2648 lines
141 KiB
Plaintext
2648 lines
141 KiB
Plaintext
BOSTON AND LONDON
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by Benjamin Franklin
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1722-1726
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_Silence Dogood, No. 1_
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_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
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_Sir,_
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It may not be improper in the first Place to inform your
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Readers, that I intend once a Fortnight to present them, by the Help
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of this Paper, with a short Epistle, which I presume will add
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somewhat to their Entertainment.
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And since it is observed, that the Generality of People, now a
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days, are unwilling either to commend or dispraise what they read,
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until they are in some measure informed who or what the Author of it
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is, whether he be _poor_ or _rich_, _old_ or _young_, a _Schollar_ or
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a _Leather Apron Man_, &c. and give their Opinion of the Performance,
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according to the Knowledge which they have of the Author's
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Circumstances, it may not be amiss to begin with a short Account of
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my past Life and present Condition, that the Reader may not be at a
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Loss to judge whether or no my Lucubrations are worth his reading.
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At the time of my Birth, my Parents were on Ship-board in their
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Way from _London_ to _N. England._ My Entrance into this troublesome
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World was attended with the Death of my Father, a Misfortune, which
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tho' I was not then capable of knowing, I shall never be able to
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forget; for as he, poor Man, stood upon the Deck rejoycing at my
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Birth, a merciless Wave entred the Ship, and in one Moment carry'd
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him beyond Reprieve. Thus was the _first Day_ which I saw, the
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_last_ that was seen by my Father; and thus was my disconsolate
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Mother at once made both a _Parent_ and a _Widow._
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When we arrived at _Boston_ (which was not long after) I was
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put to Nurse in a Country Place, at a small Distance from the Town,
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where I went to School, and past my Infancy and Childhood in Vanity
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and Idleness, until I was bound out Apprentice, that I might no
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longer be a Charge to my Indigent Mother, who was put to hard Shifts
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for a Living.
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My Master was a Country Minister, a pious good-natur'd young
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Man, & a Batchelor: He labour'd with all his Might to instil vertuous
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and godly Principles into my tender Soul, well knowing that it was
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the most suitable Time to make deep and lasting Impressions on the
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Mind, while it was yet untainted with Vice, free and unbiass'd. He
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endeavour'd that I might be instructed in all that Knowledge and
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Learning which is necessary for our Sex, and deny'd me no
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Accomplishment that could possibly be attained in a Country Place;
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such as all Sorts of Needle-Work, Writing, Arithmetick, &c. and
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observing that I took a more than ordinary Delight in reading
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ingenious Books, he gave me the free Use of his Library, which tho'
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it was but small, yet it was well chose, to inform the Understanding
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rightly, and enable the Mind to frame great and noble Ideas.
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Before I had liv'd quite two Years with this Reverend
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Gentleman, my indulgent Mother departed this Life, leaving me as it
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were by my self, having no Relation on Earth within my Knowledge.
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I will not abuse your Patience with a tedious Recital of all
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the frivolous Accidents of my Life, that happened from this Time
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until I arrived to Years of Discretion, only inform you that I liv'd
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a chearful Country Life, spending my leisure Time either in some
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innocent Diversion with the neighbouring Females, or in some shady
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Retirement, with the best of Company, _Books._ Thus I past away the
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Time with a Mixture of Profit and Pleasure, having no Affliction but
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what was imaginary, and created in my own Fancy; as nothing is more
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common with us Women, than to be grieving for nothing, when we have
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nothing else to grieve for.
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As I would not engross too much of your Paper at once, I will
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defer the Remainder of my Story until my next Letter; in the mean
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time desiring your Readers to exercise their Patience, and bear with
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my Humours now and then, because I shall trouble them but seldom. I
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am not insensible of the Impossibility of pleasing all, but I would
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not willingly displease any; and for those who will take Offence
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where none is intended, they are beneath the Notice of
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_Your Humble Servant,_
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SILENCE DOGOOD.
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_The New-England Courant_, April 2, 1722
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_Silence Dogood, No. 2_
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_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
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_SIR,_
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Histories of Lives are seldom entertaining, unless they contain
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something either admirable or exemplar: And since there is little or
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nothing of this Nature in my own Adventures, I will not tire your
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Readers with tedious Particulars of no Consequence, but will briefly,
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and in as few Words as possible, relate the most material Occurrences
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of my Life, and according to my Promise, confine all to this Letter.
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My Reverend Master who had hitherto remained a Batchelor,
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(after much Meditation on the Eighteenth verse of the Second Chapter
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of _Genesis_,) took up a Resolution to marry; and having made several
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unsuccessful fruitless Attempts on the more topping Sort of our Sex,
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and being tir'd with making troublesome Journeys and Visits to no
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Purpose, he began unexpectedly to cast a loving Eye upon Me, whom he
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had brought up cleverly to his Hand.
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There is certainly scarce any Part of a Man's Life in which he
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appears more silly and ridiculous, than when he makes his first Onset
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in Courtship. The aukward Manner in which my Master first discover'd
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his Intentions, made me, in spite of my Reverence to his Person,
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burst out into an unmannerly Laughter: However, having ask'd his
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Pardon, and with much ado compos'd my Countenance, I promis'd him I
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would take his Proposal into serious Consideration, and speedily give
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him an Answer.
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As he had been a great Benefactor (and in a Manner a Father to
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me) I could not well deny his Request, when I once perceived he was
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in earnest. Whether it was Love, or Gratitude, or Pride, or all
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Three that made me consent, I know not; but it is certain, he found
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it no hard Matter, by the Help of his Rhetorick, to conquer my Heart,
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and perswade me to marry him.
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This unexpected Match was very astonishing to all the Country
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round about, and served to furnish them with Discourse for a long
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Time after; some approving it, others disliking it, as they were led
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by their various Fancies and Inclinations.
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We lived happily together in the Heighth of conjugal Love and
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mutual Endearments, for near Seven Years, in which Time we added Two
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likely Girls and a Boy to the Family of the _Dogoods_: But alas!
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When my Sun was in its meridian Altitude, inexorable unrelenting
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Death, as if he had envy'd my Happiness and Tranquility, and resolv'd
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to make me entirely miserable by the Loss of so good an Husband,
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hastened his Flight to the Heavenly World, by a sudden unexpected
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Departure from this.
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I have now remained in a State of Widowhood for several Years,
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but it is a State I never much admir'd, and I am apt to fancy that I
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could be easily perswaded to marry again, provided I was sure of a
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good-humour'd, sober, agreeable Companion: But one, even with these
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few good Qualities, being hard to find, I have lately relinquish'd
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all Thoughts of that Nature.
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At present I pass away my leisure Hours in Conversation, either
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with my honest Neighbour _Rusticus_ and his Family, or with the
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ingenious Minister of our Town, who now lodges at my House, and by
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whose Assistance I intend now and then to beautify my Writings with a
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Sentence or two in the learned Languages, which will not only be
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fashionable, and pleasing to those who do not understand it, but will
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likewise be very ornamental.
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I shall conclude this with my own Character, which (one would
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think) I should be best able to give. _Know then_, That I am an
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Enemy to Vice, and a Friend to Vertue. I am one of an extensive
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Charity, and a great Forgiver of _private_ Injuries: A hearty Lover
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of the Clergy and all good Men, and a mortal Enemy to arbitrary
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Government & unlimited Power. I am naturally very jealous for the
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Rights and Liberties of my Country; & the least appearance of an
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Incroachment on those invaluable Priviledges, is apt to make my Blood
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boil exceedingly. I have likewise a natural Inclination to observe
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and reprove the Faults of others, at which I have an excellent
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Faculty. I speak this by Way of Warning to all such whose Offences
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shall come under my Cognizance, for I never intend to wrap my Talent
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in a Napkin. To be brief; I am courteous and affable, good-humour'd
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(unless I am first provok'd,) and handsome, and sometimes witty, but
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always,
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_SIR_,
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_Your Friend, and Humble Servant,_
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SILENCE DOGOOD.
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_The New-England Courant_, April 16, 1722
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_Silence Dogood, No. 3_
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_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
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_SIR,_
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It is undoubtedly the Duty of all Persons to serve the Country
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they live in, according to their Abilities; yet I sincerely
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acknowledge, that I have hitherto been very deficient in this
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Particular; whether it was for want of Will or Opportunity, I will
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not at present stand to determine: Let it suffice, that I now take up
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a Resolution, to do for the future all that _lies in my Way_ for the
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Service of my Countrymen.
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I have from my Youth been indefatigably studious to gain and
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treasure up in my Mind all useful and desireable Knowledge,
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especially such as tends to improve the Mind, and enlarge the
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Understanding: And as I have found it very beneficial to me, I am not
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without Hopes, that communicating my small Stock in this Manner, by
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Peace-meal to the Publick, may be at least in some Measure useful.
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I am very sensible that it is impossible for me, or indeed any
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_one_ Writer to please _all_ Readers at once. Various Persons have
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different Sentiments; and that which is pleasant and delightful to
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one, gives another a Disgust. He that would (in this Way of Writing)
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please all, is under a Necessity to make his Themes almost as
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numerous as his Letters. He must one while be merry and diverting,
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then more solid and serious; one while sharp and satyrical, then (to
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mollify that) be sober and religious; at one Time let the Subject be
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Politicks, then let the next Theme be Love: Thus will every one, one
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Time or other find some thing agreeable to his own Fancy, and in his
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Turn be delighted.
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According to this Method I intend to proceed, bestowing now and
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then a few gentle Reproofs on those who deserve them, not forgetting
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at the same time to applaud those whose Actions merit Commendation.
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And here I must not forget to invite the ingenious Part of your
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Readers, particularly those of my own Sex to enter into a
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Correspondence with me, assuring them, that their Condescension in
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this Particular shall be received as a Favour, and accordingly
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acknowledged.
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I think I have now finish'd the Foundation, and I intend in my
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next to begin to raise the Building. Having nothing more to write at
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present, I must make the usual excuse in such Cases, of _being in
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haste_, assuring you that I speak from my Heart when I call my self,
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The most humble and obedient of all the Servants your Merits have
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acquir'd,
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SILENCE DOGOOD.
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_The New-England Courant_, April 30, 1722
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_Silence Dogood, No. 4_
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_An sum etiam nunc vel Graece loqui vel Latine docendus?_ Cicero.
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_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
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_SIR,_
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Discoursing the other Day at Dinner with my Reverend Boarder,
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formerly mention'd, (whom for Distinction sake we will call by the
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Name of _Clericus_,) concerning the Education of Children, I ask'd
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his Advice about my young Son _William_, whether or no I had best
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bestow upon him Academical Learning, or (as our Phrase is) _bring him
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up at our College_: He perswaded me to do it by all Means, using many
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weighty Arguments with me, and answering all the Objections that I
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could form against it; telling me withal, that he did not doubt but
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that the Lad would take his Learning very well, and not idle away his
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Time as too many there now-a-days do. These Words of _Clericus_ gave
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me a Curiosity to inquire a little more strictly into the present
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Circumstances of that famous Seminary of Learning; but the
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Information which he gave me, was neither pleasant, nor such as I
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expected.
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As soon as Dinner was over, I took a solitary Walk into
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myOrchard, still ruminating on _Clericus_'s Discourse with much
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Consideration, until I came to my usual Place of Retirement under the
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_Great Apple-Tree_; where having seated my self, and carelesly laid
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my Head on a verdant Bank, I fell by Degrees into a soft and
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undisturbed Slumber. My waking Thoughts remained with me in my
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Sleep, and before I awak'd again, I dreamt the following DREAM.
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I fancy'd I was travelling over pleasant and delightful Fields
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and Meadows, and thro' many small Country Towns and Villages; and as
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I pass'd along, all Places resounded with the Fame of the Temple of
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LEARNING: Every Peasant, who had wherewithal, was preparing to send
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one of his Children at least to this famous Place; and in this Case
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most of them consulted their own Purses instead of their Childrens
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Capacities: So that I observed, a great many, yea, the most part of
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those who were travelling thither, were little better than Dunces and
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Blockheads. Alas! alas!
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At length I entred upon a spacious Plain, in the Midst of which
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was erected a large and stately Edifice: It was to this that a great
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Company of Youths from all Parts of the Country were going; so
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stepping in among the Crowd, I passed on with them, and presently
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arrived at the Gate.
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The Passage was kept by two sturdy Porters named _Riches_ and
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_Poverty_, and the latter obstinately refused to give Entrance to any
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who had not first gain'd the Favour of the former; so that I
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observed, many who came even to the very Gate, were obliged to travel
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back again as ignorant as they came, for want of this necessary
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Qualification. However, as a Spectator I gain'd Admittance, and with
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the rest entred directly into the Temple.
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In the Middle of the great Hall stood a stately and magnificent
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Throne, which was ascended to by two high and difficult Steps. On
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the Top of it sat LEARNING in awful State; she was apparelled wholly
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in Black, and surrounded almost on every Side with innumerable
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Volumes in all Languages. She seem'd very busily employ'd in writing
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something on half a Sheet of Paper, and upon Enquiry, I understood
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she was preparing a Paper, call'd, _The New-England Courant._ On her
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Right Hand sat _English_, with a pleasant smiling Countenance, and
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handsomely attir'd; and on her left were seated several _Antique
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Figures_ with their Faces vail'd. I was considerably puzzl'd to
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guess who they were, until one informed me, (who stood beside me,)
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that those Figures on her left Hand were _Latin_, _Greek_, _Hebrew_,
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&c. and that they were very much reserv'd, and seldom or never
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unvail'd their Faces here, and then to few or none, tho' most of
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those who have in this Place acquir'd so much Learning as to
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distinguish them from _English_, pretended to an intimate
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Acquaintance with them. I then enquir'd of him, what could be the
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Reason why they continued vail'd, in this Place especially: He
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pointed to the Foot of the Throne, where I saw _Idleness_, attended
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with _Ignorance_, and these (he informed me) were they, who first
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vail'd them, and still kept them so.
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Now I observed, that the whole Tribe who entred into the Temple
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with me, began to climb the Throne; but the Work proving troublesome
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and difficult to most of them, they withdrew their Hands from the
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Plow, and contented themselves to sit at the Foot, with Madam
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_Idleness_ and her Maid _Ignorance_, until those who were assisted by
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Diligence and a docible Temper, had well nigh got up the first Step:
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But the Time drawing nigh in which they could no way avoid ascending,
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they were fain to crave the Assistance of those who had got up before
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them, and who, for the Reward perhaps of a _Pint of Milk_, or a
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_Piece of Plumb-Cake_, lent the Lubbers a helping Hand, and sat them
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in the Eye of the World, upon a Level with themselves.
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The other Step being in the same Manner ascended, and the usual
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Ceremonies at an End, every Beetle-Scull seem'd well satisfy'd with
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his own Portion of Learning, tho' perhaps he was _e'en just_ as
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ignorant as ever. And now the Time of their Departure being come,
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they march'd out of Doors to make Room for another Company, who
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waited for Entrance: And I, having seen all that was to be seen,
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quitted the Hall likewise, and went to make my Observations on those
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who were just gone out before me.
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Some I perceiv'd took to Merchandizing, others to Travelling,
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some to one Thing, some to another, and some to Nothing; and many of
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them from henceforth, for want of Patrimony, liv'd as poor as Church
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Mice, being unable to dig, ~and asham'd to beg, and to live by their
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Wits it was impossible. But the most Part of the Crowd went along a
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large beaten Path, which led to a Temple at the further End of the
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Plain, call'd, _The Temple of Theology._ The Business of those who
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were employ'd in this Temple being laborious and painful, I wonder'd
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exceedingly to see so many go towards it; but while I was pondering
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this Matter in my Mind, I spy'd _Pecunia_ behind a Curtain, beckoning
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to them with her Hand, which Sight immediately satisfy'd me for whose
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Sake it was, that a great Part of them (I will not say all) travel'd
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that Road. In this Temple I saw nothing worth mentioning, except the
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ambitious and fraudulent Contrivances of _Plagius_, who
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(notwithstanding he had been severely reprehended for such Practices
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before) was diligently transcribing some eloquent Paragraphs out of
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_Tillotson_'s Works, _&c._ to embellish his own.
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Now I bethought my self in my Sleep, that it was Time to be at
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Home, and as I fancy'd I was travelling back thither, I reflected in
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my Mind on the extream Folly of those Parents, who, blind to their
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Childrens Dulness, and insensible of the Solidity of their Skulls,
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because they think their Purses can afford it, will needs send them
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to the Temple of Learning, where, for want of a suitable Genius, they
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learn little more than how to carry themselves handsomely, and enter
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a Room genteely, (which might as well be acquir'd at a
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Dancing-School,) and from whence they return, after Abundance of
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Trouble and Charge, as great Blockheads as ever, only more proud and
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self-conceited.
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While I was in the midst of these unpleasant Reflections,
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_Clericus_ (who with a Book in his Hand was walking under the Trees)
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accidentally awak'd me; to him I related my Dream with all its
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Particulars, and he, without much Study, presently interpreted it,
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assuring me, _That it was a lively Representation of_ HARVARD
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COLLEGE, _Etcetera_.
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_I remain, Sir,_
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_Your Humble Servant,_
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SILENCE DOGOOD.
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_The New-England Courant_, May 14, 1722
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_Silence Dogood, No. 5_
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_Mulier Mulieri magis congruet._ Ter.
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_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
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_Sir,_
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I shall here present your Readers with a Letter from one, who
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informs me that I have begun at the wrong End of my Business, and
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that I ought to begin at Home, and censure the Vices and Follies of
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my own Sex, before I venture to meddle with your's: Nevertheless, I
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am resolved to dedicate this Speculation to the Fair Tribe, and
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endeavour to show, that Mr. _Ephraim_ charges Women with being
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particularly guilty of Pride, Idleness, _&c._ wrongfully, inasmuch as
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the Men have not only as great a Share in those Vices as the Women,
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but are likewise in a great Measure the Cause of that which the Women
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are guilty of. I think it will be best to produce my Antagonist,
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before I encounter him.
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_To Mrs._ DOGOOD.
