Essay 12. OF CIVIL LIBERTY
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ESSAY XII: OF CIVIL LIBERTY†a 
Those who employ their pens on political subjects, free from party-rage, and 
party-prejudices, cultivate a science, which, of all others, contributes most to 
public utility, and even to the private satisfaction of those who addict 
themselves to the study of it. I am apt, however, to entertain a suspicion, that 
the world is still too young to fix many general truths in politics, which will 
remain true to the latest posterity. We have not as yet had experience of three 
thousand years; so that not only the art of reasoning is still imperfect in this 
science, as in all others, but we even want sufficient materials upon which we 
can reason. It is not fully known, what degree of refinement, either in virtue 
or vice, human nature is susceptible of; nor what may be expected of mankind 
from any great revolution in their education, customs, or principles. MACHIAVEL 
was certainly a great genius; but having confined his study to the furious and 
tyrannical governments of ancient times, or to the little disorderly 
principalities of ITALY, his reasonings especially upon monarchical government, 
have been found extremely defective; and there scarcely is any maxim in his 
prince, which subsequent experience has not entirely refuted. A weak prince, 
says he, is incapable of receiving good counsel; for if he consult with several, 
he will not be able to choose among their different counsels. If he abandon 
himself to one, that minister may, perhaps, have capacity, but he will not long 
be a minister: He will be sure to dispossess his master, and place himself and 
his family upon the throne. I mention this, among many instances of the errors 
of that politician, proceeding, in a great measure, from his having lived in too 
early an age of the world, to be a good judge of political truth. Almost all the 
princes of EUROPE are at present governed by their ministers; and have been so 
for near two centuries; and yet no such event has ever happened, or can possibly 
happen. SEJANUS might project dethroning the CAESARS; but FLEURY, though ever so 
vicious, could not, while in his senses, entertain the least hopes of 
dispossessing the BOURBONS.
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Trade was never esteemed an affair of state till the last century; and there 
scarcely is any ancient writer on politics, who has made mention of it.†1 Even 
the ITALIANS have kept a profound silence with regard to it, though it has now 
engaged the chief attention, as well of ministers of state, as of speculative 
reasoners. The great opulence, grandeur, and military atchievements of the two 
maritime powers seem first to have instructed mankind in the importance of an 
extensive commerce.
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Having, therefore, intended in this essay to make a full comparison of civil 
liberty and absolute government, and to show†c the great advantages of the 
former above the latter; I began to entertain a suspicion, that no man in this 
age was sufficiently qualified for such an undertaking; and that whatever any 
one should advance on that head would, in all probability, be refuted by further 
experience, and be rejected by posterity. Such mighty revolutions have happened 
in human affairs, and so many events have arisen contrary to the expectation of 
the ancients, that they are sufficient to beget the suspicion of still further 
changes.
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It had been observed by the ancients, that all the arts and sciences arose among 
free nations; and, that the PERSIANS and EGYPTIANS, notwithstanding their ease, 
opulence, and luxury, made but faint efforts towards a relish in those finer 
pleasures, which were carried to such perfection by the GREEKS, amidst continual 
wars, attended with poverty, and the greatest simplicity of life and manners. It 
had also been observed, that, when the GREEKS lost their liberty, though they 
increased mightily in riches, by means of the conquests of ALEXANDER; yet the 
arts, from that moment, declined among them, and have never since been able to 
raise their head in that climate. Learning was transplanted to ROME, the only 
free nation at that time in the universe; and having met with so favourable a 
soil, it made prodigious shoots for above a century; till the decay of liberty 
produced also the decay of letters, and spread a total barbarism over the world. 
From these two experiments, of which each was double in its kind, and shewed the 
fall of learning in absolute governments, as well as its rise in popular ones, 
LONGINUS thought himself sufficiently justified, in asserting, that the arts and 
sciences could never flourish, but in a free government: And in this opinion, he 
has been followed by several eminent writers†2 in our own country, who either 
confined their view merely to ancient facts, or entertained too great a 
partiality in favour of that form of government, established amongst us.
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But what would these writers have said, to the instances of modern ROME and of 
FLORENCE? Of which the former carried to perfection all the finer arts of 
sculpture, painting, and music, as well as poetry, though it groaned under 
tyranny, and under the tyranny of priests: While the latter made its chief 
progress in the arts and sciences, after it began to lose its liberty by the 
usurpation of the family of MEDICI. ARIOSTO, TASSO, GALILEO, more than RAPHAEL, 
and MICHAEL ANGELO, were not born in republics. And though the LOMBARD school 
was famous as well as the ROMAN, yet the VENETIANS have had the smallest share 
in its honours, and seem rather inferior to the other ITALIANS, in their genius 
for the arts and sciences. RUBENS established his school at ANTWERP, not at 
AMSTERDAM: DRESDEN, not HAMBURGH, is the centre of politeness in GERMANY.
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But the most eminent instance of the flourishing of learning in absolute 
governments, is that of FRANCE, which scarcely ever enjoyed any established 
liberty, and yet has carried the arts and sciences as near perfection as any 
other nation. The ENGLISH are, perhaps, greater philosophers;†d the ITALIANS 
better painters and musicians; the ROMANS were greater orators: But the FRENCH 
are the only people, except the GREEKS, who have been at once philosophers, 
poets, orators, historians, painters, architects, sculptors, and musicians. With 
regard to the stage, they have excelled even the GREEKS,†e who far excelled the 
ENGLISH. And, in common life, they have, in a great measure, perfected that art, 
the most useful and agreeable of any, l'Art de Vivre, the art of society and 
conversation.
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If we consider the state of the sciences and polite arts in our own country, 
HORACE'S observation, with regard to the ROMANS, may, in a great measure, be 
applied to the BRITISH.
--Sed in longum tamen aevum
Manserunt, hodieque manent vestigia ruris.
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The elegance and propriety of style have been very much neglected among us. We 
have no dictionary of our language, and scarcely a tolerable grammar. The first 
polite prose we have, was writ by a man who is still alive.†3 As to SPRAT, LOCKE 
and, even TEMPLE, they knew too little of the rules of art to be esteemed 
elegant writers. The prose of BACON, HARRINGTON, and MILTON, is altogether stiff 
and pedantic; though their sense be excellent. Men, in this country, have been 
so much occupied in the great disputes of Religion, Politics, and Philosophy, 
that they had no relish for the seemingly minute observations of grammar and 
criticism. And though this turn of thinking must have considerably improved our 
sense and our talent of reasoning; it must be confessed, that, even in those 
sciences above-mentioned, we have not any standard-book, which we can transmit 
to posterity: And the utmost we have to boast of, are a few essays towards a 
more just philosophy; which, indeed, promise well, but have not, as yet, reached 
any degree of perfection.
