, the heart, to the greater in the extreme parts; and from the capillary evanescent arteries, by the nascent returning veins to the heart again; but when this fluid ceases to flow through the incurved canals, and the velocities are no longer in the inverse duplicate ratio of the inflated pipes, then it dies. The animal has done for ever with
food
and
sex;
the two great principles which move this world, and produce not only so much honest industry, but so many wars and fightings, such cruel oppressions, and that variety of woes we read of in the tragical history of the world. Even one of them does wonders.
Cunnus teterrim
belli causa.
And when united, the force is irresistible.
But as I was saying, when this fluid ceases to flow, the man has done with
lust
and
hunger.
The
pope,
the
warriour,
and the
maid,
are still. The machine is at absolute rest, that is, in perfect
insensibility:
And the soul of it is removed to the
vestibulum
or
porch
of the
highest holy place;
in and
Burnet
of the
Charter-house
), as
needful
to our
contact
with the
material system;
—as it must exist with a
spiritual body
to be sure, (says the Rev. Mr.
Caleb Fleming,
in his Survey of the search after souls), because of its being present with its Saviour, beholding his glory, who is in human form and figure, which requires some similitude in the vehicle, in order to the more easy and familiar society and enjoyment. Or, as the learned
Master
of
Peter-house,
Dr.
Edmund Law,
and Dr.
Sherlock,
Bishop of
London,
informs us, it remains
insensible
for ages, till the
consummation
of all things; — from the dissolution of the body, is
stupid, senseless,
and
dead asleep
till the
resurrection.
Such was the case of my friend, Dr.
Stanvil;
he dropt down dead at once. A rarefaction in his stomach, by the heat and fermentation of what he had taken the night before at supper, destroyed him. That concave viscus, or bowel, which is seated in the abdomen below the diaphragm, I mean the stomach, was inflamed, and as the descending trunk of the
aorta
passes down between it and the spine, that is, between the stomach and back part of the ribs, the inflation and distention of the bowel compressed and constringed the transverse section of the artery
aorta,
in its descending branch, and by lessening it, impeded the descent of the blood from the heart, and obliged it to ascend in a greater quantity than usual to the head. By this means, the parts of the head were distended and stretched with blood, which brought on an apoplexy, and the operation upward being violent, the equilibrium was intirely broken, and the vital tide could flow no more. This I found on opening the body. I likewise observed that, exclusive of the compressure of the descending trunk of the artery
aorta,
the muscular coats of the stomach were stretched, inflated, and distended; and of consequence, the blood-vessels which enter into the constitution of those muscles, were stretched, dilated, and turgid with blood, and therefore the blood could not be driven forward in the course of its circulation with its natural and due velocity, but must prove an obstacle to the descent of the blood from the heart, and oblige almost the whole tide to move upwards. This, and the constringing the
aorta,
at its orifice or transverse section, between the costae and the bowel called the stomach, is enough, I assure you, Reader, to knock up the head of a giant, and put a stop to all the operations of nature. Thus fell this gentleman in the 32d year of his age.
The character of Dr.
Stanvil.
§. 5. Whether the learned Dr.
Edmund Law
N. B.
Dr.
Law
is still
master of Peter-House, Cambridge,
and not only one of the most learned men of the age, but as fine a gentleman and as good a man as lives. His merits, I am sure, as a scholar and a christian, entitled him to the mastership of St.
John
's, on the death of Dr.
Newcomb;
tho' he lost it, as often the best men do in respect of things temporal. But notwithstanding all the fine learning of Dr.
Law,
I think he is mistaken in many of his notions, and especially in his
Notes on Archbishop King's book of Evil;
as I intend to shew in my
Notes
aforementioned: His
Tritheism
likewise requires a few animadversions; which I shall humbly offer with plainness, fairness, and freedom.
, and the great Dr.
Sherlock
bishop of
London
N. B.
Dr.
Sherlock
bishop of
London
died at
Fulham,
after a long and lingering illness, Saturday, July 18, 1761, three months after the great and excellent bishop
Hoadley;
who departed this life at
Chelsea,
April 20, 1761.