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`_Madam,_
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`My Design in troubling you with this Letter is, to desire you
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would begin with your own Sex first: Let the first Volley of your
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Resentments be directed against _Female_ Vice; let Female Idleness,
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Ignorance and Folly, (which are Vices more peculiar to your Sex than
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to our's,) be the Subject of your Satyrs, but more especially Female
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Pride, which I think is intollerable. Here is a large Field that
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wants Cultivation, and which I believe you are able (if willing) to
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improve with Advantage; and when you have once reformed the Women,
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you will find it a much easier Task to reform the Men, because Women
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are the prime Causes of a great many Male Enormities. This is all at
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present from
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_Your Friendly Wellwisher,_
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Ephraim Censorious.'
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After Thanks to my Correspondent for his Kindness in cutting
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out Work for me, I must assure him, that I find it a very difficult
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Matter to reprove Women separate from the Men; for what Vice is there
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in which the Men have not as great a Share as the Women? and in some
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have they not a far greater, as in Drunkenness, Swearing, _&c._? And
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if they have, then it follows, that when a Vice is to be reproved,
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Men, who are most culpable, deserve the most Reprehension, and
|
|
certainly therefore, ought to have it. But we will wave this Point
|
|
at present, and proceed to a particular Consideration of what my
|
|
Correspondent calls _Female Vice._
|
|
|
|
As for Idleness, if I should Quaere, Where are the greatest
|
|
Number of its Votaries to be found, with us or the Men? it might I
|
|
believe be easily and truly answer'd, _With the latter._ For
|
|
notwithstanding the Men are commonly complaining how hard they are
|
|
forc'd to labour, only to maintain their Wives in Pomp and Idleness,
|
|
yet if you go among the Women, you will learn, that _they have always
|
|
more Work upon their Hands than they are able to do_, and that _a
|
|
Woman's Work is never done_, &c. But however, Suppose we should
|
|
grant for once, that we are generally more idle than the Men,
|
|
(without making any Allowance for the _Weakness of the Sex_,) I
|
|
desire to know whose Fault it is? Are not the Men to blame for their
|
|
Folly in maintaining us in Idleness? Who is there that can be
|
|
handsomely supported in Affluence, Ease and Pleasure by another, that
|
|
will chuse rather to earn his Bread by the Sweat of his own Brows?
|
|
And if a Man will be so fond and so foolish, as to labour hard
|
|
himself for a Livelihood, and suffer his Wife in the mean Time to sit
|
|
in Ease and Idleness, let him not blame her if she does so, for it is
|
|
in a great Measure his own Fault.
|
|
|
|
And now for the Ignorance and Folly which he reproaches us
|
|
with, let us see (if we are Fools and Ignoramus's) whose is the
|
|
Fault, the Men's or our's. An ingenious Writer, having this Subject
|
|
in Hand, has the following Words, wherein he lays the Fault wholly on
|
|
the Men, for not allowing Women the Advantages of Education.
|
|
|
|
"I have (says he) often thought of it as one of the most
|
|
barbarous Customs in the World, considering us as a civiliz'd and
|
|
Christian Country, that we deny the Advantages of Learning to Women.
|
|
We reproach the Sex every Day with Folly and Impertinence, while I am
|
|
confident, had they the Advantages of Education equal to us, they
|
|
would be guilty of less than our selves. One would wonder indeed how
|
|
it should happen that Women are conversible at all, since they are
|
|
only beholding to natural Parts for all their Knowledge. Their Youth
|
|
is spent to teach them to stitch and sow, or make Baubles: They are
|
|
taught to read indeed, and perhaps to write their Names, or so; and
|
|
that is the Heigth of a Womans Education. And I would but ask any
|
|
who slight the Sex for their Understanding, What is a Man (a
|
|
Gentleman, I mean) good for that is taught no more? If Knowlege and
|
|
Understanding had been useless Additions to the Sex, God Almighty
|
|
would never have given them Capacities, for he made nothing Needless.
|
|
What has the Woman done to forfeit the Priviledge of being taught?
|
|
Does she plague us with her Pride and Impertinence? Why did we not
|
|
let her learn, that she might have had more Wit? Shall we upbraid
|
|
Women with Folly, when 'tis only the Error of this inhumane Custom
|
|
that hindred them being made wiser."
|
|
|
|
So much for Female Ignorance and Folly; and now let us a little
|
|
consider the Pride which my Correspondent thinks is _intollerable._
|
|
By this Expression of his, one would think he is some dejected Swain,
|
|
tyranniz'd over by some cruel haughty Nymph, who (perhaps he thinks)
|
|
has no more Reason to be proud than himself. _Alas-a-day!_ What
|
|
shall we say in this Case! Why truly, if Women are proud, it is
|
|
certainly owing to the Men still; for if they will be such
|
|
_Simpletons_ as to humble themselves at their Feet, and fill their
|
|
credulous Ears with extravagant Praises of their Wit, Beauty, and
|
|
other Accomplishments (perhaps where there are none too,) and when
|
|
Women are by this Means perswaded that they are Something more than
|
|
humane, what Wonder is it, if they carry themselves haughtily, and
|
|
live extravagantly. Notwithstanding, I believe there are more
|
|
Instances of extravagant Pride to be found among Men than among
|
|
Women, and this Fault is certainly more hainous in the former than in
|
|
the latter.
|
|
|
|
Upon the whole, I conclude, that it will be impossible to lash
|
|
any Vice, of which the Men are not equally guilty with the Women, and
|
|
consequently deserve an equal (if not a greater) Share in the
|
|
Censure. However, I exhort both to amend, where both are culpable,
|
|
otherwise they may expect to be severely handled by
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
N. B. _Mrs._ Dogood _has lately left her Seat in the Country, and
|
|
come to_ Boston, _where she intends to tarry for the Summer Season,
|
|
in order to compleat her Observations of the present reigning Vices
|
|
of the Town._
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, May 28, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 6_
|
|
|
|
_Quem Dies videt veniens Superbum,
|
|
Hunc Dies vidit fugiens jacentem._
|
|
Seneca.
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
Among the many reigning Vices of the Town which may at any Time
|
|
come under my Consideration and Reprehension, there is none which I
|
|
am more inclin'd to expose than that of _Pride._ It is acknowledg'd
|
|
by all to be a Vice the most hateful to God and Man. Even those who
|
|
nourish it in themselves, hate to see it in others. The proud Man
|
|
aspires after Nothing less than an unlimited Superiority over his
|
|
Fellow-Creatures. He has made himself a King in _Soliloquy_; fancies
|
|
himself conquering the World; and the Inhabitants thereof consulting
|
|
on proper Methods to acknowledge his Merit. I speak it to my Shame,
|
|
I my self was a Queen from the Fourteenth to the Eighteenth Year of
|
|
my Age, and govern'd the World all the Time of my being govern'd by
|
|
my Master. But this speculative Pride may be the Subject of another
|
|
Letter: I shall at present confine my Thoughts to what we call _Pride
|
|
of Apparel._ This Sort of Pride has been growing upon us ever since
|
|
we parted with our Homespun Cloaths for _Fourteen Penny Stuffs_, &c.
|
|
And the _Pride of Apparel_ has begot and nourish'd in us a _Pride of
|
|
Heart_, which portends the Ruin of Church and State. _Pride goeth
|
|
before Destruction, and a haughty Spirit before a Fall_: And I
|
|
remember my late Reverend Husband would often say upon this Text,
|
|
That a Fall was the _natural Consequence_, as well as _Punishment_ of
|
|
Pride. Daily Experience is sufficient to evince the Truth of this
|
|
Observation. Persons of small Fortune under the Dominion of this
|
|
Vice, seldom consider their Inability to maintain themselves in it,
|
|
but strive to imitate their Superiors in Estate, or Equals in Folly,
|
|
until one Misfortune comes upon the Neck of another, and every Step
|
|
they take is a Step backwards. By striving to appear rich they
|
|
become really poor, and deprive themselves of that Pity and Charity
|
|
which is due to the humble poor Man, who is made so more immediately
|
|
by Providence.
|
|
|
|
This Pride of Apparel will appear the more foolish, if we
|
|
consider, that those airy Mortals, who have no other Way of making
|
|
themselves considerable but by gorgeous Apparel, draw after them
|
|
Crowds of Imitators, who hate each other while they endeavour after a
|
|
Similitude of Manners. They destroy by Example, and envy one
|
|
another's Destruction.
|
|
|
|
I cannot dismiss this Subject without some Observations on a
|
|
particular Fashion now reigning among my own Sex, the most immodest
|
|
and inconvenient of any the Art of Woman has invented, namely, that
|
|
of _Hoop-Petticoats._ By these they are incommoded in their General
|
|
and Particular Calling, and therefore they cannot answer the Ends of
|
|
either necessary or ornamental Apparel. These monstrous topsy-turvy
|
|
_Mortar-Pieces_, are neither fit for the Church, the Hall, or the
|
|
Kitchen; and if a Number of them were well mounted on
|
|
_Noddles-Island_, they would look more like Engines of War for
|
|
bombarding the Town, than Ornaments of the Fair Sex. An honest
|
|
Neighbour of mine, happening to be in Town some time since on a
|
|
publick Day, inform'd me, that he saw four Gentlewomen with their
|
|
Hoops half mounted in a Balcony, as they withdrew to the Wall, to the
|
|
great Terror of the Militia, who (he thinks) might attribute their
|
|
irregular Volleys to the formidable Appearance of the Ladies
|
|
Petticoats.
|
|
|
|
I assure you, Sir, I have but little Hopes of perswading my
|
|
Sex, by this Letter, utterly to relinquish the extravagant Foolery,
|
|
and Indication of Immodesty, in this monstrous Garb of their's; but I
|
|
would at least desire them to lessen the Circumference of their
|
|
Hoops, and leave it with them to consider,Whether they, who pay no
|
|
Rates or Taxes, ought to take up more Room in the King's High-Way,
|
|
than the Men, who yearly contribute to the Support of the Government.
|
|
_I am, Sir,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, June 11, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 7_
|
|
|
|
_Give me the Muse, whose generous Force,
|
|
Impatient of the Reins,
|
|
Pursues an unattempted Course,
|
|
Breaks all the Criticks Iron Chains._
|
|
Watts.
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
It has been the Complaint of many Ingenious Foreigners, who
|
|
have travell'd amongst us, _That good Poetry is not to be expected
|
|
in_ New-England. I am apt to Fancy, the Reason is, not because our
|
|
Countreymen are altogether void of a Poetical Genius, nor yet because
|
|
we have not those Advantages of Education which other Countries have,
|
|
but purely because we do not afford that Praise and Encouragement
|
|
which is merited, when any thing extraordinary of this Kind is
|
|
produc'd among us: Upon which Consideration I have determined, when I
|
|
meet with a Good Piece of _New-England_ Poetry, to give it a suitable
|
|
Encomium, and thereby endeavour to discover to the World some of its
|
|
Beautys, in order to encourage the Author to go on, and bless the
|
|
World with more, and more Excellent Productions.
|
|
|
|
There has lately appear'd among us a most Excellent Piece of
|
|
Poetry, entituled, _An Elegy upon the much Lamented Death of Mrs._
|
|
Mehitebell Kitel, _Wife of Mr._ John Kitel _of_ Salem, _&c._ It may
|
|
justly be said in its Praise, without Flattery to the Author, that it
|
|
is the most _Extraordinary_ Piece that ever was wrote in
|
|
_New-England._ The Language is so soft and Easy, theExpression so
|
|
moving and pathetick, but above all, the Verse and Numbers so
|
|
Charming and Natural, that it is almost beyond Comparison,
|
|
|
|
The Muse _disdains
|
|
Those Links and Chains,
|
|
Measures and Rules of vulgar Strains,
|
|
And o'er the Laws of Harmony a Sovereign Queen she reigns._
|
|
|
|
I find no English Author, Ancient or Modern, whose Elegies may
|
|
be compar'd with this, in respect to the Elegance of Stile, or
|
|
Smoothness of Rhime; and for the affecting Part, I will leave your
|
|
Readers to judge, if ever they read any Lines, that would sooner make
|
|
them _draw their Breath_ and Sigh, if not shed Tears, than these
|
|
following.
|
|
|
|
_Come let us mourn, for we have lost a Wife, a Daughter,
|
|
and a Sister,
|
|
Who has lately taken Flight, and greatly we have mist her._
|
|
|
|
In another Place,
|
|
|
|
Some little Time _before she yielded up her Breath,
|
|
She said, I ne'er shall hear one Sermon more on Earth.
|
|
She kist her Husband_ some little Time _before she expir'd,
|
|
Then lean'd her Head the Pillow on, just out of Breath and tir'd._
|
|
|
|
But the Threefold Appellation in the first Line
|
|
|
|
------ _a Wife, a Daughter, and a Sister,_
|
|
|
|
must not pass unobserved. That Line in the celebrated _Watts_,
|
|
|
|
_GUNSTON the Just, the Generous, and the Young,_
|
|
|
|
is nothing Comparable to it. The latter only mentions three
|
|
Qualifications of _one_ Person who was deceased, which therefore
|
|
could raise Grief and Compassion but for _One._ Whereas the former,
|
|
_(our most excellent Poet)_ gives his Reader a Sort of an Idea of the
|
|
Death of _Three Persons_, viz.
|
|
|
|
------ _a Wife, a Daughter, and a Sister,_
|
|
|
|
which is _Three Times_ as great a Loss as the Death of _One_,
|
|
and consequently must raise _Three Times_ as much Grief and
|
|
Compassion in the Reader.
|
|
|
|
I should be very much straitned for Room, if I should attempt
|
|
to discover even half the Excellencies of this Elegy which are
|
|
obvious to me. Yet I cannot omit one Observation, which is, that the
|
|
Author has (to his Honour) invented a new Species of Poetry, which
|
|
wants a Name, and was never before known. His Muse scorns to be
|
|
confin'd to the old Measures and Limits, or to observe the dull Rules
|
|
of Criticks;
|
|
|
|
_Nor_ Rapin _gives her Rules to fly, nor_ Purcell _Notes to Sing._
|
|
Watts.
|
|
|
|
Now 'tis Pity that such an Excellent Piece should not be
|
|
dignify'd with a particular Name; and seeing it cannot justly be
|
|
called, either _Epic_, _Sapphic_, _Lyric_, or _Pindaric_, nor any
|
|
other Name yet invented, I presume it may, (in Honour and Remembrance
|
|
of the Dead) be called the _KITELIC._ Thus much in the Praise of
|
|
_Kitelic Poetry._
|
|
|
|
It is certain, that those Elegies which are of our own Growth,
|
|
(and our Soil seldom produces any other sort of Poetry) are by far
|
|
the greatest part, wretchedly Dull and Ridiculous. Now since it is
|
|
imagin'd by many, that our Poets are honest, well-meaning Fellows,
|
|
who do their best, and that if they had but some Instructions how to
|
|
govern Fancy with Judgment, they would make indifferent good Elegies;
|
|
I shall here subjoin a Receipt for that purpose, which was left me as
|
|
a Legacy, (among other valuable Rarities) by my Reverend Husband. It
|
|
is as follows,
|
|
|
|
_A RECEIPT to make a_ New-England _Funeral ELEGY._
|
|
|
|
For the Title of your Elegy. _Of these you may have enough
|
|
ready made to your Hands; but if you should chuse to make it your
|
|
self, you must be sure not to omit the Words_ Aetatis Suae, _which
|
|
will Beautify it exceedingly._
|
|
|
|
For the Subject of your Elegy. _Take one of your Neighbours
|
|
who has lately departed this Life; it is no great matter at what Age
|
|
the Party dy'd, but it will be best if he went away suddenly, being_
|
|
Kill'd, Drown'd, _or_ Froze to Death.
|
|
|
|
_Having chose the Person, take all his Virtues, Excellencies,_
|
|
&c. and if he have not enough, you may borrow some to make up a
|
|
sufficient Quantity: To these add his last Words, dying Expressions,_
|
|
&c. _if they are to be had; mix all these together, and be sure you_
|
|
strain _them well. Then season all with a Handful or two of
|
|
Melancholly Expressions, such as,_ Dreadful, Deadly, cruel cold
|
|
Death, unhappy Fate, weeping Eyes, _&c. Have mixed all these
|
|
Ingredients well, put them into the empty Scull of some_ young
|
|
Harvard; _(but in Case you have ne'er a One at Hand, you may use your
|
|
own,) there let them Ferment for the Space of a Fortnight, and by
|
|
that Time they will be incorporated into a Body, which take out, and
|
|
having prepared a sufficient Quantity of double Rhimes, such as,_
|
|
Power, Flower; Quiver, Shiver; Grieve us, Leave us; tell you, excel
|
|
you; Expeditions, Physicians; Fatigue him, Intrigue him; _&c. you
|
|
must spread all upon Paper, and if you can procure a Scrap of Latin
|
|
to put at the End, it will garnish it mightily; then having affixed
|
|
your Name at the Bottom, with a_ Maestus Composuit, _you will have an
|
|
Excellent Elegy.
|
|
|
|
N. B. _This Receipt will serve when a Female is the Subject of
|
|
your Elegy, provided you borrow a greater Quantity of Virtues,
|
|
Excellencies,_ &c.
|
|
_SIR,_
|
|
_Your Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_P. S._ I shall make no other Answer to _Hypercarpus_'s
|
|
Criticism on my last Letter than this, _Mater me genuit, peperit mox
|
|
filia matrem._
|
|
|
|
The following Lines coming to Hand soon after I had receiv'd
|
|
the above Letter from Mrs. _Dogood_, I think it proper to insert them
|
|
in this Paper, that the _Dr._ may at once be paid for his Physical
|
|
Rhimes administred to the Dead.
|
|
|
|
_To the Sage and Immortal Doctor_ H ------ k, _on his
|
|
Incomparable ELEGY, upon the Death of Mrs._ Mehitebell Kitel, _&c._
|
|
|
|
A PANEGYRICK.
|
|
|
|
Thou hast, great Bard, in thy Mysterious Ode,
|
|
Gone in a Path which ne'er before was trod,
|
|
And freed the World from the vexatious Toil,
|
|
Of Numbers, Metaphors, of Wit and Stile,
|
|
Those Childish Ornaments, and gravely chose
|
|
The middle Way between good Verse and Prose.
|
|
Well might the Rhiming Tribe the Work decline,
|
|
Since 'twas too great for every Pen but thine.
|
|
What Scribbling Mortal dare the Bayes divide?
|
|
Thou shalt alone in Fame's bright Chariot ride;
|
|
For thou with matchless Skill and Judgment fraught,
|
|
Hast, Learned Doggrell, to Perfection brought.