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It has become an established opinion, that commerce can never flourish but in a 
free government; and this opinion seems to be founded on a longer and larger 
experience than the foregoing, with regard to the arts and sciences. If we trace 
commerce in its progress through TYRE, ATHENS, SYRACUSE, CARTHAGE, VENICE, 
FLORENCE, GENOA, ANTWERP, HOLLAND, ENGLAND, &c. we shall always find it to have 
fixed its seat in free governments. The three greatest trading towns now in 
Europe, are LONDON, AMSTERDAM, and HAMBURGH; all free cities, and protestant 
cities; that is, enjoying a double liberty. It must, however, be observed, that 
the great jealousy entertained of late, with regard to the commerce of FRANCE, 
seems to prove, that this maxim is no more certain and infallible than the 
foregoing, and that the subjects of an absolute prince may become our rivals in 
commerce, as well as in learning.
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Durst I deliver my opinion in an affair of so much uncertainty, I would assert, 
that, notwithstanding the efforts of the FRENCH, there is something hurtful to 
commerce inherent in the very nature of absolute government, and inseparable 
from it: Though the reason I should assign for this opinion, is somewhat 
different from that which is commonly insisted on. Private property seems to me 
almost as secure in a civilized EUROPEAN monarchy, as in a republic; nor is 
danger much apprehended in such a government, from the violence of the 
sovereign; more than we commonly dread harm from thunder, or earthquakes, or any 
accident the most unusual and extraordinary. Avarice, the spur of industry, is 
so obstinate a passion, and works its way through so many real dangers and 
difficulties, that it is not likely to be scared by an imaginary danger, which 
is so small, that it scarcely admits of calculation. Commerce, therefore, in my 
opinion, is apt to decay in absolute governments, not because it is there less 
secure, but because it is less honourable. A subordination of ranks is 
absolutely necessary to the support of monarchy. Birth, titles, and place, must 
be honoured above industry and riches. And while these notions prevail, all the 
considerable traders will be tempted to throw up their commerce, in order to 
purchase some of those employments, to which privileges and honours are annexed.
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Since I am upon this head, of the alterations which time has produced, or may 
produce in politics, I must observe, that all kinds of government, free and 
absolute, seem to have undergone, in modern times, a great change for the 
better, with regard both to foreign and domestic management. The balance of 
power is a secret in politics, fully known only to the present age; and I must 
add, that the internal POLICE of states has also received great improvements 
within the last century. We are informed by SALLUST, that CATILINE'S army was 
much augmented by the accession of the highwaymen about ROME; though I believe, 
that all of that profession, who are at present dispersed over EUROPE, would not 
amount to a regiment. In CICERO'S pleadings for MILO, I find this argument, 
among others, made use of to prove, that his client had not assassinated 
CLODIUS. Had MILO, said he, intended to have killed CLODIUS, he had not attacked 
him in the daytime, and at such a distance from the city: He had way-laid him at 
night, near the suburbs, where it might have been pretended, that he was killed 
by robbers; and the frequency of the accident would have favoured the deceit. 
This is a surprizing proof of the loose police of ROME, and of the number and 
force of these robbers; since CLODIUS†4 was at that time attended by thirty 
slaves, who were compleatly armed, and sufficiently accustomed to blood and 
danger in the frequent tumults excited by that seditious tribune.†f
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But though all kinds of government be improved in modern times, yet monarchical 
government seems to have made the greatest advances towards perfection. It may 
now be affirmed of civilized monarchies, what was formerly said in praise of 
republics alone, that they are a government of Laws, not of Men. They are found 
susceptible of order, method, and constancy, to a surprizing degree. Property is 
there secure; industry encouraged; the arts flourish; and the prince lives 
secure among his subjects, like a father among his children.†g There are 
perhaps, and have been for two centuries, near two hundred absolute princes, 
great and small, in EUROPE; and allowing twenty years to each reign, we may 
suppose, that there have been in the whole two thousand monarchs or tyrants, as 
the GREEKS would have called them: Yet of these there has not been one, not even 
PHILIP II. of SPAIN, so bad as TIBERIUS, CALIGULA, NERO, or DOMITIAN, who were 
four in twelve amongst the ROMAN emperors. It must, however, be confessed, that, 
though monarchical governments have approached nearer to popular ones, in 
gentleness and stability; they are still inferior. Our modern education and 
customs instil more humanity and moderation than the ancient; but have not as 
yet been able to overcome entirely the disadvantages of that form of government.
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But here I must beg leave to advance a conjecture, which seems probable, but 
which posterity alone can fully judge of. I am apt to think, that, in 
monarchical governments there is a source of improvement, and in popular 
governments a source of degeneracy, which in time will bring these species of 
civil polity still nearer an equality. The greatest abuses, which arise in 
FRANCE, the most perfect model of pure monarchy, proceed not from the number or 
weight of the taxes, beyond what are to be met with in free countries; but from 
the expensive, unequal, arbitrary, and intricate method of levying them, by 
which the industry of the poor, especially of the peasants and farmers, is, in a 
great measure, discouraged, and agriculture rendered a beggarly and slavish 
employment. But to whose advantage do these abuses tend? If to that of the 
nobility, they might be esteemed inherent in that form of government; since the 
nobility are the true supports of monarchy; and it is natural their interest 
should be more consulted, in such a constitution, than that of the people. But 
the nobility are, in reality, the chief losers by this oppression; since it 
ruins their estates, and beggars their tenants. The only gainers by it are the 
Financiers,†h a race of men rather odious to the nobility and the whole kingdom. 
If a prince or minister, therefore, should arise, endowed with sufficient 
discernment to know his own and the public interest, and with sufficient force 
of mind to break through ancient customs, we might expect to see these abuses 
remedied; in which case, the difference between that absolute government and our 
free one, would not appear so considerable as at present.
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The source of degeneracy, which may be remarked in free governments, consists in 
the practice of contracting debt, and mortgaging the public revenues, by which 
taxes may, in time, become altogether intolerable, and all the property of the 
state be brought into the hands of the public. This practice is of modern date. 
The ATHENIANS,†i though governed by a republic, paid near two hundred per Cent. 
for those sums of money, which any emergence made it necessary for them to 
borrow; as we learn from XENOPHON.†5 Among the moderns, the DUTCH first 
introduced the practice of borrowing great sums at low interest, and have well 
nigh ruined themselves by it. Absolute princes have also contracted debt; but as 
an absolute prince may make a bankruptcy when he pleases, his people can never 
be oppressed by his debts. In popular governments, the people, and chiefly those 
who have the highest offices, being commonly the public creditors, it is 
difficult for the state to make use of this remedy, which, however it may 
sometimes be necessary, is always cruel and barbarous. This, therefore seems to 
be an inconvenience, which nearly threatens all free governments; especially our 
own, at the present juncture of affairs. And what a strong motive is this, to 
encrease our frugality of public money; lest for want of it, we be reduced, by 
the multiplicity of taxes, or what is worse, by our public impotence and 
inability for defence, to curse our very liberty, and wish ourselves in the same 
state of servitude with all the nations that surround us?