Sherlock
and
Hoadley
never agreed; and which of them was right I attempt to shew in my
Notes on Men and Things and Books.
Which will be published as soon as possible. Why I think
Hoadley
's
Sermons
far preferable to
Sherlock
's; (vastly beautiful tho' some
things
are in the discourses of the latter); and that my Lord of
Winchester
's
plain account of the Supper
is a most
rational
and
fine performance;
as
gold
to
earth
in respect of all that has been written against this book:— Why, I say, all
Hoadley
's
Tracts
are
matchless
and
invulnerable,
and that he was
victor
in the
Bangorian controversy,
the Reader will find in many considerations on these subjects in the book called
Notes,
&c. aforementioned.
, be right, in asserting, the human soul
sleeps like a bat or a swallow,
in some cavern for a period, till the last trumpet awakens the
hero
of
Voltaire
and
Henault,
I mean
Lewis
XIV. to answer for his treachery, falshood, and cruelty; or, whether that excellent divine Mr.
Fleming
has declared the truth, in maintaining in his late survey, that the
conscious scheme
was the
doctrine
of
Christ
and his
apostles;
this however is certain, that my friend
Stanvil
is either now present with his Saviour, beholding his glory, in a vehicle resembling the body of our Lord; as the
dissenter
just mentioned teaches;—or if, according to the author of the
Considerations on the state of the world,
(Archdeacon
Law
) and
my Lord
of
London,
in his Sermons, the scriptures take no account of an intermediate state in death, and we shall not awake or be made alive until the day of judgment; then will my friend have eternal life at the resurrection; he was as worthy a man as ever lived; an
upright christian deist,
whose life was one unmixed scene of virtue and charity. He did not believe a tittle of our priestly mysteries, or regard that religion which skulks behind the enormous columns of consecrated opinions; but, as christianity was revealed from heaven, to bring mankind to the worship of the one supreme God and governour of the world, and lead them into the paths of humanity, he rejected the
superstition
of
Monks
and their disciples, and in regard to the voice of
reason,
and the
words
of the
gospel,
adored only the
supreme Being,
manifested his
love
of
God
by
keeping
the
commandments,
and his
love
of his
neighbour,
by
doing all the good in his power.
Such a man was Dr.
John Stanvil.
If men of fortune would form their manners on such a model, virtue by degrees would spread through the inferior world, and we should soon be free from superstition.
§. 6. Having mentioned the
sleeping
and the
conscious
schemes, I would here examine these opinions, and shew why I cannot think, a
dead inconscious silence
is to be our case till the consummation of the ages; as a happiness so remote would weaken I believe the energy and influence of our conceptions and apprehensions, in respect of faith, hope, and expectations. To curb desire, or suffer severely here, for the sake of truth and virtue, and then cease to be, perhaps for ten thousand years to come, or much longer; (for there is not any thing in revelation, or an appearance out of it, that can incline a rational man to think he is near the day of judgment or general resurrection); this seems to be an obstacle in the progress of the
pilgrim:
And therefore, why I rather think, we step immediately from the
dark experiences
of this
first state,
to a
blissful consciousness
in the regions of day, and by death are fixed in an eternal connexion with the wise, the virtuous, and the holy:—This, I say, I would in the next place proceed to treat of, by considering what the scriptures reveal in relation to death, and what is most probable in reason; but that it is necessary to proceed in my story.
Mrs.
Stanvil
's behaviour on the death of her husband.
§. 7. When the beautiful Mrs.