|
|
The Loftyest Piece renowned LAW can show,
|
|
Deserves less Wonder, than to thine we owe.
|
|
No more shall TOM's, but henceforth thine shall be,
|
|
The Standard of Eleg'ac Poetry.
|
|
The healing Race thy Genius shall admire,
|
|
And thee to imitate in vain aspire:
|
|
For if by Chance a Patient you should kill,
|
|
You can Embalm his Mem'ry with your Quill.
|
|
What tho' some captious Criticks discommend
|
|
What they with all their Wit, can't comprehend,
|
|
And boldly doom to some Ignoble Use,
|
|
The Shining Product of thy Fertile Muse?
|
|
From your exhaustless Magazine of Sence
|
|
To their Confusion keen Replies dispence;
|
|
And them behold with a Contemptuous Mien,
|
|
Since not a Bard can boast of such a Strain.
|
|
By none but you cou'd _Kitel_'s Worth be shown;
|
|
And none but your great Self can tell your Own;
|
|
Then least what is your due should not be said,
|
|
Write your own Elegy against you're Dead.
|
|
PHILOMUSUS.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, June 25, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 8_
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_SIR,_
|
|
I prefer the following Abstract from the London Journal to any
|
|
Thing of my own, and therefore shall present it to yourReaders this
|
|
week without any further Preface.
|
|
|
|
'Without Freedom of Thought, there can be no such Thing as
|
|
Wisdom; and no such Thing as publick Liberty, without Freedom of
|
|
Speech; which is the Right of every Man, as far as by it, he does not
|
|
hurt or controul the Right of another: And this is the only Check it
|
|
ought to suffer, and the only Bounds it ought to know.
|
|
|
|
'This sacred Privilege is so essential to free Governments,
|
|
that the Security of Property, and the Freedom of Speech always go
|
|
together; and in those wretched Countries where a Man cannot call his
|
|
Tongue his own, he can scarce call any Thing else his own. Whoever
|
|
would overthrow the Liberty of a Nation, must begin by subduing the
|
|
Freeness of Speech; a _Thing_ terrible to Publick Traytors.
|
|
|
|
'This Secret was so well known to the Court of _King Charles the
|
|
First_, that his wicked Ministry procured a Proclamation, to forbid
|
|
the People to talk of Parliaments, which those Traytors had laid
|
|
aside. To assert the undoubted Right of the Subject, and defend his
|
|
Majesty's legal Prerogative, was called Disaffection, and punished as
|
|
Sedition. Nay, People were forbid to talk of Religion in their
|
|
Families: For the Priests had combined with the Ministers to cook up
|
|
Tyranny, and suppress Truth and the Law, while the late _King James_,
|
|
when _Duke of York_, went avowedly to Mass, Men were fined,
|
|
imprisoned and undone, for saying he was a Papist: And that _King
|
|
Charles the Second_ might live more securely a Papist, there was an
|
|
Act of Parliament made, declaring it Treason to say that he was one.
|
|
|
|
'That Men ought to speak well of _their Governours_ is true,
|
|
while _their Governours_ deserve to be well spoken of; but to do
|
|
publick Mischief, without hearing of it, is only the Prerogative and
|
|
Felicity of Tyranny: A free People will be shewing that they are
|
|
_so_, by their Freedom of Speech.
|
|
|
|
'The Administration of Government, is nothing else but the
|
|
Attendance of the _Trustees of the People_ upon the Interest and
|
|
Affairs of the People: And as it is the Part and Business of the
|
|
People, for whose Sake alone all publick Matters are, or ought to be
|
|
transacted, to see whether they be well or ill transacted; so it is
|
|
the Interest, and ought to be the Ambition, of all honest
|
|
Magistrates, to have their Deeds openly examined, and publickly
|
|
scann'd: Only the _wicked Governours_ of Men dread what is said of
|
|
them; _Audivit_ Tiberius _probra queis lacerabitur, atque_ perculsus
|
|
est. The publick Censure was true, else he had not felt it bitter.
|
|
|
|
'Freedom of Speech is ever the Symptom, as well as the Effect
|
|
of a good Government. In old _Rome_, all was left to the Judgment
|
|
and Pleasure of the People, who examined the publick Proceedings with
|
|
such Discretion, & censured those who administred them with such
|
|
Equity and Mildness, that in the space of Three Hundred Years, not
|
|
five publick Ministers suffered unjustly. Indeed whenever the
|
|
_Commons_ proceeded to Violence, the great Ones had been the
|
|
Agressors.
|
|
|
|
'_GUILT_ only dreads Liberty of Speech, which drags it out of
|
|
its lurking Holes, and exposes its Deformity and Horrour to
|
|
Day-light. _Horatius_, _Valerius_, _Cincinnatus_, and other vertuous
|
|
and undesigning Magistrates of the Roman Commonwealth, had nothing to
|
|
fear from Liberty of Speech. _Their virtuous_ Administration, the
|
|
more it was examin'd, the more it brightned and gain'd by Enquiry.
|
|
When _Valerius_ in particular, was accused upon some slight grounds
|
|
of affecting the Diadem; he, who was the first Minister of _Rome_,
|
|
does not accuse the People for examining his Conduct, but approved
|
|
his Innocence in a Speech to them; and gave such Satisfaction to
|
|
them, and gained such Popularity to himself, that they gave him a new
|
|
Name; _inde cognomen factum Publicolae est_; to denote that he was
|
|
their Favourite and their Friend -- _Latae deinde leges -- Ante omnes
|
|
de provocatione_ ADVERSUS MAGISTRATUS AD POPULUM, Livii, lib. 2. Cap.
|
|
8.
|
|
|
|
'But Things afterwards took another Turn. _Rome_, with the
|
|
Loss of its Liberty, lost also its Freedom of Speech; then Mens Words
|
|
began to be feared and watched; and then first began the _poysonous
|
|
Race of Informers_, banished indeed under the righteous
|
|
Administration of _Titus_, _Narva_, _Trajan_, _Aurelius_, &c. but
|
|
encouraged and enriched under the _vile Ministry_ of _Sejanus_,
|
|
_Tigillinus_, _Pallas_, and _Cleander_: _Queri libet, quod in secreta
|
|
nostra non inquirant principes, nisi quos Odimus_, says _Pliny_ to
|
|
_Trajan._
|
|
|
|
'The best Princes have ever encouraged and promoted Freedom of
|
|
Speech; they know that upright Measures would defend themselves, and
|
|
that all upright Men would defend them. _Tacitus_, speaking of the
|
|
Reign of some of the Princes above-mention'd, says with Extasy, _Rara
|
|
Temporum felicitate, ubi sentire quae velis, & quae sentias dicere
|
|
licet_: A blessed Time when you might think what you would, and speak
|
|
what you thought.
|
|
|
|
'I doubt not but old _Spencer_ and his _Son_, who were the
|
|
_Chief Ministers_ and _Betrayers_ of _Edward the Second_, would have
|
|
been very glad to have stopped the Mouths of all the honest Men in
|
|
_England._ They dreaded to be called _Traytors_, because they were
|
|
_Traytors_. And I dare say, Queen _Elizabeth's Walsingham_, who
|
|
deserved no Reproaches, feared none. Misrepresentation of publick
|
|
Measures is easily overthrown, by representing publick Measures
|
|
truly; when they are honest, they ought to be publickly known, that
|
|
they may be publickly commended; but if they are knavish or
|
|
pernicious, they ought to be publickly exposed, in order to be
|
|
publickly detested.'
|
|
_Yours, &c.,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, July 9, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 9_
|
|
|
|
_Corruptio optimi est pessima._
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
It has been for some Time a Question with me, Whether a
|
|
Common-wealth suffers more by hypocritical Pretenders to Religion, or
|
|
by the openly Profane? But some late Thoughts of this Nature, have
|
|
inclined me to think, that the Hypocrite is the most dangerous Person
|
|
of the Two, especially if he sustains a Post in the Government, and
|
|
we consider his Conduct as it regards the Publick. The first
|
|
Artifice of a _State Hypocrite_ is, by a few savoury Expressions
|
|
which cost him Nothing, to betray the best Men in his Country into an
|
|
Opinion of his Goodness; and if the Country wherein he lives is noted
|
|
for the Purity of Religion, he the more easily gains his End, and
|
|
consequently may more justly be expos'd and detested. A notoriously
|
|
profane Person in a private Capacity, ruins himself, and perhaps
|
|
forwards the Destruction of a few of his Equals; but a publick
|
|
Hypocrite every day deceives his betters, and makes them the Ignorant
|
|
Trumpeters of his supposed Godliness: They take him for a Saint, and
|
|
pass him for one, without considering that they are (as it were) the
|
|
Instruments of publick Mischief out of Conscince, and ruin their
|
|
Country for God's sake.
|
|
|
|
This Political Description of a Hypocrite, may (for ought I
|
|
know) be taken for a new Doctrine by some of your Readers; but let
|
|
them consider, that _a little Religion, and a little Honesty, goes a
|
|
great way in Courts._ 'Tis not inconsistent with Charity to distrust
|
|
a Religious Man in Power, tho' he may be a good Man; he has many
|
|
Temptations "to propagate _publick Destruction_ for _Personal
|
|
Advantages_ and Security:" And if his Natural Temper be covetous, and
|
|
his Actions often contradict his pious Discourse, we may with great
|
|
Reason conclude, that he has some other Design in his Religion
|
|
besides barely getting to Heaven. But the most dangerous Hypocrite
|
|
in a Common-Wealth, is one who _leaves the Gospel for the sake of the
|
|
Law_: A Man compounded of Law and Gospel, is able to cheat a whole
|
|
Country with his Religion, and then destroy them under _Colour of
|
|
Law_: And here the Clergy are in great Danger of being deceiv'd, and
|
|
the People of being deceiv'd by the Clergy, until the Monster arrives
|
|
to such Power and Wealth, that he is out of the reach of both, and
|
|
can oppress the People without their own blind Assistance. And it is
|
|
a sad Observation, that when the People too late see their Error, yet
|
|
the Clergy still persist in their Encomiums on the Hypocrite; and
|
|
when he happens to die _for the Good of his Country_, without leaving
|
|
behind him the Memory of _one good Action_, he shall be sure to have
|
|
his Funeral Sermon stuff'd with _Pious Expressions_ which he dropt at
|
|
such a Time, and at such a Place, and on such an Occasion; than which
|
|
nothing can be more prejudicial to the Interest of Religion, nor
|
|
indeed to the Memory of the Person deceas'd. The Reason of this
|
|
Blindness in the Clergy is, because they are honourably supported (as
|
|
they ought to be) by their People, and see nor feel nothing of the
|
|
Oppression which is obvious and burdensome to every one else.
|
|
|
|
But this Subject raises in me an Indignation not to be born;
|
|
and if we have had, or are like to have any Instances of this Nature
|
|
in _New England_, we cannot better manifest our Love to Religion and
|
|
the Country, than by setting the Deceivers in a true Light, and
|
|
undeceiving the Deceived, however such Discoveries may be represented
|
|
by the ignorant or designing Enemies of our Peace and Safety.
|
|
|
|
I shall conclude with a Paragraph or two from an ingenious
|
|
Political Writer in the _London Journal_, the better to convince your
|
|
Readers, that Publick Destruction may be easily carry'd on by
|
|
_hypocritical Pretenders to Religion_.
|
|
|
|
"A raging Passion for immoderate Gain had made Men universally
|
|
and intensely hard-hearted: They were every where devouring one
|
|
another. And yet the Directors and their Accomplices, who were the
|
|
acting Instruments of all this outrageous Madness and Mischief, set
|
|
up for wonderful pious Persons, while they were defying Almighty God,
|
|
and plundering Men; and they set apart a Fund of Subscriptions for
|
|
charitable Uses; that is, they mercilesly made a whole People
|
|
Beggars, and charitably supported a few _necessitous_ and _worthless
|
|
FAVOURITES._ I doubt not, but if the Villany had gone on with
|
|
Success, they would have had their Names handed down to Posterity
|
|
with Encomiums; as the Names of other _publick Robbers_ have been!
|
|
We have _Historians_ and _ODE MAKERS_ now living, very proper for
|
|
such a Task. It is certain, that most People did, at one Time,
|
|
believe the _Directors_ to be _great and worthy Persons_. And an
|
|
honest Country Clergyman told me last Summer, upon the Road, that
|
|
_Sir John_ was an excellent publick-spirited Person, for that he had
|
|
beautified his Chancel.
|
|
|
|
Upon the whole we must not judge of one another by their best
|
|
Actions; since the worst Men do some Good, and all Men make fine
|
|
Professions: But we must judge of Men by the whole of their Conduct,
|
|
and the Effects of it. Thorough Honesty requires great and long
|
|
Proof, since many a Man, long thought honest, has at length proved a
|
|
Knave. And it is from judging without Proof, or false Proof, that
|
|
Mankind continue Unhappy."
|
|
_I am, SIR,_
|
|
_Your humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, July 23, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 10_
|
|
|
|
_Optime societas hominum servabitur._ Cic.
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
Discoursing lately with an intimate Friend of mine of the
|
|
lamentable Condition of Widows, he put into my Hands a Book, wherein
|
|
the ingenious Author proposes (I think) a certain Method for their
|
|
Relief. I have often thought of some such Project for their Benefit
|
|
my self, and intended to communicate my Thoughts to the Publick; but
|
|
to prefer my own Proposals to what follows, would be rather an
|
|
Argument of Vanity in me than Good Will to the many Hundreds of my
|
|
Fellow-Sufferers now in _New-England_.
|
|
|
|
"We have (says he) abundance of Women, who have been Bred well,
|
|
and Liv'd well, Ruin'd in a few Years, and perhaps, left Young, with
|
|
a House full of Children, and nothing to Support them; which falls
|
|
generally upon the Wives of the Inferior Clergy, or of Shopkeepers
|
|
and Artificers.
|
|
|
|
"They marry Wives with perhaps 300 _l._ to 1000 _l._ Portion,
|
|
and can settle no Jointure upon them; either they are Extravagant and
|
|
Idle, and Waste it, or Trade decays, or Losses, or a Thousand
|
|
Contingences happen to bring a Tradesman to Poverty, and he Breaks;
|
|
the Poor Young Woman, it may be, has Three or Four Children, and is
|
|
driven to a thousand shifts, while he lies in the _Mint_ or _Fryars_
|
|
under the _Dilemma_ of a Statute of Bankrupt; but if he Dies, then
|
|
she is absolutely Undone, unless she has Friends to go to.
|
|
|
|
"Suppose an Office to be Erected, to be call'd _An Office of
|
|
Ensurance for Widows_, upon the following Conditions;
|
|
|
|
"Two thousand Women, or their Husbands for them, Enter their
|
|
Names into a Register to be kept for that purpose, with the Names,
|
|
Age, and Trade of their Husbands, with the Place of their abode,
|
|
Paying at the Time of their Entring 5 _s._ down with 1 _s._ 4 _d.
|
|
per_ Quarter, which is to the setting up and support of an Office
|
|
with Clerks, and all proper Officers for the same; _for there is no
|
|
maintaining such without Charge_; they receive every one of them a
|
|
Certificate, Seal'd by the Secretary of the Office, and Sign'd by the
|
|
Governors, for the Articles hereafter mentioned.
|
|
|
|
"If any one of the Women becomes a Widow, at any Time after Six
|
|
Months from the Date of her Subscription, upon due Notice given, and
|
|
Claim made at the Office in form, as shall be directed, she shall
|
|
receive within Six Months after such Claim made, the Sum of 500 _l._
|
|
in Money, without any Deductions, saving some small Fees to the
|
|
Officers, which the Trustees must settle, that they may be known.
|
|
|
|
"In Consideration of this, every Woman so Subscribing, Obliges
|
|
her self to Pay as often as any Member of the Society becomes a
|
|
Widow, the due Proportion or Share allotted to her to Pay, towards
|
|
the 500 _l._ for the said Widow, provided her Share does not exceed
|
|
the Sum of 5 _s._
|
|
|
|
"No Seamen or Soldiers Wives to be accepted into such a
|
|
Proposal as this, on the Account before mention'd, because the
|
|
Contingences of their Lives are not equal to others, unless they will
|
|
admit this general Exception, supposing they do not Die out of the
|
|
Kingdom.
|
|
|
|
"It might also be an Exception, That if the Widow, that
|
|
Claim'd, had really, _bona fide_, left her by her Husband to her own
|
|
use, clear of all Debts and Legacies, 2000 _l._ she shou'd have no
|
|
Claim; the Intent being to Aid the Poor, not add to the Rich. But
|
|
there lies a great many Objections against such an Article: As
|
|
|
|
"1. It may tempt some to forswear themselves.
|
|
|
|
"2. People will Order their Wills so as to defraud the
|
|
Exception.
|
|
|
|
"One Exception must be made; and that is, Either very unequal
|
|
Matches, as when a Woman of Nineteen Marries an old Man of Seventy;
|
|
or Women who have infirm Husbands, I mean known and publickly so. To
|
|
remedy which, Two things are to be done.
|
|
|
|
`The Office must have moving Officers without doors, who shall
|
|
inform themselves of such matters, and if any such Circumstances
|
|
appear, the Office should have 14 days time to return their Money,
|
|
and declare their Subscriptions Void.
|
|
|
|
`2. No Woman whose Husband had any visible Distemper, should
|
|
claim under a Year after her Subscription.
|
|
|
|
`One grand Objection against this Proposal, is, How you will
|
|
oblige People to pay either their Subscription, or their Quarteridge.
|
|
|
|
`To this I answer, _By no Compulsion_ (tho' that might be
|
|
perform'd too) but altogether voluntary; only with this Argument to
|
|
move it, that if they do not continue their Payments, they lose the
|
|
Benefit of their past Contributions.
|
|
|
|
`I know it lies as a fair Objection against such a Project as
|
|
this, That the number of Claims are so uncertain, That no Body knows
|
|
what they engage in, when they Subscribe, for so many may die
|
|
Annually out of Two Thousand, as may perhaps make my Payment 20 or 25
|
|
_l. per Ann_, and if a Woman happen to Pay that for Twenty Years,
|
|
though she receives the 500 _l._ at last she is a great Loser; but if
|
|
she dies before her Husband, she has lessened his Estate
|
|
considerably, and brought a great Loss upon him.