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†1 XENOPHON mentions it; but with a doubt if it be of any advantage to a state. 
{Ei de kai emporia ophelei ti polin}, &c. XEN. HIERO. 9.9. PLATO totally 
excludes it from his imaginary republic De legibus, lib. iv.†b
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†2 Mr. ADDISON and LORD SHAFTESBURY.
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†3 Dr. SWIFT.
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†4 Vide Asc. Ped. in Orat. pro Milone.
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†5 {Ktesin de ap' oudenos an outo kalen ktesainto, osper aph' ou an protelesosin 
eis ten aphormen--oi de ge pleistoi Athenaion pleiona lepsontai kat' eniauton e 
osa an eisenegkosin oi gar mnan protelesantes, eggys duoin mnain prosodon 
hexousi--o dokei ton anthropinon asphlestaton te kai polychroniotaton einai. 
XEN. POROI}. III. 9. 10.
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†a Editions A to K have the title: Of Liberty and Despotism.
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†b This note was added in Ed. K.
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†c Editions A to D read: the Advantages and Disadvantages of each.
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†d N.B. This was published in 1742. So Edition P.
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†e Who . . . English; added in Edition K.
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†f Edition A added: and, by the Roman Laws, answerable, upon their own Lives, 
for the Life of their Master.
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†g This sentence was added in Edition K.
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†h The cedilla is not found in B, or in some Editions of the Political 
Discourses, where the word occurs.
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†i The Athenians, though a Republic, paid Twenty per Cent. for Money, as we 
learn from Xenophon.--Edition A: and no note.
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The Athenians, though govern'd by a Republic, paid Twenty per Cent. for those 
sums of Money, which any emergent Occasion made it necessary for them to borrow; 
as we learn from Xenophon. --Edition B: and no note.
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The Athenians, though governed by a republic, paid near two hundred per Cent. 
for those sums of money, which any emergent occasion made it necessary for them 
to borrow; as we learn from Xenophon.--Editions D to Q: and note.

Essay 13. OF ELOQUENCE
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ESSAY XIII: OF ELOQUENCE
Those, who consider the periods and revolutions of human kind, as represented in 
history, are entertained with a spectacle full of pleasure and variety, and see, 
with surprize, the manners, customs, and opinions of the same species 
susceptible of such prodigious changes in different periods of time. It may, 
however, be observed, that, in civil history, there is found a much greater 
uniformity than in the history of learning and science, and that the wars, 
negociations, and politics of one age resemble more those of another, than the 
taste, wit, and speculative principles. Interest and ambition, honour and shame, 
friendship and enmity, gratitude and revenge, are the prime movers in all public 
transactions; and these passions are of a very stubborn and intractable nature, 
in comparison of the sentiments and understanding, which are easily varied by 
education and example. The GOTHS were much more inferior to the ROMANS, in taste 
and science, than in courage and virtue.
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But not to compare together nations so widely different;†a it may be observed, 
that even this later period of human learning is, in many respects, of an 
opposite character to the ancient; and that, if we be superior in philosophy, we 
are still, notwithstanding all our refinements, much inferior in eloquence.
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In ancient times, no work of genius was thought to require so great parts and 
capacity, as the speaking in public; and some eminent writers have pronounced 
the talents, even of a great poet or philosopher, to be of an inferior nature to 
those which are requisite for such an undertaking. GREECE and ROME produced, 
each of them, but one accomplished orator; and whatever praises the other 
celebrated speakers might merit, they were still esteemed much inferior to these 
great models of eloquence. It is observable, that the ancient critics could 
scarcely find two orators in any age, who deserved to be placed precisely in the 
same rank, and possessed the same degree of merit. CALVUS, CAELIUS, CURIO, 
HORTENSIUS, CAESAR rose one above another: But the greatest of that age was 
inferior to CICERO, the most eloquent speaker, that had ever appeared in ROME. 
Those of fine taste, however, pronounced this judgment of the ROMAN orator, as 
well as of the GRECIAN, that both of them surpassed in eloquence all that had 
ever appeared, but that they were far from reaching the perfection of their art, 
which was infinite, and not only exceeded human force to attain, but human 
imagination to conceive. CICERO declares himself dissatisfied with his own 
performances; nay, even with those of DEMOSTHENES. Ita sunt avidae & capaces 
meae aures, says he, & semper aliquid immensum, infinitumque desiderant.†b
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Of all the polite and learned nations, ENGLAND alone possesses a popular 
government, or admits into the legislature such numerous assemblies as can be 
supposed to lie under the dominion of eloquence. But what has ENGLAND to boast 
of in this particular? In enumerating the great men, who have done honour to our 
country, we exult in our poets and philosophers; but what orators are ever 
mentioned? Or where are the monuments of their genius to be met with? There are 
found, indeed, in our histories, the names of several, who directed the 
resolutions of our parliament: But neither themselves nor others have taken the 
pains to preserve their speeches; and the authority, which they possessed, seems 
to have been owing to their experience, wisdom, or power, more than to their 
talents for oratory. At present, there are above half a dozen speakers in the 
two houses, who, in the judgment of the public, have reached very near the same 
pitch of eloquence; and no man pretends to give any one the preference above the 
rest. This seems to me a certain proof, that none of them have attained much 
beyond a mediocrity in their art, and that the species of eloquence, which they 
aspire to, gives no exercise to the sublimer faculties of the mind, but may be 
reached by ordinary talents and a slight application. A hundred cabinet-makers 
in LONDON can work a table or a chair equally well; but no one poet can write 
verses with such spirit and elegance as Mr. POPE.
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We are told, that, when DEMOSTHENES was to plead, all ingenious men flocked to 
ATHENS from the most remote parts of GREECE, as to the most celebrated spectacle 
of the world.†1 At LONDON you may see men sauntering in the court of requests, 
while the most important debate is carrying on in the two houses; and many do 
not think themselves sufficiently compensated, for the losing of their dinners, 
by all the eloquence of our most celebrated speakers. When old CIBBER is to act, 
the curiosity of several is more excited, than when our prime minister is to 
defend himself from a motion for his removal or impeachment.