Stanvil
saw her husband was really dead, and had paid that decent tribute of tears to his memory, which was due to a man, who left her in his will all his estates, real and personal, to be by her disposed of as she pleased; she sent for me to her chamber the next morning, and after a long conversation with her, told me, she could now own who she was, and instead of acting any longer by the directions of her head, let me know from her heart, that she had still the same regard for me, as when we travelled away together from her father's house in the West, to the North of England: And if I would stay at
Bassora
where I was, but for three months she must be away, she would then return, and her fortune and hand I might command. This I readily consented to, and when the funeral was over she departed. For the time agreed on, I continued in the house, and to a day she was punctual in her return. We were married the week after, and I was even happier than I had ever been before; which must amount to a felicity inconceivably great indeed. Six months we resided at her seat, and then thought it best to pay a visit to my father in
Ireland.
We arrived at
Bagatrogh Castle
in the western extremity of that island, in the spring of the year 1735, and were most kindly received.
My father longed to see me, and was very greatly rejoiced at my coming; but I found him in a dying way, paralytic all over, and scarcely able to speak. To my amazement, he was become as strict a
unitarian
as myself, and talked with abhorrence of
Athanasian
religion. This was owing, he said, to my
MS. Remarks
I left with him on
Lord Nottingham's Answer to Mr. Whiston's Letter to his Lordship;
which
MS.
of mine he had often read over when I was gone, and thereby was thoroughly convinced, on considering my reasoning, that christians are expresly commanded, upon pain of God's displeasure, to worship one supreme God, and him only, in the name and through the mediation of Jesus Christ. Upon this religious practice as a fundamental rule he had at last fixed. He saw it was the safe way, and would never depart from it. He told me, the parson of his parish, a right orthodox divine, who had been his chum in the university, and very intimate with him, was greatly troubled at this change in his sentiments, and said many severe things; but he no more minded the
Athanasians
now, than he did the
idolatrous papists.
This gave me great pleasure, and recompensed me for what I had suffered on a religious account. I gave thanks to God that truth through my means had prevailed.
The Reader will find these
Remarks
of mine, on
Lord Nottingham's Letter to Mr. Whiston,
in my
Notes
relating to men, things, and books. Which will be published as soon as possible.
THE CONCLUSION.
AND now, my candid Reader, to take my leave of you at this time, I have only to observe, that as this volume is full large, I cannot add my intended XVth section, but only say in a short summary, that soon after my arrival at
Bagatrogh Castle,
my father's seat on
Mall-Bay,
on the coast of
Galway
in
Ireland,
the old gentleman died, and as in a passion, he had irrevocably settled the greatest part of his large estate on a near relation of mine, and had it not in his power to leave me more than a hundred a year, a little ready money, and a small ship, which lay before his door in the Bay, he descended to the grave in great trouble, with many tears. Like old
Isaac
over
Esau,
he wept bitterly, and wished in vain, that it was in his power to undo what he had done.
As soon as my father was buried, I returned to
England
with my wife, in the little vessel, now my own, which lay in the Bay, and immediately after landing, and laying up my ship in a safe place, we went to
Bassora
again, there lived for one year as happy as two mortals could be; but in the beginning of the year 1736; she died of the small pox, and to divert my mind, it came into my head to go to sea, and make some voyages in my own little ship, which was an excellent one for strength and sailing, tho' but a sloop of twenty-five tons. I went captain myself, and had an ingenious young gentleman, one
Jackman,
for my mate, who had been in the
East Indies
several times, six good hands, and two cabbin-boys. Every thing necessary, convenient, and fit, books, mathematical instruments,
&c.
we took on board, and weighed anchor the 5th of
July,
1736.
We went on shore at the
Canary Islands,
the
Cape de Verd Islands,
and other places. We passed the Sun in 15 degrees North latitude, and from that time standing South; crossed the
Line;
the heats intolerable, and the musquitoes and bugs insufferable. We soon lost sight of the
Northern
star, and had the
Crosiers
and
Magellan
clouds in view. In three months time we anchored at
St. Catharine
's on the coast of
Brazil.
The 2d of
December
we saw the
Streights la Maine,
that run betwixt
Terra del fuego
and
Staten,
and is the boundary between the
Atlantic
and
Pacific
oceans; but instead of venturing into them, and hazarding our lives among the impetuous blasts and waves which sweep round
Cape Horn,
(as Admiral
Anson
did the 7th of
March
1741, two months too late, by the fault of the ministry, in his way to the
South Seas
), we kept out at sea to the East of
Staten-land,
and ran to the latitude 64, before we stood to the Westward. The weather was fine, as it was then the height of summer, to wit, in
December
and
January.