|
|
|
|
`_First_, I say to this, That I wou'd have such a Proposal as
|
|
this be so fair and easy, that if any Person who had Subscrib'd found
|
|
the Payments too high, and the Claims fall too often, it shou'd be at
|
|
their Liberty at any Time, upon Notice given, to be released and
|
|
stand Oblig'd no longer; and if so, _Volenti non fit Injuria_; every
|
|
one knows best what their own Circumstances will bear.
|
|
|
|
`In the next Place, because Death is a Contingency, no Man can
|
|
directly Calculate, and all that Subscribe must take the Hazard; yet
|
|
that a Prejudice against this Notion may not be built on wrong
|
|
Grounds, let's examine a little the Probable hazard, and see how many
|
|
shall die Annually out of 2000 Subscribers, accounting by the common
|
|
proportion of Burials, to the number of the Living.
|
|
|
|
`Sir _William Petty_ in his _Political Arithmetick_, by a very
|
|
Ingenious Calculation, brings the Account of Burials in _London_, to
|
|
be 1 in 40 Annually, and proves it by all the proper Rules of
|
|
proportion'd Computation; and I'le take my Scheme from thence. If
|
|
then One in Forty of all the People in _England_ should Die, that
|
|
supposes Fifty to Die every Year out of our Two Thousand Subscribers;
|
|
and for a Woman to Contribute 5 _s._ to every one, would certainly be
|
|
to agree to Pay 12 _l._ 10 _s. per Ann._ upon her Husband's Life, to
|
|
receive 500 _l._ when he Di'd, and lose it if she Di'd first; and yet
|
|
this wou'd not be a hazard beyond reason too great for the Gain.
|
|
|
|
`But I shall offer some Reasons to prove this to be impossible
|
|
in our Case; First, Sir _William Petty_ allows the City of _London_
|
|
to contain about a Million of People, and our Yearly Bill of
|
|
Mortality never yet amounted to 25000 in the most Sickly Years we
|
|
have had, Plague Years excepted, sometimes but to 20000, which is but
|
|
One in Fifty: Now it is to be consider'd here, that Children and
|
|
Ancient People make up, one time with another, at least one third of
|
|
our Bills of Mortality; and our _Assurances_ lies upon none but the
|
|
Midling Age of the People, which is the only age wherein Life is any
|
|
thing steady; and if that be allow'd, there cannot Die by his
|
|
Computation, above One in Eighty of such People, every Year; but
|
|
because I would be sure to leave Room for Casualty, I'le allow one in
|
|
Fifty shall Die out of our Number Subscrib'd.
|
|
|
|
`Secondly, It must be allow'd, that our Payments falling due
|
|
only on the Death of Husbands, this One in Fifty must not be reckoned
|
|
upon the Two thousand; for 'tis to be suppos'd at least as many Women
|
|
shall die as Men, and then there is nothing to Pay; so that One in
|
|
Fifty upon One Thousand, is the most that I can suppose shall claim
|
|
the Contribution in a Year, which is Twenty Claims a Year at 5 _s._
|
|
each, and is 5 _l. per Ann_. and if a Woman pays this for Twenty
|
|
Year, and claims at last, she is Gainer enough, and no extraordinary
|
|
Loser if she never claims at all: And I verily believe any Office
|
|
might undertake to demand at all Adventures not above 6 _l. per Ann_.
|
|
and secure the Subscriber 500 _l._ in case she come to claim as a
|
|
Widow.'
|
|
|
|
I would leave this to the Consideration of all who are
|
|
concern'd for their own or their Neighbour's Temporal Happiness; and
|
|
I am humbly of Opinion, that the Country is ripe for many such
|
|
_Friendly Societies_, whereby every Man might help another, without
|
|
any Disservice to himself. We have many charitable Gentlemen who
|
|
Yearly give liberally to the Poor, and where can they better bestow
|
|
their Charity than on those who become so by Providence, and for
|
|
ought they know on themselves. But above all, the Clergy have the
|
|
most need of coming into some such Project as this. They as well as
|
|
poor Men (according to the Proverb) generally abound in Children; and
|
|
how many Clergymen in the Country are forc'd to labour in their
|
|
Fields, to keep themselves in a Condition above Want? How then shall
|
|
they be able to leave any thing to their forsaken, dejected, & almost
|
|
forgotten Wives and Children. For my own Part, I have nothing left
|
|
to live on, but Contentment and a few Cows; and tho' I cannot expect
|
|
to be reliev'd by this Project, yet it would be no small Satisfaction
|
|
to me to see it put in Practice for the Benefit of others.
|
|
_I am, SIR,_ &c.
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, August 13, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 11_
|
|
|
|
_Neque licitum interea est meam amicam visere._
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
From a natural Compassion to my Fellow-Creatures, I have
|
|
sometimes been betray'd into Tears at the Sight of an Object of
|
|
Charity, who by a bear Relation of his Circumstances, seem'd to
|
|
demand the Assistance of those about him. The following Petition
|
|
represents in so lively a Manner the forlorn State of a Virgin well
|
|
stricken in Years and Repentance, that I cannot forbear publishing it
|
|
at this Time, with some Advice to the Petitioner.
|
|
|
|
_To Mrs_. Silence Dogood.
|
|
_The Humble Petition of_ Margaret Aftercast,
|
|
_SHEWETH,_
|
|
"1. That your Petitioner being puff'd up in her younger Years
|
|
with a numerous Train of Humble Servants, had the Vanity to think,
|
|
that her extraordinary Wit and Beauty would continually recommend her
|
|
to the Esteem of the Gallants; and therefore as soon as it came to be
|
|
publickly known that any Gentleman address'd her, he was immediately
|
|
discarded.
|
|
|
|
"2. That several of your Petitioners Humble Servants, who upon
|
|
their being rejected by her, were, to all Appearance in a dying
|
|
Condition, have since recover'd their Health, and been several Years
|
|
married, to the great Surprize and Grief of your Petitioner, who
|
|
parted with them upon no other Conditions, but that they should die
|
|
or run distracted for her, as several of them faithfully promis'd to
|
|
do.
|
|
|
|
"3. That your Petitioner finding her self disappointed in and
|
|
neglected by her former Adorers, and no new Offers appearing for some
|
|
Years past, she has been industriously contracting Acquaintance with
|
|
several Families in Town and Country, where any young Gentlemen or
|
|
Widowers have resided, and endeavour'd to appear as conversable as
|
|
possible before them: She has likewise been a strict Observer of the
|
|
Fashion, and always appear'd well dress'd. And the better to restore
|
|
her decay'd Beauty, she has consum'd above Fifty Pound's Worth of the
|
|
most approved _Cosmeticks_. But all won't do.
|
|
|
|
"Your Petitioner therefore most humbly prays, That you would be
|
|
pleased to form a Project for the Relief of all those penitent
|
|
Mortals of the fair Sex, that are like to be punish'd with their
|
|
Virginity until old Age, for the Pride and Insolence of their Youth.
|
|
|
|
"And your Petitioner (as in Duty bound) shall ever pray, _&c._
|
|
_Margaret Aftercast_."
|
|
|
|
Were I endow'd with the Faculty of Matchmaking, it should be
|
|
improv'd for the Benefit of Mrs. _Margaret_, and others in her
|
|
Condition: But since my extream Modesty and Taciturnity, forbids an
|
|
Attempt of this Nature, I would advise them to relieve themselves in
|
|
a Method of _Friendly Society_; and that already publish'd for
|
|
Widows, I conceive would be a very proper Proposal for them, whereby
|
|
every single Woman, upon full Proof given of her continuing a Virgin
|
|
for the Space of Eighteen Years, (dating her Virginity from the Age
|
|
of Twelve,) should be entituled to 500 _l._ in ready Cash.
|
|
|
|
|
|
But then it will be necessary to make the following Exceptions.
|
|
|
|
1. That no Woman shall be admitted into the Society after she
|
|
is Twenty Five Years old, who has made a Practice of entertaining and
|
|
discarding Humble Servants, without sufficient Reason for so doing,
|
|
until she has manifested her Repentance in Writing under her Hand.
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|
|
|
2. No Member of the Society who has declar'd before two
|
|
credible Witnesses, _That it is well known she has refus'd several
|
|
good Offers since the Time of her Subscribing_, shall be entituled to
|
|
the 500 _l._ when she comes of Age; that is to say, _Thirty Years._
|
|
|
|
3. No Woman, who after claiming and receiving, has had the good
|
|
Fortune to marry, shall entertain any Company with Encomiums on her
|
|
Husband, above the Space of one Hour at a Time, upon Pain of
|
|
returning one half the Money into the Office, for the first Offence;
|
|
and upon the second Offence to return the Remainder.
|
|
_I am, SIR,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, August 20, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 12_
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|
_Quod est in cordi sobrii, est in ore ebrii._
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
It is no unprofitable tho' unpleasant Pursuit, diligently to
|
|
inspect and consider the Manners & Conversation of Men, who,
|
|
insensible of the greatest Enjoyments of humane Life, abandon
|
|
themselves to Vice from a false Notion of _Pleasure_ and _good
|
|
Fellowship_. A true and natural Representation of any Enormity, is
|
|
often the best Argument against it and Means of removing it, when the
|
|
most severe Reprehensions alone, are found ineffectual.
|
|
|
|
I would in this Letter improve the little Observation I have
|
|
made on the Vice of _Drunkeness_, the better to reclaim the _good
|
|
Fellows_ who usually pay the Devotions of the Evening to _Bacchus_.
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|
|
|
|
|
I doubt not but _moderate Drinking_ has been improv'd for the
|
|
Diffusion of Knowledge among the ingenious Part of Mankind, who want
|
|
the Talent of a ready Utterance, in order to discover the Conceptions
|
|
of their Minds in an entertaining and intelligible Manner. 'Tis
|
|
true, drinking does not _improve_ our Faculties, but it enables us to
|
|
_use_ them; and therefore I conclude, that much Study and Experience,
|
|
and a little Liquor, are of absolute Necessity for some Tempers, in
|
|
order to make them accomplish'd Orators. _Dic. Ponder_ discovers an
|
|
excellent Judgment when he is inspir'd with a Glass or two of
|
|
_Claret_, but he passes for a Fool among those of small Observation,
|
|
who never saw him the better for Drink. And here it will not be
|
|
improper to observe, That the moderate Use of Liquor, and a well
|
|
plac'd and well regulated Anger, often produce this same Effect; and
|
|
some who cannot ordinarily talk but in broken Sentences and false
|
|
Grammar, do in the Heat of Passion express themselves with as much
|
|
Eloquence as Warmth. Hence it is that my own Sex are generally the
|
|
most eloquent, because the most passionate. "It has been said in the
|
|
Praise of some Men, (says an ingenious Author,) that they could talk
|
|
whole Hours together upon any thing; but it must be owned to the
|
|
Honour of the other Sex, that there are many among them who can talk
|
|
whole Hours together upon Nothing. I have known a Woman branch out
|
|
into a long extempore Dissertation on the Edging of a Petticoat, and
|
|
chide her Servant for breaking a China Cup, in all the Figures of
|
|
Rhetorick."
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|
|
|
But after all it must be consider'd, that no Pleasure can give
|
|
Satisfaction or prove advantageous to a _reasonable Mind_, which is
|
|
not attended with the _Restraints of Reason_. Enjoyment is not to be
|
|
found by Excess in any sensual Gratification; but on the contrary,
|
|
the immoderate Cravings of the Voluptuary, are always succeeded with
|
|
Loathing and a palled Appetite. What Pleasure can the Drunkard have
|
|
in the Reflection, that, while in his Cups, he retain'd only the
|
|
Shape of a Man, and acted the Part of a Beast; or that from
|
|
reasonable Discourse a few Minutes before, he descended to
|
|
Impertinence and Nonsense?
|
|
|
|
I cannot pretend to account for the different Effects of Liquor
|
|
on Persons of different Dispositions, who are guilty of Excess in the
|
|
Use of it. 'Tis strange to see Men of a regular Conversation become
|
|
rakish and profane when intoxicated with Drink, and yet more
|
|
surprizing to observe, that some who appear to be the most profligate
|
|
Wretches when sober, become mighty religious in their Cups, and will
|
|
then, and at no other Time address their Maker, but when they are
|
|
destitute of Reason, and actually affronting him. Some shrink in the
|
|
Wetting, and others swell to such an unusual Bulk in their
|
|
Imaginations, that they can in an Instant understand all Arts and
|
|
Sciences, by the liberal Education of a little vivifying _Punch_, or
|
|
a sufficient Quantity of other exhilerating Liquor.
|
|
|
|
And as the Effects of Liquor are various, so are the Characters
|
|
given to its Devourers. It argues some Shame in the Drunkards
|
|
themselves, in that they have invented numberless Words and Phrases
|
|
to cover their Folly, whose proper Significations are harmless, or
|
|
have no Signification at all. They are seldom known to be _drunk_,
|
|
tho they are very often _boozey_, _cogey_, _tipsey_, _fox'd_,
|
|
_merry_, _mellow_, _fuddl'd_, _groatable_, _Confoundedly cut_, _See
|
|
two Moons_, are _Among the Philistines_, _In a very good Humour_,
|
|
_See the Sun_, or, _The Sun has shone upon them_; they _Clip the
|
|
King's English_, are _Almost froze_, _Feavourish_, _In their
|
|
Altitudes_, _Pretty well enter'd_, &c. In short, every Day produces
|
|
some new Word or Phrase which might be added to the Vocabulary of the
|
|
_Tiplers_: But I have chose to mention these few, because if at any
|
|
Time a Man of Sobriety and Temperance happens to _cut himself
|
|
confoundedly_, or is _almost froze_, or _feavourish_, or accidentally
|
|
_sees the Sun_, &c. he may escape the Imputation of being _drunk_,
|
|
when his Misfortune comes to be related.
|
|
_I am SIR,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, September 10, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 13_
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
In Persons of a contemplative Disposition, the most indifferent
|
|
Things provoke the Exercise of the Imagination; and the Satisfactions
|
|
which often arise to them thereby, are a certain Relief to the Labour
|
|
of the Mind (when it has been intensely fix'd on more substantial
|
|
Subjects) as well as to that of the Body.
|
|
|
|
In one of the late pleasant Moon-light Evenings, I so far
|
|
indulg'd in my self the Humour of the Town in walking abroad, as to
|
|
continue from my Lodgings two or three Hours later than usual, & was
|
|
pleas'd beyond Expectation before my Return. Here I found various
|
|
Company to observe, and various Discourse to attend to. I met indeed
|
|
with the common Fate of _Listeners_, (who _hear no good of
|
|
themselves_,) but from a Consciousness of my Innocence, receiv'd it
|
|
with a Satisfaction beyond what the Love of Flattery and the Daubings
|
|
of a Parasite could produce. The Company who rally'd me were about
|
|
Twenty in Number, of both Sexes; and tho' the _Confusion of Tongues_
|
|
(like that of _Babel_) which always happens among so many impetuous
|
|
Talkers, render'd their Discourse not so intelligible as I could
|
|
wish, I learnt thus much, That one of the Females pretended to know
|
|
me, from some Discourse she had heard at a certain House before the
|
|
Publication of one of my Letters; adding, _That I was a Person of an
|
|
ill Character, and kept a criminal Correspondence with a Gentleman
|
|
who assisted me in Writing._ One of the Gallants clear'd me of this
|
|
random Charge, by saying, _That tho' I wrote in the Character of a
|
|
Woman, he knew me to be a Man; But,_ continu'd he, _he has more need
|
|
of endeavouring a Reformation in himself, than spending his Wit in
|
|
satyrizing others._
|
|
|
|
I had no sooner left this Set of Ramblers, but I met a Crowd of
|
|
_Tarpolins_ and their Doxies, link'd to each other by the Arms, who
|
|
ran (by their own Account) after the Rate of _Six Knots an Hour_, and
|
|
bent their Course towards the _Common_. Their eager and amorous
|
|
Emotions of Body, occasion'd by taking their Mistresses _in Tow_,
|
|
they call'd _wild Steerage_: And as a Pair of them happen'd to trip
|
|
and come to the Ground, the Company were call'd upon to _bring to_,
|
|
for that _Jack_ and _Betty_ were _founder'd_. But this Fleet were
|
|
not less comical or irregular in their Progress than a Company of
|
|
Females I soon after came up with, who, by throwing their Heads to
|
|
the Right and Left, at every one who pass'd by them, I concluded came
|
|
out with no other Design than to revive the Spirit of Love in
|
|
Disappointed Batchelors, and expose themselves to Sale to the first
|
|
Bidder.
|
|
|
|
But it would take up too much Room in your Paper to mention all
|
|
the Occasions of Diversion I met with in this Night's Ramble. As it
|
|
grew later, I observed, that many pensive Youths with down Looks and
|
|
a slow Pace, would be ever now and then crying out on the Cruelty of
|
|
their Mistresses; others with a more rapid Pace and chearful Air,
|
|
would be swinging their Canes, and clapping their Cheeks, and
|
|
whispering at certain Intervals, _I'm certain I shall have her! This
|
|
is more than I expected! How charmingly she talks!_ &c.
|
|
|
|
Upon the whole I conclude, That our _Night-Walkers_ are a Set
|
|
of People, who contribute very much to the Health and Satisfaction of
|
|
those who have been fatigu'd with Business or Study, and occasionally
|
|
observe their pretty Gestures and Impertinencies. But among Men of
|
|
Business, the _Shoemakers_, and other Dealers in Leather, are doubly
|
|
oblig'd to them, inasmuch as they exceedingly promote the Consumption
|
|
of their Ware: And I have heard of a _Shoemaker_, who being ask'd by
|
|
a noted Rambler, _Whether he could tell how long her Shoes would
|
|
last_; very prettily answer'd, _That he knew how many Days she might
|
|
wear them, but not how many Nights; because they were then put to a
|
|
more violent and irregular Service than when she employ'd her self in
|
|
the common Affairs of the House._
|
|
_I am, SIR,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, September 24, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Silence Dogood, No. 14_
|
|
|
|
_Earum causarum quantu quaeque valeat, videamus._
|
|
Cicero.