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Even a person, unacquainted with the noble remains of ancient orators, may 
judge, from a few strokes, that the stile or species of their eloquence was 
infinitely more sublime than that which modern orators aspire to. How absurd 
would it appear, in our temperate and calm speakers, to make use of an 
Apostrophe, like that noble one of DEMOSTHENES, so much celebrated by QUINTILIAN 
and LONGINUS, when justifying the unsuccessful battle of CHAERONEA, he breaks 
out, No, my Fellow-Citizens, No: You have not erred. I swear by the manes of 
those heroes, who fought for the same cause in the plains of MARATHON and 
PLATAEA. Who could now endure such a bold and poetical figure, as that which 
CICERO employs, after describing in the most tragical terms the crucifixion of a 
ROMAN citizen. Should I paint the horrors of this scene, not to ROMAN citizens, 
not to the allies of our state, not to those who have ever heard of the ROMAN 
Name, not even to men, but to brute creatures; or, to go farther, should I lift 
up my voice in the most desolate solitude, to the rocks and mountains, yet 
should I surely see those rude and inanimate parts of nature moved with horror 
and indignation at the recital of so enormous an action.†2 With what a blaze of 
eloquence must such a sentence be surrounded to give it grace, or cause it to 
make any impression on the hearers? And what noble art and sublime talents are 
requisite to arrive, by just degrees, at a sentiment so bold and excessive: To 
inflame the audience, so as to make them accompany the speaker in such violent 
passions, and such elevated conceptions: And to conceal, under a torrent of 
eloquence, the artifice, by which all this is effectuated!†c Should this 
sentiment even appear to us excessive, as perhaps it justly may, it will at 
least serve to give an idea of the stile of ancient eloquence, where such 
swelling expressions were not rejected as wholly monstrous and gigantic.
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Suitable to this vehemence of thought and expression, was the vehemence of 
action, observed in the ancient orators. The supplosio pedis, or stamping with 
the foot, was one of the most usual and moderate gestures which they made use 
of;†3 though that is now esteemed too violent, either for the senate, bar, or 
pulpit, and is only admitted into the theatre, to accompany the most violent 
passions, which are there represented.
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One is somewhat at a loss to what cause we may ascribe so sensible a decline of 
eloquence in later ages. The genius of mankind, at all times, is, perhaps, 
equal: The moderns have applied themselves, with great industry and success, to 
all the other arts and sciences: And a learned nation possesses a popular 
government; a circumstance which seems requisite for the full display of these 
noble talents: But notwithstanding all these advantages, our progress in 
eloquence is very inconsiderable, in comparison of the advances, which we have 
made in all other parts of learning.
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Shall we assert, that the strains of ancient eloquence are unsuitable to our 
age, and ought not to be imitated by modern orators? Whatever reasons may be 
made use of to prove this, I am persuaded they will be found, upon examination, 
to be unsound and unsatisfactory.
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First, It may be said, that, in ancient times, during the flourishing period of 
GREEK and ROMAN learning, the municipal laws, in every state, were but few and 
simple, and the decision of causes, was, in a great measure, left to the equity 
and common sense of the judges. The study of the laws was not then a laborious 
occupation, requiring the drudgery of a whole life to finish it, and 
incompatible with every other study or profession. The great statesmen and 
generals among the ROMANS were all lawyers; and CICERO, to shew the facility of 
acquiring this science, declares, that, in the midst of all his occupations, he 
would undertake, in a few days, to make himself a compleat civilian. Now, where 
a pleader addresses himself to the equity of his judges, he has much more room 
to display his eloquence, than where he must draw his arguments from strict 
laws, statutes, and precedents. In the former case, many circumstances must be 
taken in; many personal considerations regarded; and even favour and 
inclination, which it belongs to the orator, by his art and eloquence, to 
conciliate, may be disguised under the appearance of equity. But how shall a 
modern lawyer have leisure to quit his toilsome occupations, in order to gather 
the flowers of PARNASSUS? Or what opportunity shall he have of displaying them, 
amidst the rigid and subtile arguments, objections, and replies, which he is 
obliged to make use of? The greatest genius, and greatest orator, who should 
pretend to plead before the Chancellor, after a month's study of the laws, would 
only labour to make himself ridiculous.
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I am ready to own, that this circumstance, of the multiplicity and intricacy of 
laws, is a discouragement to eloquence in modern times: But I assert, that it 
will not entirely account for the decline of that noble art. It may banish 
oratory from WESTMINSTER-HALL, but not from either house of parliament. Among 
the ATHENIANS, the AREOPAGITES expressly forbad all allurements of eloquence; 
and some have pretended that in the GREEK orations, written in the judiciary 
form, there is not so bold and rhetorical a stile, as appears in the ROMAN. But 
to what a pitch did the ATHENIANS carry their eloquence in the deliberative 
kind, when affairs of state were canvassed, and the liberty, happiness, and 
honour of the republic were the subject of debate? Disputes of this nature 
elevate the genius above all others, and give the fullest scope to eloquence; 
and such disputes are very frequent in this nation.
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Secondly, It may be pretended that the decline of eloquence is owing to the 
superior good sense of the moderns, who reject with disdain all those rhetorical 
tricks, employed to seduce the judges, and will admit of nothing but solid 
argument in any debate or deliberation. If a man be accused of murder, the fact 
must be proved by witnesses and evidence; and the laws will afterwards determine 
the punishment of the criminal. It would be ridiculous to describe, in strong 
colours, the horror and cruelty of the action: To introduce the relations of the 
dead; and, at a signal, make them throw themselves at the feet of the judges, 
imploring justice with tears and lamentations: And still more ridiculous would 
it be, to employ a picture representing the bloody deed, in order to move the 
judges by the display of so tragical a spectacle: Though we know, that this 
artifice was sometimes practised by the pleaders of old.†4 Now, banish the 
pathetic from public discourses, and you reduce the speakers merely to modern 
eloquence; that is, to good sense, delivered in proper expression.
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Perhaps it may be acknowledged, that our modern customs, or our superior good 
sense, if you will, should make our orators more cautious and reserved than the 
ancient, in attempting to inflame the passions, or elevate the imagination of 
their audience: But, I see no reason, why it should make them despair absolutely 
of succeeding in that attempt. It should make them redouble their art, not 
abandon it entirely. The ancient orators seem also to have been on their guard 
against this jealousy of their audience; but they took a different way of 
eluding it.†5 They hurried away with such a torrent of sublime and pathetic, 
that they left their hearers no leisure to perceive the artifice, by which they 
were deceived. Nay, to consider the matter aright, they were not deceived by any 
artifice. The orator, by the force of his own genius and eloquence, first 
inflamed himself with anger, indignation, pity, sorrow; and then communicated 
those impetuous movements to his audience.
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Does any man pretend to have more good sense than JULIUS CAESAR? yet that 
haughty conqueror, we know, was so subdued by the charms of CICERO'S eloquence, 
that he was, in a manner, constrained to change his settled purpose and 
resolution, and to absolve a criminal, whom, before that orator pleaded, he was 
determined to condemn.
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†d Some objections, I own, notwithstanding his vast success, may lie against 
some passages of the ROMAN orator. He is too florid and rhetorical: His figures 
are too striking and palpable: The divisions of his discourse are drawn chiefly 
from the rules of the schools: And his wit disdains not always the artifice even 
of a pun, rhyme, or jingle of words. The GRECIAN addressed himself to an 
audience much less refined than the ROMAN senate or judges. The lowest vulgar of 
ATHENS were his sovereigns, and the arbiters of his eloquence.†6 Yet is his 
manner more chaste and austere than that of the other. Could it be copied, its 
success would be infallible over a modern assembly. It is rapid harmony, exactly 
adjusted to the sense: It is vehement reasoning, without any appearance of art: 
It is disdain, anger, boldness, freedom, involved in a continued stream of 
argument: And of all human productions, the orations of DEMOSTHENES present to 
us the models, which approach the nearest to perfection.