All the occurrences in this course, the discovery we made in the latitude above-mentioned of an
inhabited island,
governed by a young Queen, and what appeared and happened there, and in our run from thence to
Borneo
and
Asia,
round the globe; and from
China
to
Europe,
on our return home; with the events we afterwards met with, and the observations I made in other places, the Reader will find in a book called,
The Voyages and Travels of Dr. Lorimer.
Nine years of my life was spent in travelling and sailing about, and at last I returned to rest and reflect, and in rational amusements pass the remainder of my time away. I retired to a little flowery retreat I had purchased within a few miles of
London,
that I might easily know what was doing in this hemisphere, while I belong to it; and in the midst of groves and streams, fields and lawns, have lived as happily ever since, as a mortal can do on this
Planet.
Dr.
Cheyne
(by the way I observe,) calls it a
ruined Planet,
in his wild posthumous book;
It is a question with some, if this book was not written by the Doctor's
visionary
daughter, or by her and the Rev.
Athanasian bigot,
her brother. But as I knew the Doctor after he was a little crack'd with imaginary religion, and have heard him talk as in this book, I am positive it is his.
(a notion he had from his master,
enthusiastic Law
),
N. B.
The Rev.
Nonjuror,
Mr.
William Law,
the
father
of our
Methodists,
and the
disciple
of
Jacob Behmen
the
theosopher,
died at
King
's
Cliff
near
Nottingham,
April 13, 1761, seven days before bishop
Hoadley;
against whom he was a bitter writer in the
Bangorian controversy.
— I knew this
famous visionary
very well, and shall remark largely on his writings in my
Notes relating to Men and Things and Books.
Law
was the most amazing compound I have ever seen. He was a
man of sense,
a
fine writer,
and a
fine gentleman;
and yet the
wildest enthusiast
that ever appeared among men. His temper was charming, sweet, and delightful; and his manners quite primitive and uncommonly pious: He was all charity and goodness, and so soft and gentle in conversation, that I have thought myself in company with one of the men of the first church at
Jerusalem
while with him. He had likewise the justest notions of
christian temper
and
practice,
and recommended them in so insinuating a manner, that even a rake would hear him with pleasure. I have not seen any like him among the sons of men in these particulars. It was wrong to put him in the
Dunciad,
and call him
one Law,
as
Pope
does. He was really a very extraordinary man; and to his honour be it remembred, that he had the great concern of human life at heart, took a deal of pains in the pulpit, and from the press, (witness his two fine books on a devout life,) to make men fear God and keep his commandments. He was a good man indeed.
But what strange books did he write! His
Appeal to the Deists
— His
Spirit of Prayer and Love
— His
earnest and serious Answer to Trapp
— His
Notes and Illustrations on Behmen
— His
Replies to Hoadley;
and, what is stranger still, his
abuse
of bishop
Hoadley,
in his
Appeal
I have mentioned.
Here, had I room, I would relate a very curious conversation that passed between Dr.
Theophilus Bolton,
archbishop of
Cashell
in
Ireland,
(a most excellent, most sensible, and most learned man,) and me, (at the third night's sale of archbishop
King
's library in
Dublin,
) in relation to Mr.
Law.
It happened on his Lordship's buying
Jacob Behmen
's
Works
for a pound, and then asking me, who stood by him, if I had read them, and could enable him to understand them? But this I must place in my
Notes
aforementioned.
but from what I have seen on three continents, and in traversing the ocean round the globe, from West to East, and from the Southern latitude 64, to 66 North; a
Planet
in reality so
divinely made
and
perfect,
that one can never sufficiently adore and praise an
infinitely wise God
for such a piece of his
handy work:
— A
world
so
wisely contrived,
so
accurately made,
as to
demonstrate
the
Creator
's
being and attributes,
and cause every rational mortal to acknowledge that
Jehovah
is our
God,
and
fear
and
obey
so
great
and
tremendous a Being
— the
power
and
glory of our God.