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
It often happens, that the most zealous Advocates for any Cause
|
|
find themselves disappointed in the first Appearance of Success in
|
|
the Propagation of their Opinion; and the Disappointment appears
|
|
unavoidable, when their easy Proselytes too suddenly start into
|
|
Extreams, and are immediately fill'd with Arguments to invalidate
|
|
their former Practice. This creates a Suspicion in the more
|
|
considerate Part of Mankind, that those who are thus _given to
|
|
Change_, neither _fear God_, nor _honour the King_. In Matters of
|
|
Religion, he that alters his Opinion on a _religious Account_, must
|
|
certainly go thro' much Reading, hear many Arguments on both Sides,
|
|
and undergo many Struggles in his Conscience, before he can come to a
|
|
full Resolution: Secular Interest will indeed make quick Work with an
|
|
immoral Man, especially if, notwithstanding the Alteration of his
|
|
Opinion, he can with any Appearance of Credit retain his Immorality.
|
|
But, by this Turn of Thought I would not be suspected of
|
|
Uncharitableness to those Clergymen at _Connecticut_, who have lately
|
|
embrac'd the Establish'd Religion of our Nation, some of whom I hear
|
|
made their Professions with a Seriousness becoming their Order:
|
|
However, since they have deny'd the Validity of _Ordination_ by the
|
|
Hands of _Presbyters_, and consequently their Power of Administring
|
|
the _Sacraments_, &c. we may justly expect a suitable Manifestation
|
|
of their Repentance for invading the _Priests_ Office, and living so
|
|
long in a _Corah_-like Rebellion. All I would endeavour to shew is,
|
|
That an indiscreet Zeal for spreading an Opinion, hurts the Cause of
|
|
the Zealot. There are too many blind Zealots among every
|
|
Denomination of Christians; and he that propagates the Gospel among
|
|
_Rakes_ and _Beaus_ without reforming them in their Morals, is every
|
|
whit as ridiculous and impolitick as a Statesman who makes Tools of
|
|
Ideots and Tale-Bearers.
|
|
|
|
Much to my present Purpose are the Words of two Ingenious
|
|
Authors of the _Church of England_, tho' in all Probability they were
|
|
tainted with _Whiggish_ Principles; and with these I shall conclude
|
|
this Letter.
|
|
|
|
`I would (says one) have every zealous Man examine his Heart
|
|
thoroughly, and, I believe, he will often find that what he calls a
|
|
Zeal for his Religion, is either Pride, Interest or Ill-nature. A
|
|
Man who differs from another in Opinion sets himself above him in his
|
|
own Judgment, and in several Particulars pretends to be the wiser
|
|
Person. This is a great Provocation to the Proud Man, and gives a
|
|
keen Edge to what he calls his Zeal. And that this is the Case very
|
|
often, we may observe from the Behaviour of some of the most Zealous
|
|
for Orthodoxy, who have often great Friendships and Intimacies with
|
|
vicious immoral Men, provided they do but agree with them in the same
|
|
Scheme of Belief. The Reason is, because the vicious Believer gives
|
|
the Precedency to the virtuous Man, and allows the good Christian to
|
|
be the worthier Person, at the same Time that he cannot come up to
|
|
his Perfections. This we find exemplified in that trite Passage
|
|
which we see quoted in almost every System of Ethicks, tho' upon
|
|
another Occasion;
|
|
|
|
------ _Video meliore proboque
|
|
Deteriora sequor_ ------
|
|
|
|
On the contrary, it is certain if our Zeal were true and
|
|
genuine, we should be much more angry with a Sinner than a Heretick,
|
|
since there are several Cases which may excuse the latter before his
|
|
great Judge, but none which can excuse the former.'
|
|
|
|
`I have (says another) found by Experience, that it is
|
|
impossible to talk distinctly without defining the Words of which we
|
|
make use. There is not a Term in our Language which wants
|
|
Explanation so much as the Word _Church_. One would think when
|
|
People utter it, they should have in their Minds Ideas of Virtue and
|
|
Religion; but that important Monosyllable drags all the other Words
|
|
in the Language after it, and it is made use of to express both
|
|
Praise and Blame, according to the Character of him who speaks it.
|
|
By this means it happens, that no one knows what his Neighbour means
|
|
when he says such a one is for or against the Church. It has
|
|
happen'd that he who is seen every Day at Church, has not been
|
|
counted in the Eye of the World a Churchman; and he who is very
|
|
zealous to oblige every one to frequent it but himself, has been a
|
|
very good Son of the Church. This Praepossession is the best Handle
|
|
imaginable for Politicians to make use of, for managing the Loves and
|
|
Hatreds of Mankind to the Purposes to which they would lead them.
|
|
But this is not a Thing for Fools to meddle with, for they only bring
|
|
Disesteem upon those whom they attempt to serve, when they
|
|
unskilfully pronounce Terms of Art. I have observed great Evils
|
|
arise from this Practice, and not only the Cause of Piety, but also
|
|
the secular Interest of Clergymen, has extreamly suffered by the
|
|
general unexplained Signification of the Word _Church_.'
|
|
_I am, SIR,_
|
|
_Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
SILENCE DOGOOD.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, October 8, 1722
|
|
_Hugo Grim on Silence Dogood_
|
|
|
|
Mr. _Couranto_,
|
|
Since Mrs. DOGOOD has kept SILENCE for so long a Time, you have
|
|
no doubt lost a very valuable Correspondent, and the Publick been
|
|
depriv'd of many profitable Amusements, for which reason I desire you
|
|
to convey the following Lines to Her, that so if she be in the Land
|
|
of the Living we may know the Occasion of her _Silence._
|
|
|
|
Mrs. _Dogood._
|
|
I greatly wonder why you have so soon done exercising your
|
|
Gifts, and _hid your Talent in a Napkin._ You told us at first that
|
|
you intended to favour the Publick with a Speculation _once a
|
|
Fortnight_, but how comes it to pass that you have laid aside so
|
|
_Good_ a Design? Why have you so soon _withdrawn your Hand from the
|
|
Plough_ (with which you tax'd some of the Scholars) and grown weary
|
|
of _Doing Good_?
|
|
|
|
Is your Common-Place Wit all Exhausted, your stock of matter
|
|
all spent? We thought you were well stor'd with that by your
|
|
striking your first blow at the _College._ You say (in your No 2.)
|
|
that you _have an Excellent Faculty at observing and reproving the
|
|
Faults of others_, and are the Vices of the Times all mended? Is
|
|
there not Whoring, Drinking, Swearing, Lying, Gaming, Cheating and
|
|
Oppression, and many other Sins prevailing in the Land? Can you
|
|
_observe_ no faults in others (or your self) to _reprove_? Or are
|
|
you married and remov'd to some distant Clime, that we hear nothing
|
|
from you? Are you (as the Prophet supposed _Baal_ that sottish
|
|
Deity) _asleep_, or _on a Journey_, and cannot write? Or has the
|
|
Sleep of _inexorable unrelenting Death_ procur'd your _Silence_? and
|
|
if so you ought to have told us of it, and appointed your Successor.
|
|
But if you are still in Being, and design to amuse the Publick any
|
|
more, proceed in your usual Course; or if not, let us know it, that
|
|
some other hand may take up your Pen.
|
|
_Your Friend,_
|
|
HUGO GRIM.
|
|
|
|
_ADVERTISEMENT._
|
|
|
|
_If any Person or Persons will give a true Account of Mrs._
|
|
Silence Dogood, _whether Dead or alive, Married or unmarried, in Town
|
|
or Countrey, that so, (if living) she may be spoke with, or Letters
|
|
convey'd to her, they shall have Thanks for their Pains_.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, December 3, 1722
|
|
|
|
_Rules for The New-England Courant_
|
|
|
|
_Vide quam rem agas._
|
|
|
|
_To the Author of the_ New-England Courant.
|
|
|
|
_Sir,_
|
|
Seeing your Courant is a Paper which (like the Primitive
|
|
Christians) begins to be _every where spoken against_, It is our
|
|
_humble Opinion_ that it is high Time for you to think of some Method
|
|
wherein to carry it on without ministring just occasion of Offence to
|
|
any, especially to the polite and _pious_ People, of whom there are
|
|
considerable numbers in this Land.
|
|
|
|
It is a common saying; _that it is a bad thing to have a Bad
|
|
Name_; when a Man has once got a bad Name, people are apt to
|
|
misrepresent, and misconstrue whatever he says or does, tho' it be
|
|
Innocent, nay, good and laudable in it self, and tho' it proceed from
|
|
a good Intention, which is absolutely necessary to denominate any
|
|
Action Good.
|
|
|
|
Hence it is that so many good people, have entertain'd strong
|
|
prejudices against your Courant, because, say they, _there can no
|
|
good thing come out of that Paper_; let a Discourse be ever so good,
|
|
instructive, and Edifying in it self, and strengthen'd by many Texts
|
|
of Scripture, and quotations from the Works of the most _Eminent
|
|
Divines_, who have _great Names_ in all the Universities of Europe;
|
|
-- yet, they say, it is base and vile, and has a wicked Tendency, it
|
|
is written with a bad intention, with a design to mock and deride
|
|
Religion, and the serious, consciencious professors of it.
|
|
|
|
Now, tho' we are of Opinion that this matter has been strain'd
|
|
a little too far, by persons whose Zeal is not sufficiently poiz'd
|
|
with Knowledge and Prudence, yet, it may be very proper to lay before
|
|
you some Rules, which if duly observ'd will render your Paper not
|
|
only inoffensive, but pleasant and agreeable. Our present purpose
|
|
therefore is, to suggest several things to you by way of Direction,
|
|
which may conduce to so desireable an end.
|
|
|
|
1. In the first place then, Whatever you do, be very tender of
|
|
the _Religion of the Country_, which you were brought up in and
|
|
Profess. The Honour of Religion ought ever to ly near our Hearts;
|
|
nor should any thing grieve us so much as to see That reflected on,
|
|
and brought into contempt. Religion is our safety and security, and
|
|
if we lose the Honour of that, no small part of our strength and
|
|
Glory will be lost with it.
|
|
|
|
2. Take great care that you do not cast injurious Reflections
|
|
on the _Reverend and Faithful Ministers of the Gospel_, or any of
|
|
them. We think New-England may boast of almost an unparallel'd
|
|
Happiness in its MINISTERS; take them in general, there is scarce a
|
|
more _Candid_, _Learned_, _Pious_ and _Laborious_ Set of Men under
|
|
Heaven. But tho' they are the _Best of Men_, yet they are but Men at
|
|
the best, and by consequence subject to like _Frailties_ and
|
|
_Passions_ as other Men; And when we hear of the _Imprudencies_ of
|
|
any of them, we should cover them with the mantle of Love and
|
|
Charity, and not profanely expose and Aggravate them. _Charity
|
|
covers a multitude of Sins._ Besides, when you abuse the Clergy you
|
|
do not consult your own Interest, for you may be sure they will
|
|
improve their influence to the uttermost, to suppress your Paper.
|
|
|
|
3. Be very careful of the reputation of the People of this Land
|
|
in general. Indeed, it must be confess'd that there is a visible
|
|
Declension and Apostacy among us, from the good ways of our
|
|
Fore-Fathers, but yet we hope there is a great number of serious
|
|
Christians, many more then _Seven Thousand_ who have not bowed the
|
|
Knee to the Image of _Baal_: And therefore you ought to take great
|
|
care that you are not _too general_ in your reflections. Here it may
|
|
be you will say, there has been more said and printed in some Sermons
|
|
on this Head, than ever you published. To this we Answer, that there
|
|
are many things good and proper in the _Pulpit_, which would be vile
|
|
and wicked in a _Courant._ And what if all men are not moulded
|
|
according to your Humour? must you presently stigmatize them as
|
|
Knaves and Hypocrites? Certainly on no Account whatsoever.
|
|
|
|
4. By no means cast any Reflections on the _Civil Government_,
|
|
under the Care and Protection of which you live. Blessed be God, we
|
|
sit under the Administration of Wise and Good Rulers; let us prize
|
|
them and be thankful for them. But if you will be so Fool-hardy as
|
|
to cast scurrilous and unjust Reflections on them, we think you ought
|
|
to smart for it without any pity: And here we would caution you to
|
|
avoid with care those Rocks, on which you have once and again almost
|
|
suffered Shipwrack. Furthermore, when you abuse and villify Rulers,
|
|
you do in some sense resist a _Divine Ordinance_, and _he that
|
|
resisteth shall receive to himself Damnation._ Princes, Magistrates,
|
|
and Grandees, can by no means endure their Conduct should be scann'd
|
|
by the meanest of their Subjects; and such may justly be offended
|
|
when private Men, of as private parts, presume to intermeddle with
|
|
their _Arcana_, and fault their Administration.
|
|
|
|
5. We advise you to avoid Quotations from prophane and
|
|
scandalous Authors, which will be but like so many _dead Flies_ in
|
|
your Courant; And in particular, we think it by no means proper to
|
|
Introduce your Speculations with Lines out of _Butler's Hudibras_,
|
|
for he was no _Pious Author_, but a profane Wit, who set himself up
|
|
to Burlesque the _Brethren_ and Lampoon the _Saints_ that liv'd in
|
|
his Time. On the other hand, we think it very unsuitable to bring in
|
|
Texts of _Sacred Scripture_ into your Paper, (unless on extraordinary
|
|
Occasions) for hereby Men lose that Reverence & Veneration which is
|
|
due to the Divine Oracles, nay, sometimes they come to be profanely
|
|
droll'd on in _Taverns_ and _Coffee-Houses_, which ought not to be.
|
|
|
|
6. In writing your Courants, we advise you carefully to avoid
|
|
the Form and Method of Sermons, for that is vile and impious in such
|
|
a Paper as yours. Here, perhaps you will say, you do not set up for
|
|
a _Preacher_; to which we Answer, that to print your Paper
|
|
_Sermon-wise_ is as bad as if you preach'd. And besides, for a
|
|
private Man to Exhort and Admonish in such a method, is _boldly to
|
|
invade the Province of others_, and comes little short of a
|
|
_Corah-like_ Usurpation. Nor is it suitable, as we conceive, to fill
|
|
your Paper with Religious Exhortations of any kind; or to conclude
|
|
your Letters with _the words of the Psalmist_, or any other sacred
|
|
writer.
|
|
|
|
7. Be very general in your Writings, and when you condemn any
|
|
Vice, do not point out particular Persons; for that has offended many
|
|
Good People, and may occasion great disturbances in Families and
|
|
Neighbourhoods.
|
|
|
|
8. _And Lastly_, BEWARE of casting dirty Reflections on that
|
|
worthy Society of _Gentlemen_, scoffingly call'd, _The CANVAS CLUB_.
|
|
Truly, they are Gentlemen of as good Credit and Reputation as any we
|
|
have; and some of them are Men of Power and Influence, and (if you
|
|
offend them) may contribute not a little to the crushing of your
|
|
Paper.
|
|
|
|
Thus we have offered you some plain Directions, which if you
|
|
wisely follow, we doubt not but you will steer clear of Rocks,
|
|
Shelves and Quick-sands; This will render your Performances at once
|
|
both pleasant and profitable, even to Persons of the most Different
|
|
Apprehensions among us, and your own Innocence and Vertue will
|
|
protect and secure you in so good a Work.
|
|
_We are your hearty Friends and Wellwishers,_
|
|
A, B, C, _&c._
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, January 28, 1722/3
|
|
|
|
_To "your Honour":
|
|
Defense of James Franklin to Samuel Sewall_
|
|
|
|
_SIR,_
|
|
I am inform'd that your Honour was a leading Man in the late
|
|
Extraordinary procedure against F ------ _n_ the Printer: And
|
|
inasmuch as it cannot be long before you must appear at _Christ_'s
|
|
enlightned Tribunal, where every Man's work shall be tryed, I humbly
|
|
beseech you, in the Fear of GOD, to consider & Examine, whether that
|
|
Procedure be according to _the strict Rules of Justice and Equity_?
|
|
It is manifest, that this Man had broke no _Law_; and you know, Sir,
|
|
that where there is no Law, there can be no Transgression: And, Sir,
|
|
methinks you cannot but know, that it is highly _unjust_ to punish a
|
|
Man by a _Law_, to which the Fact committed is _Antecedent._ The Law
|
|
ever looks _forward_, but never _backward_; but if once we come to
|
|
punish Men, by vertue of Laws _Ex post Facto_, Farewel _Magna
|
|
Charta_, and _English Liberties_, for no Man can ever be _safe_, but
|
|
may be punished for every Action he does by Laws made afterwards.
|
|
This in my humble Opinion, both the Light of Nature and Laws of
|
|
Justice abhor, and is what ought to be detested by all Good Men.
|
|
|
|
_Summum jus, est summa injuria._
|
|
|
|
Moreover, this is not according to the procedure of the
|
|
_supream Judge of all the Earth_, (who cannot but do right) which is
|
|
the most perfect Rule for _Humane Gods_ to copy after. You know,
|
|
Sir, that he will Judge and punish Men, according to that _Light and
|
|
Law_ they were favour'd with; And that he will not punish the
|
|
_Heathen_ for disobeying the Gospel, of which they were intirely
|
|
ignorant.
|
|
|
|
The end of Humane Law is to fix the boundaries within which Men
|
|
ought to keep themselves; But if any are so hardy and presumptuous as
|
|
to break through them, doubtless they deserve punishment. Now, If
|
|
this _Printer_ had transgress'd any Law, he ought to have been
|
|
presented by a Grand Jury, and a fair Tryal brought on.
|
|
|
|
I would further observe to your Honour the danger of ill
|
|
Precedents, and that this Precedent _will not sleep_; And, Sir, can
|
|
you bear to think that Posterity will have Reason to Curse you on the
|
|
Account hereof! By this our Religion may suffer extreamly hereafter;
|
|
for, whatever those Ministers (if any such there were) who have
|
|
push'd on this matter, may think of it, they have made a Rod for
|
|
themselves in times to come, Blessed be God, we have a good King at
|
|
present; but if it should please him for our Sins to punish us with a
|
|
bad one, we may have a _S_ ------ _y_ that will so _Supervise_ our
|
|
Ministers Sermons, as to suffer them to print none at all.
|
|
|
|
I would also humbly remind your Honour, that you were formerly
|
|
led into an Error, which you afterwards Publickly and Solemnly (and I
|
|
doubt not, Sincerely) Confess'd and repented of; and Sir, ought not
|
|
this to make you the more Cautious & Circumspect in your Actions
|
|
which relate to the publick all your Days?