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Thirdly, It may be pretended, that the disorders of the ancient governments, and 
the enormous crimes, of which the citizens were often guilty, afforded much 
ampler matter for eloquence than can be met with among the moderns. Were there 
no VERRES or CATILINE, there would be no CICERO. But that this reason can have 
no great influence, is evident. It would be easy to find a PHILIP in modern 
times; but where shall we find a DEMOSTHENES?
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What remains, then, but that we lay the blame on the want of genius, or of 
judgment in our speakers, who either found themselves incapable of reaching the 
heights of ancient eloquence, or rejected all such endeavours, as unsuitable to 
the spirit of modern assemblies? A few successful attempts of this nature might 
rouze the genius of the nation, excite the emulation of the youth, and accustom 
our ears to a more sublime and more pathetic elocution, than what we have been 
hitherto entertained with. There is certainly something accidental in the first 
rise and the progress of the arts in any nation. I doubt whether a very 
satisfactory reason can be given, why ancient ROME, though it received all its 
refinements from GREECE, could attain only to a relish for statuary, painting 
and architecture, without reaching the practice of these arts: While modern ROME 
has been excited, by a few remains found among the ruins of antiquity, and has 
produced artists of the greatest eminence and distinction. Had such a cultivated 
genius for oratory, as WALLER'S†e for poetry, arisen, during the civil wars, 
when liberty began to be fully established, and popular assemblies to enter into 
all the most material points of government; I am persuaded so illustrious an 
example would have given a quite different turn to BRITISH eloquence, and made 
us reach the perfection of the ancient model. Our orators would then have done 
honour to their country, as well as our poets, geometers, and philosophers, and 
BRITISH CICEROS have appeared, as well as BRITISH†f ARCHIMEDESES and VIRGILS.†g
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It is seldom or never found, when a false taste in poetry or eloquence prevails 
among any people, that it has been preferred to a true, upon comparison and 
reflection. It commonly prevails merely from ignorance of the true, and from the 
want of perfect models, to lead men into a juster apprehension, and more refined 
relish of those productions of genius. When these appear, they soon unite all 
suffrages in their favour, and, by their natural and powerful charms, gain over, 
even the most prejudiced, to the love and admiration of them. The principles of 
every passion, and of every sentiment, is in every man; and when touched 
properly, they rise to life, and warm the heart, and convey that satisfaction, 
by which a work of genius is distinguished from the adulterate beauties of a 
capricious wit and fancy. And if this observation be true, with regard to all 
the liberal arts, it must be peculiarly so, with regard to eloquence; which, 
being merely calculated for the public, and for men of the world, cannot, with 
any pretence of reason, appeal from the people to more refined judges; but must 
submit to the public verdict, without reserve or limitation. Whoever, upon 
comparison, is deemed by a common audience the greatest orator, ought most 
certainly to be pronounced such, by men of science and erudition. And though an 
indifferent speaker may triumph for a long time, and be esteemed altogether 
perfect by the vulgar, who are satisfied with his accomplishments, and know not 
in what he is defective: Yet, whenever the true genius arises, he draws to him 
the attention of every one, and immediately appears superior to his rival.
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Now to judge by this rule, ancient eloquence, that is, the sublime and 
passionate, is of a much juster taste than the modern, or the argumentative and 
rational; and, if properly executed, will always have more command and authority 
over mankind. We are satisfied with our mediocrity, because we have had no 
experience of any thing better: But the ancients had experience of both, and, 
upon comparison, gave the preference to that kind, of which they have left us 
such applauded models. For, if I mistake not, our modern eloquence is of the 
same stile or species with that which ancient critics denominated ATTIC 
eloquence, that is, calm, elegant, and subtile, which instructed the reason more 
than affected the passions, and never raised its tone above argument or common 
discourse. Such was the eloquence of LYSIAS among the ATHENIANS, and of CALVUS 
among the ROMANS. These were esteemed in their time; but when compared with 
DEMOSTHENES and CICERO, were eclipsed like a taper when set in the rays of a 
meridian sun. Those latter orators possessed the same elegance, and subtilty, 
and force of argument, with the former; but what rendered them chiefly 
admirable, was that pathetic and sublime, which, on proper occasions, they threw 
into their discourse, and by which they commanded the resolution of their 
audience.
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Of this species of eloquence we have scarcely had any instance in ENGLAND, at 
least in our public speakers. In our writers, we have had some instances, which 
have met with great applause, and might assure our ambitious youth of equal or 
superior glory in attempts for the revival of ancient eloquence. Lord 
BOLINGBROKE'S productions,†h with all their defects in argument, method, and 
precision, contain a force and energy which our orators scarcely ever aim at; 
though it is evident, that such an elevated stile has much better grace in a 
speaker than in a writer, and is assured of more prompt and more astonishing 
success. It is there seconded by the graces of voice and action: The movements 
are mutually communicated between the orator and the audience: And the very 
aspect of a large assembly, attentive to the discourse of one man, must inspire 
him with a peculiar elevation, sufficient to give a propriety to the strongest 
figures and expressions. It is true, there is a great prejudice against set 
speeches; and a man cannot escape ridicule, who repeats a discourse as a 
school-boy does his lesson, and takes no notice of any thing that has been 
advanced in the course of the debate. But where is the necessity of falling into 
this absurdity? A public speaker must know beforehand the question under debate. 
He may compose all the arguments, objections, and answers, such as he thinks 
will be most proper for his discourse.†7 If any thing new occur, he may supply 
it from his invention; nor will the difference be very apparent between his 
elaborate and his extemporary compositions. The mind naturally continues with 
the same impetus or force, which it has acquired by its motion; as a vessel, 
once impelled by the oars, carries on its course for some time, when the 
original impulse is suspended.
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I shall conclude this subject with observing, that, even though our modern 
orators should not elevate their stile or aspire to a rivalship with the 
ancient; yet is there, in most of their speeches, a material defect, which they 
might correct, without departing from that composed air of argument and 
reasoning, to which they limit their ambition. Their great affectation of 
extemporary discourses has made them reject all order and method, which seems so 
requisite to argument, and without which it is scarcely possible to produce an 
entire conviction on the mind. It is not, that one would recommend many 
divisions in a public discourse, unless the subject very evidently offer them: 
But it is easy, without this formality, to observe a method, and make that 
method conspicuous to the hearers, who will be infinitely pleased to see the 
arguments rise naturally from one another, and will retain a more thorough 
persuasion, than can arise from the strongest reasons, which are thrown together 
in confusion.