But as I was saying, after my return, I bought a little spot and country-house, where I might rest from my labours, and easily know what is doing in this hemisphere: — how gloriously our most gracious and excellent king endeavours to advance the felicity of his people, and promote the honour and dignity of
Great Britain:
— how indefatigable the present ministry is in pursuing such measures, as demonstrate they have the interest of their country at heart; as evince how well they supply the deficiencies of their predecessors in office: — and how zealously the combined wisdom of the whole legislature acts for the preservation of the Britannic constitution, and the liberties and properties of the people; that the ends of the late war may be answered, and the peace at last give universal satisfaction.
To hear such news; and know what
France
and
Spain
are doing; — and what the renowned
Anti-Sejanus
is writing; (
Anti-Sejanus
who deserves the curse and hatred of the whole community
As an abetter of arbitrary power, and for attempting to raise the prerogative.
) I purchased a retirement near the capital; a spot surrounded with woods and streams, plants and flowers; and over which a silence hovers, that gives a relish to still life, and renders it a contrast to the busy, bustling, envious crowds of men.
Here I sat down at last, and have done with hopes and fears for ever.
"Here grant me, heav'n, to end my peaceful days,
And pass what's left of life in studious ease;
Here court the muses, whilst the sun on high,
Flames in the vault of heav'n, and fires the sky;
Soon as Aurora from her golden bow'rs,
Exhales the fragrance of the balmy flow'rs,
Reclin'd in silence on a mossy bed,
Consult the learned volumes of the dead;
Fall'n realms and empires in description view,
Live o'er past times, and build whole worlds anew;
Oft from the bursting tombs, in fancy raise
The sons of Fame, who liv'd in antient days;
Oft listen till the raptur'd soul takes wings,
While
Plato
reasons, or while
Homer
sings.
Or when the night's dark wings this globe surround,
And the pale moon begins her solemn round;
When night has drawn her curtains o'er the plain,
And silence reassumes her awful reign;
Bid my free soul to starry orbs repair,
Those radiant orbs that float in ambient air,
And with a regular confusion stray,
Oblique, direct, along the aerial way:
Fountains of day! stupendous orbs of light!
Which by their distance lessen to the sight:
And if the
glass
you use, t'improve your eyes,
Millions beyond the former millions rise.
For no end were they made? Or, but to blaze
Through empty space, and useless spend their rays?
Or ought we not with reason to reply,
Each lucid point which glows in yonder sky,
Informs a system in the boundless space,
And fills with glory its appointed place:
With beams, unborrow'd, brightens other skies,
And worlds, to thee unknown, with heat and life supplies.
But chiefly, O my soul, apply to loftier themes,
The opening heav'ns, and angels rob'd with flames:
Read in the
sacred leaves
how time began,
And the dust mov'd, and quicken'd into man;
Here through the flow'ry walks of
Eden
rove,
Court the soft breeze, or range the spicy grove;
There tread on hallow'd ground where angels trod,
And rev'rend patriarchs talk'd as friends with God;
Or hear the voice to slumb'ring prophets giv'n,
Or gaze on visions from the throne of heav'n.
Thus lonely, thoughtful may I run the race
Of transient life, in no unuseful ease:
Enjoy each hour, nor as it fleets away,
Think life too short, and yet too long the day;
Of right observant, while my soul attends
Each duty, and makes heav'n and angels friends:
Can welcome death with
Faith
's expecting eye,
And mind no pangs, since
Hope
stands smiling by;
Nor studious how to make a longer stay,
Views heav'nly plains and realms of brighter day;
Shakes off her load, and wing'd with ardent love,
Spurns at the earth, and springs her flight above,
Soaring thro' air to realms where angels dwell,
Pities the shrieking friends, and leaves the lessning bell."
THE END.