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, February 4, 1722/3
|
|
|
|
_On Titles of Honour_
|
|
|
|
_Mero meridie si dixerit illi tenebras esse, credit._
|
|
|
|
There is nothing in which Mankind reproach themselves more
|
|
than in their Diversity of Opinions. Every Man sets himself above
|
|
another in his own Opinion, and there are not two Men in the World
|
|
whose Sentiments are alike in every thing. Hence it comes to pass,
|
|
that the same Passages in the Holy Scriptures or the Works of the
|
|
Learned, are wrested to the meaning of two opposite Parties, of
|
|
contrary Opinions, as if the Passages they recite were like our
|
|
Master _Janus_, looking _two ways at once_, or like Lawyers, who with
|
|
equal Force of Argument, can plead either for the _Plaintiff_ or
|
|
_Defendant._
|
|
|
|
The most absurd and ridiculous Opinions, are sometimes spread
|
|
by the least colour of Argument: But if they stop at the first
|
|
Broachers, _they_ have still the Pleasure of being wiser (in their
|
|
own Conceits) than the rest of the World, and can with the greatest
|
|
Confidence pass a Sentence of Condemnation upon the Reason of all
|
|
Mankind, who dissent from the peculiar Whims of their troubled
|
|
Brains.
|
|
|
|
We were easily led into these Reflections at the last Meeting
|
|
of our Club, when one of the Company read to us some Passages from a
|
|
zealous Author against _Hatt-Honour_, _Titular Respects_, &c. which
|
|
we will communicate to the Reader for the Diversion of this Week, if
|
|
he is dispos'd to be merry with the Folly of his Fellow-Creature.
|
|
|
|
`_Honour_, Friend, _says he_, properly ascends, & not descends;
|
|
yet the Hat, when the Head is uncover'd, _descends_, and therefore
|
|
there can be no Honour in it. Besides, Honour was from the
|
|
_Beginning_, but Hats are an Invention of a _late Time_, and
|
|
consequently true Honour standeth not therein.
|
|
|
|
`In old Time it was no disrespect for Men and Women to be
|
|
call'd by their own Names: _Adam_, was never called _Master_ Adam; we
|
|
never read of Noah _Esquire_, Lot _Knight_ and _Baronet_, nor the
|
|
_Right Honourable_ Abraham, _Viscount_ Mesopotamia, _Baron of_
|
|
Carran; no, no, they were plain Men, honest Country Grasiers, that
|
|
took Care of their Families and their Flocks. _Moses_ was a great
|
|
Prophet, and _Aaron_ a Priest of the Lord; but we never read of the
|
|
_Reverend_ Moses, nor the _Right Reverend Father in God_, Aaron, by
|
|
Divine Providence, _Lord Arch-Bishop of_ Israel: Thou never sawest
|
|
_Madam_ Rebecca in the Bible, my _Lady_ Rachel, nor _Mary_, tho' a
|
|
Princess of the Blood after the Death of _Joseph_, call'd the
|
|
_Princess Dowager of_ Nazareth; no, plain _Rebecca_, _Rachel_,
|
|
_Mary_, or the _Widow_ Mary, or the like: It was no Incivility then
|
|
to mention their naked Names as they were expressed.'
|
|
|
|
If common civility, and a generous Deportment among Mankind, be
|
|
not put out of Countenance by the profound Reasoning of this Author,
|
|
we hope they will continue to treat one another handsomely to the end
|
|
of the World. We will not pretend an Answer to these Arguments
|
|
against _modern Decency_ and _Titles of Honour_; yet one of our Club
|
|
will undertake to prove, that tho' _Abraham_ was not styl'd _Right
|
|
Honourable_, yet he had the Title of _Lord_ given him by his Wife
|
|
_Sarah_, which he thinks entitles her to the Honour of _My Lady_
|
|
Sarah; and _Rachel_ being married into the same Family, he concludes
|
|
she may deserve the Title of _My Lady_ Rachel. But this is but the
|
|
Opinion of one Man; it was never put to Vote in the Society.
|
|
|
|
_P. S._ At the last Meeting of our Club, it was unanimously
|
|
agreed, That all Letters to be inserted in this Paper, should come
|
|
directed to old _Janus_; whereof our Correspondents are to take
|
|
Notice, and conform themselves accordingly.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, February 18, 1722/3
|
|
|
|
_High Tide in Boston_
|
|
|
|
_Boston, March_ 4.
|
|
On Lord's Day, the 24th past, we were surprized with the
|
|
extraordinary Heighth of the Tide, which fill'd most of the Streets
|
|
as well as Cellars near the Water, insomuch that many People living
|
|
in Drawbridge-Street, Union-Street, and some other Places, were
|
|
carry'd to their Houses in Canooes, after the Morning Service was
|
|
over. In some Houses the Water rose so high in their lower Rooms as
|
|
that they were oblig'd to run away with their Meat half dress'd upon
|
|
their Spits and in their Potts into some of their Neighbours, or into
|
|
their upper Rooms, their Fire being all put out, and the Wood
|
|
floating about the Rooms. The Cordwood, Shingles, Staves, &c. were
|
|
all wash'd off the Wharffs and carry'd into the Harbour, or left in
|
|
the Streets after the Tide was down. The Water rose so high in the
|
|
Ship Carpenters Yards, that they fear'd the Vessels would be carried
|
|
off the Stocks, and made them fast with Ropes to the Tops of the
|
|
Houses. The Loss sustain'd by this Tide (in Town and Country) is
|
|
reckon'd by some to be as great as that by the Fire in 1711.
|
|
Charlestown likewise suffer'd very much; and we hear a great Number
|
|
of Whaleboats have been carry'd from the shore towards Cape Codd,
|
|
where the Tide was never known to come before. They write from
|
|
Newport on Rhode-Island, that the Tide has entirely wash'd away
|
|
several Wharffs, and done great Damage in several Warehouses and
|
|
Dwelling Houses near the Water. By an Article in the Boston
|
|
News-Letter of Thursday last, we are told, that, _The many great
|
|
Wharffs which since the last overflowing Tides have been run out into
|
|
the Harbour, and fill'd so great a Part of the_ Bason, _have methinks
|
|
contributed something not inconsiderable to the Rise of the Water
|
|
upon us._ And upon the Authority of this News Letter, some begin to
|
|
blame the Dutch for damming out the Sea, and sending the Tide over
|
|
the Atlantick upon us: Some more reasonably conclude, that a large
|
|
Fleet of Ships have been sunk in the Storm upon our Coast, (the Wind
|
|
blowing hard at North East,) which occasion'd the rising of the Tide.
|
|
Others have upon this Account, framed a new Hypothesis to solve the
|
|
Ph;aenomena of Noah's Flood, and very rationally suppose, that the
|
|
Antediluvians brought the Deluge upon themselves by running too many
|
|
Great Wharffs out into their Harbours. So that the Notions _(which
|
|
were not without their Probabilities)_ of _Burnet_, _Warren_,
|
|
_Whiston_, &c. who were troubled with the Distemper called
|
|
_Hypothesimania_, seem now less probable than ever.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, March 4, 1722/3
|
|
|
|
_Timothy Wagstaff_
|
|
|
|
_Quo semel est imbuta recens, servabit odorem Testa diu._ ------
|
|
|
|
_To old Master_ JANUS.
|
|
|
|
_Sir_,
|
|
The extravagant Notions which some Men entertain from the
|
|
Influence of Education and Custom, may be thought worth Notice in
|
|
your Paper, if we consider only, that the Sufferings of its late
|
|
Publisher were owing in a great measure to his carrying it on in an
|
|
_unusual Method._ Had he staid till some Gentlemen of the best
|
|
Reputation in our Country had run the venture of being witty, and
|
|
wrote a competent Number of _Joco-Serious Dialogues_, he might have
|
|
continu'd his Paper without incurring the charge of _Shocking and
|
|
Heaven-rending Blasphemy!_ I must ask Mr. _Symmes_'s Pardon, if I
|
|
improve his late _Joco-Serious_ Discourse concerning Regular Singing,
|
|
in Vindication of the _Courant_: And if I am as merry with the
|
|
_Anti-Couranteers_ as he is with the scrupulous Consciences of his
|
|
_Anti-Regular-Singers_, I may yet hope to find Five able Hands in
|
|
Town and Country, who will (at least) approve of the _Substance_ and
|
|
_Design_ of this Letter.
|
|
|
|
And now, you Gentlemen, who are the avowed Enemies of the
|
|
_Courant_, let me beseech you to beware of a certain _Joco-Serious
|
|
Dialogue_, wrote by a Clergyman, (Heaven forgive him!) which
|
|
_inevitably tends to the Subversion of your Religion._ Have you not
|
|
often said, that the _Courant_ offended GOD because it offended _good
|
|
People_? And has not _he_ (think you) offended many a weak Brother,
|
|
almost as weak as your selves, by declaring against the _good old
|
|
Way_ of Singing? Are not the Select-Men of _Milton_ good Men, who
|
|
have the _Protestant Religion_ so much at heart as to forbid the
|
|
teaching of Regular Singing in their _Borders_, lest it should infect
|
|
the whole Town with _Popery_; and will not they (think you) be
|
|
offended with this abominable _Joco-Serious Confabulation_? You make
|
|
a grievous Complaint against the _Courant_, because (you say) it
|
|
_exposes the Failings of particular Persons._ And does not Mr. Symmes
|
|
(not to mention all his broad Hints) in Scorn call one of his
|
|
Neighbours a _good Man_ who is _shy of his Bible_, &c. Nay does he
|
|
not say of one whom he calls a _Reverend Brother_, that _whatever he
|
|
is for a Christian, he is but a poor Tool of a Scholar_, and ridicule
|
|
him both in _English_ and _Latin_? Phy upon him! Has he never heard
|
|
of the Fate of Mr. _Turner_ (a Gentleman of the Law) who was indicted
|
|
by the Grand-Jury of _Plymouth_ County for _prophaning the Name of
|
|
Justice_ O ------ s, for which he was oblig'd to stand at the Bar and
|
|
plead _Not Guilty_ before the whole Court? And does he not know,
|
|
that a famous Country Justice sent a Warrant after poor _Jeremiah
|
|
Levett_ of _Rochester_, because he _(being of no good Name and Fame)
|
|
did upon the 19th Day of_ March, 1717,18. _give out and utter
|
|
reviling and blasphemous Words against a Justice of the Peace_? I
|
|
can assure him this is true, for I have a Copy of the Warrant now in
|
|
my Hands. And is it not a greater Crime to _write Blasphemy against
|
|
a Minister of the Gospel_, than to _give out and utter reviling and
|
|
blasphemous Words against a Justice of the Peace_? But further
|
|
Gentlemen, I desire you to consider how intollerably he has abus'd
|
|
your _Ancestors_, by saying, that _some of your Fathers and
|
|
Grandfathers could not read_, and that _they are gone to Heaven the
|
|
wrong way._ The Reverend Mr. _Alsop_ indeed says, that some Men are
|
|
_sent to Heaven upon pain of Death_; but shou'd you meet with such a
|
|
Phrase in the _Courant_, wou'd you not presently affirm it to be
|
|
_against the_ Principles _of Religion_? I have but one thing more to
|
|
observe to you, Gentlemen, and that is, that you bitterly inveigh
|
|
against the _Courant_ when you find things _serious_ and _comical_
|
|
inserted in the same Paper, tho' in different Pieces: But has not Mr.
|
|
_Symmes_ quoted Texts of Scripture in the same Page wherein he
|
|
reproaches the Anti-Regular-Singers with their Ignorance of the
|
|
_Gun-Powder-Plot_? And has he not mixt the _Faithful Servants of
|
|
Jesus Christ_, _Learning and Wisdom and Piety_, _Family Religion_,
|
|
&c. in the same Page with _Barns_, _Ploughs_ and _Carts_, and whole
|
|
_Barrels of Herring_? Is he not often very witty and good humour'd
|
|
at the proper Cost and Charge of _Solomon_, the Prophets and
|
|
Apostles? _&c._ What else can you make of his saying, (p. 34.) `In
|
|
Plain English Neighbour, a _broad Laugh_, is all the Answer such
|
|
_whymsical_ Objections deserve: or rather, a hearty _Scoul_ or deep
|
|
_Sigh_, to observe the doleful Effects of Man's Apostacy. To be
|
|
oppress'd with such Objections would _make a wise man mad_, Eccl.
|
|
7.7.?'
|
|
|
|
Upon the whole, Friend _Janus_, we may conclude, that the
|
|
_Anti-Couranteers_ are a sort of _Precisians_, who mistaking Religion
|
|
for the peculiar Whims of their own distemper'd Brain, are for
|
|
cutting or stretching all Men to their own Standard of Thinking. I
|
|
wish Mr. _Symmes_'s Character may secure him from the Woes and Curses
|
|
they are so free of dispensing among their dissenting Neighbours, who
|
|
are so unfortunate as to discover a Chearfulness becoming
|
|
Christianity. Sir _Thomas Pope Blount_ in his _Essays_, has said
|
|
enough to convince us of the Unreasonableness of this sour Temper
|
|
among Christians; and with his Words I shall conclude.
|
|
|
|
`Certainly (_says he_) of all Sorts of Men, none do more
|
|
mistake the Divine Nature, and by consequence do greater mischief to
|
|
Religion, than those who would perswade us, That to be truly
|
|
Religious, is to renounce all the Pleasures of Humane Life; As if
|
|
Religion were a _Caput Mortuum_, a heavy, dull, insipid thing; that
|
|
has neither Heat, Life, nor motion in it: Or were intended for a
|
|
_Medusa_'s Head to transform Men into Monuments of Stone. Whereas
|
|
(really) Religion is of an Active Principle, it not only elevates the
|
|
Mind, and invigorates the Fancy; but it admits of Mirth, and
|
|
pleasantness of Conversation, and indulges us in our Christian
|
|
Liberties; and for this reason, says the Lord _Bacon_, _It is no less
|
|
impious to shut where God Almighty has open'd, than to open where God
|
|
Almighty has shut._ But, I say, if Men will suffer themselves to be
|
|
thus impos'd upon, as to Believe, That Religion requires any such
|
|
unnecessary Rigours and Austerities, all that can be said, is, The
|
|
fault does not lye in Religion, but in their Understandings; Nor is
|
|
this to paint Religion like her self, but rather like one of the
|
|
Furies with nothing but Whips and Snakes about her. And so, they
|
|
Worship _God_ just as the _Indians_ do the _Devil_, not as they love
|
|
him, but because they are afraid of him. It is not therefore to be
|
|
wonder'd, that since their Notions of God are such, their Way of
|
|
Worship is agreeable thereunto; And hence it is, That these Men serve
|
|
our God, just as some Idolaters Worship theirs; with painful
|
|
Convulsions of Body, and unnatural Distortions of Face, and all the
|
|
dismal solemnities of a gloomy Soul, and a dejected Countenance. Now
|
|
these are the Men, who upon all Occasions are so apt to condemn their
|
|
Brethren, and, as if they were of God's Cabinet Council, pretend to
|
|
know the Final Decrees of the _Almighty._ But alas! who is sufficient
|
|
for these Things? Certainly, no Man can render himself more
|
|
foolishly ridiculous, than by meddling with these _Secrets_ of
|
|
_Heaven_.'
|
|
_I am, Sir, Your Humble Servant,_
|
|
Timothy Wagstaff.
|
|
|
|
_The New-England Courant_, April 15, 1723
|
|
|
|
_Abigail Twitterfield_
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|
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_To assert, That because Posterity is a Blessing, therefore those who
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want it are cursed, is a meer_ Platonick Dream.
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_Honest Doctor_ JANUS,
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Seeing you have ever manifested a Readiness to assist the fair
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|
Sex as there has been Occasion, we flatter our selves that what we
|
|
have now to offer, will by your next Paper be convey'd to the
|
|
Publick, that so all the World may see to what a Pitch our
|
|
Resentments are rais'd, and judge whether there be not just Occasion!
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|
Know then, Sir, (and we would have it known to all Christian
|
|
People) that we have not long since been intollerably affronted in
|
|
the publick Assembly: Our Spiritual Guide taking Occasion to exclaim
|
|
at an high Rate against the _Sin of Barrenness_, we Nine (now met
|
|
together) thought our selves particularly singled out, and pointed at
|
|
in his Discourse.
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|
We readily confess, it is a great Blessing to have Posterity,
|
|
but can by no means think the Want of it so heavy a Curse as was
|
|
represented; and we think it was prov'd to be so in a very lame and
|
|
sophistical manner: For, by this manner of _Ratiocination_, one may
|
|
as well argue thus: _Earthly Riches, the Confluence of outward good
|
|
things, is a Blessing_; Ergo, _Poverty is a Judgment and heavy Curse.
|
|
Desirable Friends are a Blessing_; Ergo, _He that is bereft of them
|
|
is cursed_, &c.
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|
|
|
For our own parts, tho' Children are witheld from us, and we
|
|
see not the lovely _Olive Plants_ around our _Tables_, yet (we speak
|
|
for our selves respectively) we live a chearful, thankful Life,
|
|
rejoycing in the other outward Blessings which we have; nor do we
|
|
envy (for _Envy_ is no _Vertue_, tho' falsly so call'd by some) those
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|
who enjoy the Blessing of Children. And seeing we are no more the
|
|
_blameable Cause_ of this our Unhappiness, than Persons who are born
|
|
blind, or Ideots, we are far from thinking such a _humbling Curse_
|
|
and _Reproach_ belongs to us, as we have been told: For which reason
|
|
we think it the more intollerable, to be insulted with the bitter
|
|
Names of _dry Sticks_, _sapless Trees_, _unfruitful Vines_, &c.
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|
Job.24.21. _He evil entreateth the barren that beareth not._
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Who could hear themselves _tantaliz'd_ at such a Rate, and not
|
|
be vext intollerably, beyond Measure!
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|
_We went to Church to hear the Word,
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|
But to our Grief we found
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|
Our Ears oppress'd with things absurd;
|
|
A vain and empty sound._
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But we were the more surpriz'd at this Entertainment, when we
|
|
reckon'd up no less than Fourteen Persons (from the greatest to the
|
|
least) below Stairs, besides a considerable Number above Stairs, who
|
|
were call'd upon to be _humbled under the Reproach and Curse of
|
|
Barrenness_; and when we consider'd, that Four of our Reverend
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|
Pastors in this Town are deny'd the Blessing of Children.