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†1 Ne illud quidem intelligunt, non modo ita memoriae proditum esse, sed ita 
necesse fuisse, cum DEMOSTHENES dicturus esset, ut concursus, audiendi causa, ex 
tota GRECIA fierent. At cum isti ATTICI dicunt, non modo a corona (quod est 
ipsum miserabile) sed etiam ab advocatis relinquuntur. CICERO de Claris 
Oratoribus, c. 84.
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†2 The original is; Quod si haec non ad cives Romanos, non ad aliquos amicos 
nostrae civitatis, non ad eos qui populi Romani nomen audissent; denique si non 
ad homines, verum ad bestias; aut etiam, ut longius progrediar, si in aliqua 
desertissima solitudine, ad saxa & ad scopulos haec conqueri & deplorare vellem, 
tamen omnia muta atque inanima, tanta & tam indigna rerum atrocitate 
commoverentur. CIC. in Ver. Act ii. Lib. v. c. 67.
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†3 Ubi dolor? Ubi ardor animi, qui etiam ex infantium ingeniis elicere voces & 
querelas solet? nulla perturbatio animi, nulla corporis: frons non percussa, non 
femur; pedis (quod minimum est) nulla supplosio. Itaque tantum abfuit ut 
inflammares nostros animos; somnum isto loco vix tenebamus. CICERO de Claris 
Oratoribus, c. 80.
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†4 QUINTIL. lib. vi. cap. 1.
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†5 LONGINUS, cap. 15.
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†6 The orators formed the taste of the ATHENIAN people, not the people of the 
orators. GORGIAS LEONTINUS was very taking with them, till they became 
acquainted with a better manner. His figures of speech, says DIODORUS SICULUS, 
his antithesis, his {isokolon}, his {omoioteleuton}, which are now despised, had 
a great effect upon the audience. Lib. xii. page 106. ex editione RHOD. It is in 
vain therefore for modern orators to plead the taste of their hearers as an 
apology for their lame performances. It would be strange prejudice in favour of 
antiquity, not to allow a BRITISH parliament to be naturally superior in 
judgment and delicacy to an ATHENIAN mob.
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†7 The first of the ATHENIANS, who composed and wrote his speeches, was 
PERICLES, a man of business and a man of sense, if ever there was one, {Protos 
grapton logon en dikasterio eipe, ton pro autou schediazonton}. Suidas in 
{Perikles}.
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†a Editions C to P add: that they may almost be esteemed of a different species.
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†b Editions C to P add: This single circumstance is sufficient to make us 
apprehend the wide difference between ancient and modern eloquence, and to let 
us see how much the latter is inferior to the former.
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†c This sentence was added in Edition P.
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†d The paragraph was added in Edition K.
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†e As my Lord Bolingbroke.--C and D.
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†f Platos and Virgils.--C and D. Plutarchs and Virgils.--K to P.
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†g C to P proceed: I have confest that there is something accidental in the 
origin and progress of the arts in any nation; and yet I cannot forbear 
thinking, that if the other learned and polite nations of EUROPE had possest the 
same advantages of a popular government, they would probably have carried 
eloquence to a greater height than it has yet reached in BRITAIN. The FRENCH 
sermons, especially those of FLECHIER and BOSSUET, are much superior to the 
ENGLISH in this particular; and [C and D: and in Flechier there are found many 
strokes of the most sublime poetry. His funeral sermon on the Marechal de 
Turenne is a good instance.] in both these authors are found many strokes of the 
most sublime poetry. None but private causes, in that country, are ever debated 
before their parliaments or courts of judicature; but notwithstanding this 
disadvantage, there appears a spirit of eloquence in many of their lawyers, 
which, with proper cultivation and encouragement, might rise to the greatest 
height. The pleadings of PATRU are very elegant, and give us room to imagine 
what so fine a genius could have performed in questions concerning public 
liberty or slavery, peace or war, who exerts himself with such success in 
debates concerning the price of an old horse, or a gossiping story of a quarrel 
between an abbess and her nuns. For 'tis remarkable, that this polite writer, 
tho' esteemed by all the men of wit in his time, was never employed in the most 
considerable causes of their courts of judicature, but lived and died in 
poverty: From an ancient prejudice industriously propagated by the dunces in all 
countries, That a man of genius is unfit for business. The disorders produced by 
the factions against cardinal MAZARINE, made the parliament of PARIS enter into 
the discussion of public affairs, and during that short interval, there appeared 
many symptoms of the revival of ancient eloquence. The avocat general TALON, in 
an oration, invoked on his knees, the spirit of St. LOUIS to look down with 
compassion on his divided and unhappy people, and to inspire them, from above, 
with the love of concord and unanimity.†1 The members of the FRENCH academy have 
attempted to give us models of eloquence in their harangues at their admittance: 
But, having no subject to discourse upon, they have run altogether into a 
fulsome strain of panegyric and flattery, the most barren of all subjects. Their 
stile, however, is commonly, on these occasions, very elevated and sublime, and 
might reach the greatest heights, were it employed on a subject more favourable 
and engaging.
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There are some circumstances, I confess, in the ENGLISH temper and genius, which 
are disadvantageous to the progress of eloquence, and render all attempts of 
that kind more dangerous and difficult among them than among any other nation. 
The ENGLISH are conspicuous for good-sense, which makes them very jealous of any 
attempts to deceive them by the flowers of rhetoric and elocution. They are also 
peculiarly modest; which makes them consider it as a piece of arrogance to offer 
any thing but reason to public assemblies, or attempt to guide them by passion 
or fancy. I may, perhaps, be allowed to add, that the people in general are not 
remarkable for delicacy of taste, or for sensibility to the charms of the muses. 
Their musical parts, to use the expression of a noble author, are but 
indifferent. Hence their comic poets, to move them, must have recourse to 
obscenity; their tragic poets to blood and slaughter: And hence their orators, 
being deprived of any such resource, have abandoned altogether the hopes of 
moving them, and have confined themselves to plain argument and reasoning.
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These circumstances, joined to particular accidents, may, perhaps, have retarded 
the growth of eloquence in this kingdom; but will not be able to prevent its 
success, if ever it appear amongst us: And one may safely pronounce, that this 
is a field, in which the most flourishing laurels may yet be gathered, if any 
youth of accomplished genius, thoroughly acquainted with all the polite arts, 
and not ignorant of public business, should appear in parliament, and accustom 
our ears to an eloquence more commanding and pathetic. And to confirm me in this 
opinion, there occur two considerations, the one derived from ancient, the other 
from modern times.
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†1 De Retz's Memoirs
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†h "with . . . precision";--this clause was added in Edition K.

Essay 14. OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE ARTS AND SCIENCES
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ESSAY XIV: OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE ARTS AND SCIENCES
Nothing requires greater nicety, in our enquiries concerning human affairs, than 
to distinguish exactly what is owing to chance, and what proceeds from causes; 
nor is there any subject, in which an author is more liable to deceive himself 
by false subtilties and refinements. To say, that any event is derived from 
chance, cuts short all farther enquiry concerning it, and leaves the writer in 
the same state of ignorance with the rest of mankind. But when the event is 
supposed to proceed from certain and stable causes, he may then display his 
ingenuity, in assigning these causes; and as a man of any subtilty can never be 
at a loss in this particular, he has thereby an opportunity of swelling his 
volumes, and discovering his profound knowledge, in observing what escapes the 
vulgar and ignorant.
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The distinguishing between chance and causes must depend upon every particular 
man's sagacity, in considering every particular incident. But, if I were to 
assign any general rule to help us in applying this distinction, it would be the 
following, What depends upon a few persons is, in a great measure, to be 
ascribed to chance, or secret and unknown causes: What arises from a great 
number, may often be accounted for by determinate and known causes.
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Two natural reasons may be assigned for this rule. First, If you suppose a dye 
to have any biass, however small, to a particular side, this biass, though, 
perhaps, it may not appear in a few throws, will certainly prevail in a great 
number, and will cast the balance entirely to that side. In like manner, when 
any causes beget a particular inclination or passion, at a certain time, and 
among a certain people; though many individuals may escape the contagion, and be 
ruled by passions peculiar to themselves; yet the multitude will certainly be 
seized by the common affection, and be governed by it in all their actions.
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Secondly, Those principles or causes, which are fitted to operate on a 
multitude, are always of a grosser and more stubborn nature, less subject to 
accidents, and less influenced by whim and private fancy, than those which 
operate on a few only. The latter are commonly so delicate and refined, that the 
smallest incident in the health, education, or fortune of a particular person, 
is sufficient to divert their course, and retard their operation; nor is it 
possible to reduce them to any general maxims or observations. Their influence 
at one time will never assure us concerning their influence at another; even 
though all the general circumstances should be the same in both cases.
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To judge by this rule, the domestic and the gradual revolutions of a state must 
be a more proper subject of reasoning and observation, than the foreign and the 
violent, which are commonly produced by single persons, and are more influenced 
by whim, folly, or caprice, than by general passions and interests. The 
depression of the lords, and rise of the commons in ENGLAND, after the statutes 
of alienation and the encrease of trade and industry, are more easily accounted 
for by general principles, than the depression of the SPANISH, and rise of the 
FRENCH monarchy, after the death of CHARLES QUINT. Had HARRY IV. Cardinal 
RICHLIEU, and LOUIS XIV. been SPANIARDS; and PHILIP II. III. and IV. and CHARLES 
II. been FRENCHMEN, the history of these two nations had been entirely reversed.
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For the same reason, it is more easy to account for the rise and progress of 
commerce in any kingdom, than for that of learning; and a state, which should 
apply itself to the encouragement of the one, would be more assured of success, 
than one which should cultivate the other. Avarice, or the desire of gain, is an 
universal passion, which operates at all times, in all places, and upon all 
persons: But curiosity, or the love of knowledge, has a very limited influence, 
and requires youth, leisure, education, genius, and example, to make it govern 
any person. You will never want booksellers, while there are buyers of books: 
But there may frequently be readers where there are no authors. Multitudes of 
people, necessity and liberty, have begotten commerce in HOLLAND: But study and 
application have scarcely produced any eminent writers.
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We may, therefore, conclude, that there is no subject, in which we must proceed 
with more caution, than in tracing the history of the arts and sciences; lest we 
assign causes which never existed, and reduce what is merely contingent to 
stable and universal principles. Those who cultivate the sciences in any state, 
are always few in number: The passion, which governs them, limited: Their taste 
and judgment delicate and easily perverted: And their application disturbed with 
the smallest accident. Chance, therefore, or secret and unknown causes, must 
have a great influence on the rise and progress of all the refined arts.
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But there is a reason, which induces me not to ascribe the matter altogether to 
chance. Though the persons, who cultivate the sciences with such astonishing 
success, as to attract the admiration of posterity, be always few, in all 
nations and all ages; it is impossible but a share of the same spirit and genius 
must be antecedently diffused throughout the people among whom they arise, in 
order to produce, form, and cultivate, from their earliest infancy, the taste 
and judgment of those eminent writers. The mass cannot be altogether insipid, 
from which such refined spirits are extracted. There is a God within us, says 
OVID, who breathes that divine fire, by which we are animated.†1 Poets, in all 
ages, have advanced this claim to inspiration. There is not, however, any thing 
supernatural in the case. Their fire is not kindled from heaven. It only runs 
along the earth; is caught from one breast to another; and burns brightest, 
where the materials are best prepared, and most happily disposed. The question, 
therefore, concerning the rise and progress of the arts and sciences, is not 
altogether a question concerning the taste, genius, and spirit of a few, but 
concerning those of a whole people; and may, therefore, be accounted for, in 
some measure, by general causes and principles. I grant, that a man, who should 
enquire, why such a particular poet, as HOMER, for instance, existed, at such a 
place, in such a time, would throw himself headlong into chimaera, and could 
never treat of such a subject, without a multitude of false subtilties and 
refinements. He might as well pretend to give a reason, why such particular 
generals, as FABIUS and SCIPIO, lived in ROME at such a time, and why FABIUS 
came into the world before SCIPIO. For such incidents as these, no other reason 
can be given than that of HORACE:
Scit genius, natale comes, qui temperat astrum
Naturae Deus humanae, mortalis in unum--
---Quodque caput, vultu mutabilis, albuss & ater.
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But I am persuaded, that in many cases good reasons might be given, why such a 
nation is more polite and learned, at a particular time, than any of its 
neighbours. At least, this is so curious a subject, that it were a pity to 
abandon it entirely, before we have found whether it be susceptible of 
reasoning, and can be reduced to any general principles.†a
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My first observation on this head is, That it is impossible for the arts and 
sciences to arise, at first, among any people unless that people enjoy the 
blessing of a free government.