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|
Upon the whole, we conclude, That if Ministers would deliver
|
|
nothing but the plain substantial Truths of the Gospel, they would
|
|
best _magnify their Office_, and edify their Hearers. They ought not
|
|
to calculate their Discourses to the Circumstances of themselves and
|
|
Families, when they are _marryed_, _bereav'd of near Relations_, or
|
|
have _Children born to them_, &c. but should study _to know the State
|
|
of their Flocks in general_, and acquit themselves in their Office
|
|
accordingly.
|
|
_Sign'd,_
|
|
Abigail Twitterfield,
|
|
_In the Name of the rest_.
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_P. S._ It is reported, that there are nineteen _Virgins_ who
|
|
are resolv'd to lead a Single Life, least they should incur the
|
|
_Reproach and Curse of Barrenness_.
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|
|
_The New-England Courant_, July 8, 1723
|
|
_A Dissertation on Liberty and Necessity, Pleasure and Pain_
|
|
|
|
_Whatever is, is in its Causes just
|
|
Since all Things are by Fate; but purblind Man
|
|
Sees but a part o' th' Chain, the nearest Link,
|
|
His Eyes not carrying to the equal Beam
|
|
That poises all above._
|
|
Dryd.
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|
|
To Mr. _J. R._
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|
|
_SIR,_
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|
I have here, according to your Request, given you my _present_
|
|
Thoughts of the _general State of Things_ in the Universe. Such as
|
|
they are, you have them, and are welcome to 'em; and if they yield
|
|
you any Pleasure or Satisfaction, I shall think my Trouble
|
|
sufficiently compensated. I know my Scheme will be liable to many
|
|
Objections from a less discerning Reader than your self; but it is
|
|
not design'd for those who can't understand it. I need not give you
|
|
any Caution to distinguish the hypothetical Parts of the Argument
|
|
from the conclusive: You will easily perceive what I design for
|
|
Demonstration, and what for Probability only. The whole I leave
|
|
entirely to you, and shall value my self more or less on this
|
|
account, in proportion to your Esteem and Approbation.
|
|
|
|
SECT. I. _Of_ Liberty _and_ Necessity.
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|
I. There is said to be a_ First Mover, _who is called_ GOD,
|
|
_Maker of the Universe._
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|
|
|
II. _He is said to be all-wise, all-good, all powerful._
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|
|
|
These two Propositions being allow'd and asserted by People of
|
|
almost every Sect and Opinion; I have here suppos'd them granted, and
|
|
laid them down as the Foundation of my Argument; What follows then,
|
|
being a Chain of Consequences truly drawn from them, will stand or
|
|
fall as they are true or false.
|
|
|
|
III. _If He is all-good, whatsoever He doth must be good._
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|
IV. _If He is all-wise, whatsoever He doth must be wise._
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|
|
|
The Truth of these Propositions, with relation to the two
|
|
first, I think may be justly call'd evident; since, either that
|
|
infinite Goodness will act what is ill, or infinite Wisdom what is
|
|
not wise, is too glaring a Contradiction not to be perceiv'd by any
|
|
Man of common Sense, and deny'd as soon as understood.
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|
|
|
V. _If He is all-powerful, there can be nothing either existing
|
|
or acting in the Universe_ against _or_ without _his Consent; and
|
|
what He consents to must be good, because He is good; therefore Evil
|
|
doth not exist._
|
|
|
|
_Unde Malum?_ has been long a Question, and many of the Learned
|
|
have perplex'd themselves and Readers to little Purpose in Answer to
|
|
it. That there are both Things and Actions to which we give the Name
|
|
of _Evil_, is not here deny'd, as _Pain_, _Sickness_, _Want_,
|
|
_Theft_, _Murder_, &c. but that these and the like are not in reality
|
|
_Evils_, _Ills_, or _Defects_ in the Order of the Universe, is
|
|
demonstrated in the next Section, as well as by this and the
|
|
following Proposition. Indeed, to suppose any Thing to exist or be
|
|
done, _contrary_ to the Will of the Almighty, is to suppose him not
|
|
almighty; or that Something (the Cause of _Evil_) is more mighty than
|
|
the Almighty; an Inconsistence that I think no One will defend: And
|
|
to deny any Thing or Action, which he consents to the existence of,
|
|
to be good, is entirely to destroy his two Attributes of _Wisdom_ and
|
|
_Goodness._
|
|
|
|
_There is nothing done in the Universe_, say the Philosophers,
|
|
_but what God either does, or_ permits _to be done._ This, as He is
|
|
Almighty, is certainly true: But what need of this Distinction
|
|
between _doing_ and _permitting_? Why, first they take it for
|
|
granted that many Things in the Universe exist in such a Manner as is
|
|
not for the best, and that many Actions are done which ought not to
|
|
be done, or would be better undone; these Things or Actions they
|
|
cannot ascribe to God as His, because they have already attributed to
|
|
Him infinite Wisdom and Goodness; Here then is the Use of the Word
|
|
_Permit_; He _permits_ them to be done, _say they._ But we will
|
|
reason thus: If God permits an Action to be done, it is because he
|
|
wants either _Power_ or _Inclination_ to hinder it; in saying he
|
|
wants _Power_, we deny Him to be _almighty_; and if we say Hewants
|
|
_Inclination_ or _Will_, it must be, either because He is not Good,
|
|
or the Action is not _evil_, (for all Evil is contrary to the Essence
|
|
of _infinite Goodness._) The former is inconsistent with his
|
|
before-given Attribute of Goodness, therefore the latter must be
|
|
true.
|
|
|
|
It will be said, perhaps, that _God permits evil Actions to be
|
|
done, for_ wise _Ends and Purposes._ But this Objection destroys
|
|
itself; for whatever an infinitely good God hath wise Ends in
|
|
suffering to _be_, must be good, is thereby made good, and cannot be
|
|
otherwise.
|
|
|
|
VI. _If a Creature is made by God, it must depend upon God, and
|
|
receive all its Power from Him; with which Power the Creature can do
|
|
nothing contrary to the Will of God, because God is Almighty; what is
|
|
not contrary to His Will, must be agreeable to it; what is agreeable
|
|
to it, must be good, because He is Good; therefore a Creature can do
|
|
nothing but what is good._
|
|
|
|
This Proposition is much to the same Purpose with the former,
|
|
but more particular; and its Conclusion is as just and evident. Tho'
|
|
a Creature may do many Actions which by his Fellow Creatures will be
|
|
nam'd _Evil_, and which will naturally and necessarily cause or bring
|
|
upon the Doer, certain _Pains_ (which will likewise be call'd
|
|
_Punishments_;) yet this Proposition proves, that he cannot act what
|
|
will be in itself really Ill, or displeasing to God. And that the
|
|
painful Consequences of his evil Actions (_so call'd_) are not, as
|
|
indeed they ought not to be, _Punishments_ or Unhappinesses, will be
|
|
shewn hereafter.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, the late learned Author of _The Religion of
|
|
Nature_, (which I send you herewith) has given us a Rule or Scheme,
|
|
whereby to discover which of our Actions ought to be esteem'd and
|
|
denominated _good_, and which _evil_: It is in short this, "Every
|
|
Action which is done according to _Truth_, is good; and every Action
|
|
contrary to Truth, is evil: To act according to Truth is to use and
|
|
esteem every Thing as what it is, _&c._ Thus if _A_ steals a Horse
|
|
from _B_, and rides away upon him, he uses him not as what he is in
|
|
Truth, _viz._ the Property of another, but as his own, which is
|
|
contrary to Truth, and therefore _evil_". But, as this Gentleman
|
|
himself says, (Sect. I. Prop. VI.) "In order to judge rightly what
|
|
any Thing is, it must be consider'd, not only what it is in one
|
|
Respect, but also what it may be in any other Respect; and the whole
|
|
Description of the Thing ought to be taken in:" So in this Case it
|
|
ought to be consider'd, that _A_ is naturally a _covetous_ Being,
|
|
feeling an Uneasiness in the want of _B_'s Horse, which produces an
|
|
Inclination for stealing him, stronger than his Fear of Punishment
|
|
for so doing. This is _Truth_ likewise, and _A_ acts according to it
|
|
when he steals the Horse. Besides, if it is prov'd to be a _Truth_,
|
|
that _A_ has not Power over his own Actions, it will be indisputable
|
|
that he acts according to Truth, and impossible he should do
|
|
otherwise.
|
|
|
|
I would not be understood by this to encourage or defend Theft;
|
|
'tis only for the sake of the Argument, and will certainly have no
|
|
_ill Effect._ The Order and Course of Things will not be affected by
|
|
Reasoning of this Kind; and 'tis as just and necessary, and as much
|
|
according to Truth, for _B_ to dislike and punish the Theft of his
|
|
Horse, as it is for _A_ to steal him.
|
|
|
|
VII. _If the Creature is thus limited in his Actions, being
|
|
able to do only such Things as God would have him to do, and not
|
|
being able to refuse doing what God would have done; then he can have
|
|
no such Thing as Liberty, Free-will or Power to do or refrain an
|
|
Action._
|
|
|
|
By _Liberty_ is sometimes understood the Absence of Opposition;
|
|
and in this Sense, indeed, all our Actions may be said to be the
|
|
Effects of our Liberty: But it is a Liberty of the same Nature with
|
|
the Fall of a heavy Body to the Ground; it has Liberty to fall, that
|
|
is, it meets with nothing to hinder its Fall, but at the same Time it
|
|
is necessitated to fall, and has no Power or Liberty to remain
|
|
suspended.
|
|
|
|
But let us take the Argument in another View, and suppose
|
|
ourselves to be, in the common sense of the Word, _Free Agents._ As
|
|
Man is a Part of this great Machine, the Universe, his regular Acting
|
|
is requisite to the regular moving of the whole. Among the many
|
|
Things which lie before him to be done, he may, as he is at Liberty
|
|
and his Choice influenc'd by nothing, (for so it must be, or he is
|
|
not at Liberty) chuse any one, and refuse the rest. Now there is
|
|
every Moment something _best_ to be done, which is alone then _good_,
|
|
and with respect to which, every Thing else is at that Time _evil._
|
|
In order to know which is best to be done, and which not, it is
|
|
requisite that we should have at one View all the intricate
|
|
Consequences of every Action with respect to the general Order and
|
|
Scheme of the Universe, both present and future; but they are
|
|
innumerable and incomprehensible by any Thing but Omniscience. As we
|
|
cannot know these, we have but as one Chance to ten thousand, to hit
|
|
on the right Action; we should then be perpetually blundering about
|
|
in the Dark, and putting the Scheme in Disorder; for every wrong
|
|
Action of a Part, is a Defect or Blemish in the Order of the Whole.
|
|
Is it not necessary then, that our Actions should be over-rul'd and
|
|
govern'd by an all-wise Providence? -- How exact and regular is every
|
|
Thing in the _natural_ World! How wisely in every Part contriv'd!
|
|
We cannot here find the least Defect! Those who have study'd the
|
|
mere animal and vegetable Creation, demonstrate that nothing can be
|
|
more harmonious and beautiful! All the heavenly Bodies, the Stars
|
|
and Planets, are regulated with the utmost Wisdom! And can we
|
|
suppose less Care to be taken in the Order of the _moral_ than in the
|
|
_natural_ System? It is as if an ingenious Artificer, having fram'd
|
|
a curious Machine or Clock, and put its many intricate Wheels and
|
|
Powers in such a Dependance on one another, that the whole might move
|
|
in the most exact Order and Regularity, had nevertheless plac'd in it
|
|
several other Wheels endu'd with an independent _Self-Motion_, but
|
|
ignorant of the general Interest of the Clock; and these would every
|
|
now and then be moving wrong, disordering the true Movement, and
|
|
making continual Work for the Mender; which might better be
|
|
prevented, by depriving them of that Power of Self-Motion, and
|
|
placing them in a Dependance on the regular Part of the Clock.
|
|
|
|
|
|
VIII. _If there is no such Thing as Free-Will in Creatures,
|
|
there can be neither Merit nor Demerit in Creatures._
|
|
|
|
IX. _And therefore every Creature must be equally esteem'd by
|
|
the Creator._
|
|
|
|
These Propositions appear to be the necessary Consequences of
|
|
the former. And certainly no Reason can be given, why the Creator
|
|
should prefer in his Esteem one Part of His Works to another, if with
|
|
equal Wisdom and Goodness he design'd and created them all, since all
|
|
Ill or Defect, as contrary to his Nature, is excluded by his Power.
|
|
We will sum up the Argument thus, When the Creator first design'd the
|
|
Universe, either it was His Will and Intention that all Things should
|
|
exist and be in the Manner they are at this Time; or it was his Will
|
|
they should _be_ otherwise _i. e._ in a different Manner: To say it
|
|
was His Will Things should be otherwise than they are, is to say
|
|
Somewhat hath contradicted His Will, and broken His Measures, which
|
|
is impossible because inconsistent with his Power; therefore we must
|
|
allow that all Things exist now in a Manner agreeable to His Will,
|
|
and in consequence of that are all equally Good, and therefore
|
|
equally esteem'd by Him.
|
|
|
|
I proceed now to shew, that as all the Works of the Creator are
|
|
equally esteem'd by Him, so they are, as in Justice they ought to be,
|
|
equally us'd.
|
|
|
|
SECT. II. _Of_ Pleasure _and_ Pain.
|
|
|
|
I. _When a Creature is form'd and endu'd with Life, 'tis
|
|
suppos'd to receive a Capacity of the Sensation of_ Uneasiness _or_
|
|
Pain.
|
|
|
|
It is this distinguishes Life and Consciousness from unactive
|
|
unconscious Matter. To know or be sensible of Suffering or being
|
|
acted upon is _to live_; and whatsoever is not so, among created
|
|
Things, is properly and truly _dead._
|
|
|
|
All _Pain_ and _Uneasiness_ proceeds at first from and is
|
|
caus'd by Somewhat without and distinct from the Mind itself. The
|
|
Soul must first be acted upon before it can re-act. In the Beginning
|
|
of Infancy it is as if it were not; it is not conscious of its own
|
|
Existence, till it has receiv'd the first Sensation of _Pain_; then,
|
|
and not before, it begins to feel itself, is rous'd, and put into
|
|
Action; then it discovers its Powers and Faculties, and exerts them
|
|
to expel the Uneasiness. Thus is the Machine set on work; this is
|
|
Life. We are first mov'd by _Pain_, and the whole succeeding Course
|
|
of our Lives is but one continu'd Series of Action with a View to be
|
|
freed from it. As fast as we have excluded one Uneasiness another
|
|
appears, otherwise the Motion would cease. If a continual Weight is
|
|
not apply'd, the Clock will stop. And as soon as the Avenues of
|
|
Uneasiness to the Soul are choak'd up or cut off, we are dead, we
|
|
think and act no more.
|
|
|
|
II. _This Uneasiness, whenever felt, produces_ Desire _to be
|
|
freed from it, great in exact proportion to the Uneasiness._
|
|
|
|
Thus is _Uneasiness_ the first Spring and Cause of all Action;
|
|
for till we are uneasy in Rest, we can have no Desire to move, and
|
|
without Desire of moving there can be no voluntary Motion. The
|
|
Experience of every Man who has observ'd his own Actions will evince
|
|
the Truth of this; and I think nothing need be said to prove that the
|
|
_Desire_ will be equal to the _Uneasiness_, for the very Thing
|
|
implies as much: It is not _Uneasiness_ unless we desire to be freed
|
|
from it, nor a great _Uneasiness_ unless the consequent Desire is
|
|
great.
|
|
|
|
I might here observe, how necessary a Thing in the Order and
|
|
Design of the Universe this _Pain_ or _Uneasiness_ is, and how
|
|
beautiful in its Place! Let us but suppose it just now banish'd the
|
|
World entirely, and consider the Consequence of it: All the Animal
|
|
Creation would immediately stand stock still, exactly in the Posture
|
|
they were in the Moment Uneasiness departed; not a Limb, not a Finger
|
|
would henceforth move; we should all be reduc'd to the Condition of
|
|
Statues, dull and unactive: Here I should continue to sit motionless
|
|
with the Pen in my Hand thus ------ and neither leave my Seat nor
|
|
write one Letter more. This may appear odd at first View, but a
|
|
little Consideration will make it evident; for 'tis impossible to
|
|
assign any other Cause for the voluntary Motion of an Animal than its
|
|
_uneasiness_ in Rest. What a different Appearance then would the
|
|
Face of Nature make, without it! How necessary is it! And how
|
|
unlikely that the Inhabitants of the World ever were, or that the
|
|
Creator ever design'd they should be, exempt from it!
|
|
|
|
I would likewise observe here, that the VIIIth Proposition in
|
|
the preceding Section, viz. _That there is neither Merit nor
|
|
Demerit_, &c. is here again demonstrated, as infallibly, tho' in
|
|
another manner: For since _Freedom from Uneasiness_ is the End of all
|
|
our Actions, how is it possible for us to do any Thing disinterested?
|
|
-- How can any Action be meritorious of Praise or Dispraise, Reward
|
|
or Punishment, when the natural Principle of _Self-Love_ is the only
|
|
and the irresistible Motive to it?
|
|
|
|
III. _This_ Desire _is always fulfill'd or satisfy'd,_
|
|
|
|
In the _Design_ or _End_ of it, tho' not in the _Manner_: The
|
|
first is requisite, the latter not. To exemplify this, let us make a
|
|
Supposition; A Person is confin'd in a House which appears to be in
|
|
imminent Danger of Falling, this, as soon as perceiv'd, creates a
|
|
violent _Uneasiness_, and that instantly produces an equal strong
|
|
_Desire_, the _End_ of which is _freedom from the Uneasiness_, and
|
|
the _Manner_ or Way propos'd to gain this _End_, is _to get out of
|
|
the House._ Now if he is convinc'd by any Means, that he is mistaken,
|
|
and the House is not likely to fall, he is immediately freed from his
|
|
_Uneasiness_, and the _End_ of his Desire is attain'd as well as if
|
|
it had been in the _Manner_ desir'd, viz. _leaving the House._
|
|
|
|
All our different Desires and Passions proceed from and are
|
|
reducible to this one Point, _Uneasiness_, tho' the Means we propose
|
|
to ourselves for expelling of it are infinite. One proposes _Fame_,
|
|
another _Wealth_, a third _Power_, &c. as the Means to gain this
|
|
_End_; but tho' these are never attain'd, if the Uneasiness be
|
|
remov'd by some other Means, the _Desire_ is satisfy'd. Now during
|
|
the Course of Life we are ourselves continually removing successive
|
|
Uneasinesses as they arise, and the _last_ we suffer is remov'd by
|
|
the _sweet Sleep_ of Death.
|
|
|
|
IV. _The fulfilling or Satisfaction of this_ Desire, _produces
|
|
the Sensation of_ Pleasure, _great or small in exact proportion to
|
|
the_ Desire.
|
|
|
|
|
|
_Pleasure_ is that Satisfaction which arises in the Mind upon,
|
|
and is caus'd by, the accomplishment of our _Desires_, and by no
|
|
other Means at all; and those Desires being above shewn to be caus'd
|
|
by our _Pains_ or _Uneasinesses_, it follows that _Pleasure_ is
|
|
wholly caus'd by _Pain_, and by no other Thing at all.
|
|
|
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V. _Therefore the Sensation of_ Pleasure _is equal, or in exact
|
|
proportion to the Sensation of_ Pain.
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|
|
|
As the _Desire_ of being freed from Uneasiness is equal to the
|
|
_Uneasiness_, and the _Pleasure_ of satisfying that Desire equal to
|
|
the _Desire_, the _Pleasure_ thereby produc'd must necessarily be
|
|
equal to the _Uneasiness_ or _Pain_ which produces it: Of three
|
|
Lines, _A_, _B_, and _C_, if _A_ is equal to _B_, and _B_ to _C_, _C_
|
|
must be equal to _A._ And as our _Uneasinesses_ are always remov'd by
|
|
some Means or other, it follows that _Pleasure_ and _Pain_ are in
|
|
their Nature inseparable: So many Degrees as one Scale of the
|
|
Ballance descends, so many exactly the other ascends; and one cannot
|
|
rise or fall without the Fall or Rise of the other: 'Tis impossible
|
|
to taste of _Pleasure_, without feeling its preceding proportionate
|
|
_Pain_; or to be sensible of _Pain_, without having its necessary
|
|
Consequent _Pleasure_: The _highest Pleasure_ is only Consciousness
|
|
of Freedom from the _deepest Pain_, and Pain is not Pain to us unless
|
|
we ourselves are sensible of it. They go Hand in Hand; they cannot
|
|
be divided.
|
|
|
|
You have a View of the whole Argument in a few familiar
|
|
Examples: The _Pain_ of Abstinence from Food, as it is greater or
|
|
less, produces a greater or less _Desire_ of Eating, the
|
|
Accomplishment of this _Desire_ produces a greater or less _Pleasure_
|
|
proportionate to it. The _Pain_ of Confinement causes the _Desire_
|
|
of Liberty, which accomplish'd, yields a _Pleasure_ equal to that
|
|
_Pain_ of Confinement. The _Pain_ of Labour and Fatigue causes the
|
|
_Pleasure_ of Rest, equal to that _Pain._ The _Pain_ of Absence from
|
|
Friends, produces the _Pleasure_ of Meeting in exact proportion.
|
|
_&c._
|
|
|
|
This is the _fixt Nature_ of Pleasure and Pain, and will always
|
|
be found to be so by those who examine it.
|
|
|
|
One of the most common Arguments for the future Existence of
|
|
the Soul, is taken from the generally suppos'd Inequality of Pain and
|
|
Pleasure in the present; and this, notwithstanding the Difficulty by
|
|
outward Appearances to make a Judgment of another's Happiness, has
|
|
been look'd upon as almost unanswerable: but since _Pain_ naturally
|
|
and infallibly produces a _Pleasure_ in proportion to it, every
|
|
individual Creature must, in any State of _Life_, have an equal
|
|
Quantity of each, so that there is not, on that Account, any Occasion
|
|
for a future Adjustment.
|
|
|
|
Thus are all the Works of the Creator _equally_ us'd by him;
|
|
And no Condition of Life or Being is in itself better or preferable
|
|
to another: The Monarch is not more happy than the Slave, nor the
|
|
Beggar more miserable than _Croesus._ Suppose _A_, _B_, and _C_,
|
|
three distinct Beings; _A_ and _B_, animate, capable of _Pleasure_
|
|
and _Pain_, _C_ an inanimate Piece of Matter, insensible of either.
|
|
_A_ receives ten Degrees of _Pain_, which are necessarily succeeded
|
|
by ten Degrees of _Pleasure_: _B_ receives fifteen of _Pain_, and the
|
|
consequent equal Number of _Pleasure_: _C_ all the while lies
|
|
unconcern'd, and as he has not suffer'd the former, has no right to
|
|
the latter. What can be more equal and just than this? When the
|
|
Accounts come to be adjusted, _A_ has no Reason to complain that his
|
|
Portion of _Pleasure_ was five Degrees less than that of _B_, for his
|
|
Portion of _Pain_ was five Degrees less likewise: Nor has _B_ any
|
|
Reason to boast that his _Pleasure_ was five Degrees greater than
|
|
that of _A_, for his _Pain_ was proportionate: They are then both on
|
|
the same Foot with _C_, that is, they are neither Gainers nor Losers.
|
|
|
|
It will possibly be objected here, that even common Experience
|
|
shews us, there is not in Fact this Equality: "Some we see hearty,
|
|
brisk and chearful perpetually, while others are constantly burden'd
|
|
with a heavy Load of Maladies and Misfortunes, remaining for Years
|
|
perhaps in Poverty, Disgrace, or Pain, and die at last without any
|
|
Appearance of Recompence." Now tho' 'tis not necessary, when a
|
|
Proposition is demonstrated to be a general Truth, to shew in what
|
|
manner it agrees with the particular Circumstances of Persons, and
|
|
indeed ought not to be requir'd; yet, as this is a common Objection,
|
|
some Notice may be taken of it: And here let it be observ'd, that we
|
|
cannot be proper Judges of the good or bad Fortune of Others; we are
|
|
apt to imagine, that what would give us a great Uneasiness or a great
|
|
Satisfaction, has the same Effect upon others: we think, for
|
|
Instance, those unhappy, who must depend upon Charity for a mean
|
|
Subsistence, who go in Rags, fare hardly, and are despis'd and
|
|
scorn'd by all; not considering that Custom renders all these Things
|
|
easy, familiar, and even pleasant. When we see Riches, Grandeur and
|
|
a chearful Countenance, we easily imagine Happiness accompanies them,
|
|
when oftentimes 'tis quite otherwise: Nor is a constantly sorrowful
|
|
Look, attended with continual Complaints, an infallible Indication of
|
|
Unhappiness. In short, we can judge by nothing but Appearances, and
|
|
they are very apt to deceive us. Some put on a gay chearful Outside,
|
|
and appear to the World perfectly at Ease, tho' even then, some
|
|
inward Sting, some secret Pain imbitters all their Joys, and makes
|
|
the Ballance even: Others appear continually dejected and full of
|
|
Sorrow; but even Grief itself is sometimes _pleasant_, and Tears are
|
|
not always without their Sweetness: Besides, Some take a Satisfaction
|
|
in being thought unhappy, (as others take a Pride in being thought
|
|
humble,) these will paint their Misfortunes to others in the
|
|
strongest Colours, and leave no Means unus'd to make you think them
|
|
thoroughly miserable; so great a _Pleasure_ it is to them _to be
|
|
pitied_; Others retain the Form and outside Shew of Sorrow, long
|
|
after the Thing itself, with its Cause, is remov'd from the Mind; it
|
|
is a Habit they have acquir'd and cannot leave. These, with many
|
|
others that might be given, are Reasons why we cannot make a true
|
|
Estimate of the _Equality_ of the Happiness and Unhappiness of
|
|
others; and unless we could, Matter of Fact cannot be opposed to this
|
|
Hypothesis. Indeed, we are sometimes apt to think, that the
|
|
Uneasinesses we ourselves have had, outweigh our Pleasures; but the
|
|
Reason is this, the Mind takes no Account of the latter, they slip
|
|
away un-remark'd, when the former leave more lasting Impressions on
|
|
the Memory. But suppose we pass the greatest part of Life in Pain
|
|
and Sorrow, suppose we die by Torments and _think no more_, 'tis no
|
|
Diminution to the Truth of what is here advanc'd; for the _Pain_,
|
|
tho' exquisite, is not so to the _last_ Moments of Life, the Senses
|
|
are soon benumm'd, and render'd incapable of transmitting it so
|
|
sharply to the Soul as at first; She perceives it cannot hold long,
|
|
and 'tis an _exquisite Pleasure_ to behold the immediate Approaches
|
|
of Rest. This makes an Equivalent tho' Annihilation should follow:
|
|
For the Quantity of _Pleasure_ and _Pain_ is not to be measur'd by
|
|
its Duration, any more than the Quantity of Matter by its Extension;
|
|
and as one cubic Inch may be made to contain, by Condensation, as
|
|
much Matter as would fill ten thousand cubic Feet, being more
|
|
expanded, so one single Moment of _Pleasure_ may outweigh and
|
|
compensate an Age of _Pain._
|
|
|
|
It was owing to their Ignorance of the Nature of Pleasure and
|
|
Pain that the Antient Heathens believ'd the idle Fable of their
|
|
_Elizium_, that State of uninterrupted Ease and Happiness! The Thing
|
|
is intirely impossible in Nature! Are not the Pleasures of the
|
|
Spring made such by the Disagreeableness of the Winter? Is not the
|
|
Pleasure of fair Weather owing to the Unpleasantness of foul?
|
|
Certainly. Were it then always Spring, were the Fields always green
|
|
and flourishing, and the Weather constantly serene and fair, the
|
|
Pleasure would pall and die upon our Hands; it would cease to be
|
|
Pleasure to us, when it is not usher'd in by Uneasiness. Could the
|
|
Philosopher visit, in reality, every Star and Planet with as much
|
|
Ease and Swiftness as he can now visit their Ideas, and pass from one
|
|
to another of them in the Imagination; it would be a _Pleasure_ I
|
|
grant; but it would be only in proportion to the _Desire_ of
|
|
accomplishing it, and that would be no greater than the _Uneasiness_
|
|
suffer'd in the Want of it. The Accomplishment of a long and
|
|
difficult Journey yields a great _Pleasure_; but if we could take a
|
|
Trip to the Moon and back again, as frequently and with as much Ease
|
|
as we can go and come from Market, the Satisfaction would be just the
|
|
same.
|
|
|
|
The _Immateriality_ of the Soul has been frequently made use of
|
|
as an Argument for its _Immortality_; but let us consider, that tho'
|
|
it should be allow'd to be immaterial, and consequently its Parts
|
|
incapable of Separation or Destruction by any Thing material, yet by
|
|
Experience we find, that it is not incapable of Cessation of
|
|
_Thought_, which is its Action. When the Body is but a little
|
|
indispos'd it has an evident Effect upon the Mind; and a right
|
|
Disposition of the Organs is requisite to a right Manner of Thinking.
|
|
In a sound Sleep sometimes, or in a Swoon, we cease to think at all;
|
|
tho' the Soul is not therefore then annihilated, but _exists_ all the
|
|
while tho' it does not _act_; and may not this probably be the Case
|
|
after Death? All our Ideas are first admitted by the Senses and
|
|
imprinted on the Brain, increasing in Number by Observation and
|
|
Experience; there they become the Subjects of the Soul's Action. The
|
|
Soul is a mere Power or Faculty of _contemplating_ on, and
|
|
_comparing_ those Ideas when it has them; hence springs Reason: But
|
|
as it can _think_ on nothing but Ideas, it must have them before it
|
|
can _think_ at all. Therefore as it may exist before it has receiv'd
|
|
any Ideas, it may exist before it _thinks._ To remember a Thing, is
|
|
to have the Idea of it still plainly imprinted on the Brain, which
|
|
the Soul can turn to and contemplate on Occasion. To forget a Thing,
|
|
is to have the Idea of it defac'd and destroy'd by some Accident, or
|
|
the crouding in and imprinting of great variety of other Ideas upon
|
|
it, so that the Soul cannot find out its Traces and distinguish it.
|
|
When we have thus lost the Idea of any one Thing, we can _think_ no
|
|
more, or _cease to think_, on that Thing; and as we can lose the Idea
|
|
of one Thing, so we may of ten, twenty, a hundred, _&c._ and even of
|
|
all Things, because they are not in their Nature permanent; and often
|
|
during Life we see that some Men, (by an Accident or Distemper
|
|
affecting the Brain,) lose the greatest Part of their Ideas, and
|
|
remember very little of their past Actions and Circumstances. Now
|
|
upon _Death_, and the Destruction of the Body, the Ideas contain'd in
|
|
the Brain, (which are alone the Subjects of the Soul's Action) being
|
|
then likewise necessarily destroy'd, the Soul, tho' incapable of
|
|
Destruction itself, must then necessarily _cease to think_ or _act_,
|
|
having nothing left to think or act upon. It is reduc'd to its first
|
|
inconscious State before it receiv'd any Ideas. And to cease to
|
|
_think_ is but little different from _ceasing to be._
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, 'tis not impossible that this same _Faculty_ of
|
|
contemplating Ideas may be hereafter united to a new Body, and
|
|
receive a new Set of Ideas; but that will no way concern us who are
|
|
now living; for the Identity will be lost, it is no longer that same
|
|
_Self_ but a new Being.
|
|
|
|
I shall here subjoin a short Recapitulation of the Whole, that
|
|
it may with all its Parts be comprehended at one View.
|
|
|
|
1. _It is suppos'd that God the Maker and Governour of the
|
|
Universe, is infinitely wise, good, and powerful._
|
|
|
|
|
|
2. _In consequence of His infinite Wisdom and Goodness, it is
|
|
asserted, that whatever He doth must be infinitely wise and good;_
|
|
|
|
3. _Unless He be interrupted, and His Measures broken by some
|
|
other Being, which is impossible because He is Almighty._
|
|
|
|
4. _In consequence of His infinite Power, it is asserted, that
|
|
nothing can exist or be done in the Universe which is not agreeable
|
|
to His Will, and therefore good._
|
|
|
|
5. _Evil is hereby excluded, with all Merit and Demerit; and
|
|
likewise all preference in the Esteem of God, of one Part of the
|
|
Creation to another._ This is the Summary of the first Part.
|
|
|
|
Now our common Notions of Justice will tell us, that if all
|
|
created Things are equally esteem'd by the Creator, they ought to be
|
|
equally us'd by Him; and that they are therefore equally us'd, we
|
|
might embrace for Truth upon the Credit, and as the true Consequence
|
|
of the foregoing Argument. Nevertheless we proceed to confirm it, by
|
|
shewing _how_ they are equally us'd, and that in the following
|
|
Manner.
|
|
|
|
1. _A Creature when endu'd with Life or Consciousness, is made
|
|
capable of Uneasiness or Pain._
|
|
|
|
2. _This Pain produces Desire to be freed from it, in exact
|
|
proportion to itself._
|
|
|
|
3. _The Accomplishment of this Desire produces an equal
|
|
Pleasure._
|
|
|
|
4. _Pleasure is consequently equal to Pain._
|
|
|
|
From these Propositions it is observ'd,
|
|
|
|
1. _That every Creature hath as much Pleasure as Pain._
|
|
|
|
2. _That Life is not preferable to Insensibility; for Pleasure
|
|
and Pain destroy one another: That Being which has ten Degrees of
|
|
Pain subtracted from ten of Pleasure, has nothing remaining, and is
|
|
upon an equality with that Being which is insensible of both._
|
|
|
|
3. _As the first Part proves that all Things must be equally
|
|
us'd by the Creator because equally esteem'd; so this second Part
|
|
demonstrates that they are equally esteem'd because equally us'd._
|
|
|
|
4. _Since every Action is the Effect of Self-Uneasiness, the
|
|
Distinction of Virtue and Vice is excluded; and_ Prop. VIII. _in_
|
|
Sect. I. _again demonstrated._
|
|
|
|
5. _No State of Life can be happier than the present, because
|
|
Pleasure and Pain are inseparable._
|
|
|
|
Thus both Parts of this Argument agree with and confirm one
|
|
another, and the Demonstration is reciprocal.
|
|
|
|
|
|
I am sensible that the Doctrine here advanc'd, if it were to be
|
|
publish'd, would meet with but an indifferent Reception. Mankind
|
|
naturally and generally love to be flatter'd: Whatever sooths our
|
|
Pride, and tends to exalt our Species above the rest of the Creation,
|
|
we are pleas'd with and easily believe, when ungrateful Truths shall
|
|
be with the utmost Indignation rejected. "What! bring ourselves down
|
|
to an Equality with the Beasts of the Field! with the _meanest_ part
|
|
of the Creation! 'Tis insufferable!" But, (to use a Piece of
|
|
_common_ Sense) our _Geese_ are but _Geese_ tho' we may think 'em
|
|
_Swans_; and Truth will be Truth tho' it sometimes prove mortifying
|
|
and distasteful.
|
|
|
|
London, 1725
|
|
_Plan of Conduct_
|
|
|
|
Those who write of the art of poetry teach us that if we would
|
|
write what may be worth the reading, we ought always, before we
|
|
begin, to form a regular plan and design ofour piece: otherwise, we
|
|
shall be in danger of incongruity. Iam apt to think it is the same
|
|
as to life. I have never fixed aregular design in life; by which
|
|
means it has been a confusedvariety of different scenes. I am now
|
|
entering upon a newone: let me, therefore, make some resolutions, and
|
|
form somescheme of action, that, henceforth, I may live in all
|
|
respectslike a rational creature.
|
|
|
|
1. It is necessary for me to be extremely frugal for some time,
|
|
till I have paid what I owe.
|
|
|
|
2. To endeavour to speak truth in every instance; to give
|
|
nobody expectations that are not likely to be answered, but aim at
|
|
sincerity in every word and action -- the most amiable excellence in
|
|
a rational being.
|
|
|
|
3. To apply myself industriously to whatever business I take in
|
|
hand, and not divert my mind from my business by any foolish project
|
|
of growing suddenly rich; for industry and patience are the surest
|
|
means of plenty.
|
|
|
|
4. I resolve to speak ill of no man whatever, not even in a
|
|
matter of truth; but rather by some means excuse the faults I hear
|
|
charged upon others, and upon proper occasions speak all the good I
|
|
know of every body.
|
|
|
|
1726
|
|
.
|