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In the first ages of the world, when men are as yet barbarous and ignorant, they 
seek no farther security against mutual violence and injustice, than the choice 
of some rulers, few or many, in whom they place an implicit confidence, without 
providing any security, by laws or political institutions, against the violence 
and injustice of these rulers. If the authority be centered in a single person, 
and if the people, either by conquest, or by the ordinary course of propagation, 
encrease to a great multitude, the monarch, finding it impossible, in his own 
person, to execute every office of sovereignty, in every place, must delegate 
his authority to inferior magistrates, who preserve peace and order in their 
respective districts. As experience and education have not yet refined the 
judgments of men to any considerable degree, the prince, who is himself 
unrestrained, never dreams of restraining his ministers, but delegates his full 
authority to every one, whom he sets over any portion of the people. All general 
laws are attended with inconveniencies, when applied to particular cases; and it 
requires great penetration and experience, both to perceive that these 
inconveniencies are fewer than what result from full discretionary powers in 
every magistrate; and also to discern what general laws are, upon the whole, 
attended with fewest inconveniencies. This is a matter of so great difficulty, 
that men may have made some advances, even in the sublime arts of poetry and 
eloquence, where a rapidity of genius and imagination assists their progress, 
before they have arrived at any great refinement in their municipal laws, where 
frequent trials and diligent observation can alone direct their improvements. It 
is not, therefore, to be supposed, that a barbarous monarch, unrestrained and 
uninstructed, will ever become a legislator, or think of restraining his 
Bashaws, in every province, or even his Cadis in every village. We are told, 
that the late Czar, though actuated with a noble genius, and smit with the love 
and admiration of EUROPEAN arts; yet professed an esteem for the TURKISH policy 
in this particular, and approved of such summary decisions of causes, as are 
practised in that barbarous monarchy, where the judges are not restrained by any 
methods, forms, or laws. He did not perceive, how contrary such a practice would 
have been to all his other endeavours for refining his people. Arbitrary power, 
in all cases, is somewhat oppressive and debasing; but it is altogether ruinous 
and intolerable, when contracted into a small compass; and becomes still worse, 
when the person, who possesses it, knows that the time of his authority is 
limited and uncertain. Habet subjectos tanquam suos; viles, ut alienos.†2 He 
governs the subjects with full authority, as if they were his own; and with 
negligence or tyranny, as belonging to another. A people, governed after such a 
manner, are slaves in the full and proper sense of the word; and it is 
impossible they can ever aspire to any refinements of taste or reason. They dare 
not so much as pretend to enjoy the necessaries of life in plenty or security.
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To expect, therefore, that the arts and sciences should take their first rise in 
a monarchy, is to expect a contradiction. Before these refinements have taken 
place, the monarch is ignorant and uninstructed; and not having knowledge 
sufficient to make him sensible of the necessity of balancing his government 
upon general laws, he delegates his full power to all inferior magistrates. This 
barbarous policy debases the people, and for ever prevents all improvements. 
Were it possible, that, before science were known in the world, a monarch could 
possess so much wisdom as to become a legislator, and govern his people by law, 
not by the arbitrary will of their fellow-subjects, it might be possible for 
that species of government to be the first nursery of arts and sciences. But 
that supposition seems scarcely to be consistent or rational.
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It may happen, that a republic, in its infant state, may be supported by as few 
laws as a barbarous monarchy, and may entrust as unlimited an authority to its 
magistrates or judges. But, besides that the frequent elections by the people, 
are a considerable check upon authority; it is impossible, but, in time, the 
necessity of restraining the magistrates, in order to preserve liberty, must at 
last appear, and give rise to general laws and statutes. The ROMAN Consuls, for 
some time, decided all causes, without being confined by any positive statutes, 
till the people, bearing this yoke with impatience, created the decemvirs, who 
promulgated the twelve tables; a body of laws, which, though, perhaps, they were 
not equal in bulk to one ENGLISH act of parliament, were almost the only written 
rules, which regulated property and punishment, for some ages, in that famous 
republic. They were, however, sufficient, together with the forms of a free 
government, to secure the lives and properties of the citizens, to exempt one 
man from the dominion of another; and to protect every one against the violence 
or tyranny of his fellow-citizens. In such a situation the sciences may raise 
their heads and flourish: But never can have being amidst such a scene of 
oppression and slavery, as always results from barbarous monarchies, where the 
people alone are restrained by the authority of the magistrates, and the 
magistrates are not restrained by any law or statute. An unlimited despotism of 
this nature, while it exists, effectually puts a stop to all improvements, and 
keeps men from attaining that knowledge, which is requisite to instruct them in 
the advantages, arising from a better police, and more moderate authority.
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Here then are the advantages of free states. Though a republic should be 
barbarous, it necessarily, by an infallible operation, gives rise to LAW, even 
before mankind have made any considerable advances in the other sciences. From 
law arises security: From security curiosity: And from curiosity knowledge. The 
latter steps of this progress may be more accidental; but the former are 
altogether necessary. A republic without laws can never have any duration. On 
the contrary, in a monarchical government, law arises not necessarily from the 
forms of government. Monarchy, when absolute, contains even something repugnant 
to law. Great wisdom and reflexion can alone reconcile them. But such a degree 
of wisdom can never be expected, before the greater refinements and improvements 
of human reason. These refinements require curiosity, security, and law. The 
first growth, therefore, of the arts and sciences can never be expected in 
despotic governments.†b
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There are other causes, which discourage the rise of the refined arts in 
despotic governments; though I take the want of laws, and the delegation of full 
powers to every petty magistrate, to be the principal. Eloquence certainly 
springs up more naturally in popular governments: Emulation too in every 
accomplishment must there be more animated and enlivened: And genius and 
capacity have a fuller scope and career. All these causes render free 
governments the only proper nursery for the arts and sciences.
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The next observation, which I shall make on this head, is, That nothing is more 
favourable to the rise of politeness and learning, than a number of neighbouring 
and independent states, connected together by commerce and policy. The 
emulation, which naturally arises among those neighbouring states, is an obvious 
source of improvement: But what I would chiefly insist on is the stop, which 
such limited territories give both to power and to authority.
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Extended governments, where a single person has great influence, soon become 
absolute; but small ones change naturally into commonwealths. A large government 
is accustomed by degrees to tyranny; because each act of violence is at first 
performed upon a part, which, being distant from the majority, is not taken 
notice of, nor excites any violent ferment. Besides, a large government, though 
the whole be discontented, may, by a little art, be kept in obedience; while 
each part, ignorant of the resolutions of the rest, is afraid to begin any 
commotion or insurrection. Not to mention, that there is a superstitious 
reverence for princes, which mankind naturally contract when they do not often 
see the sovereign, and when many of them become not acquainted with him so as to 
perceive his weaknesses. And as large states can afford a great expence, in 
order to support the pomp of majesty; this is a kind of fascination on men, and 
naturally contributes to the enslaving of them.
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In a small government, any act of oppression is immediately known throughout the 
whole: The murmurs and discontents, proceeding from it, are easily communicated: 
And the indignation arises the higher, because the subjects are not apt to 
apprehend in such states, that the distance is very wide between themselves and 
their sovereign. "No man," said the prince of CONDE, "is a hero to his Valet de 
Chambre." It is certain that admiration and acquaintance are altogether 
incompatible towards any mortal creature.†c Sleep and love convinced even 
ALEXANDER himself that he was not a God: But I suppose that such as daily 
attended him could easily, from the numberless weaknesses to which he was 
subject, have given him many still more convincing proofs of his humanity.
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But the divisions into small states are favourable to learning, by stopping the 
progress of authority as well as that of power. Reputation is often as great a 
fascination upon men as sovereignty, and is equally destructive to the freedom 
of thought and examination. But where a number of neighbouring states have a 
great intercourse of arts and commerce, their mutual jealousy keeps them from 
receiving too lightly the law from each other, in matters of taste and of 
reasoning, and makes them examine every work of art with the greatest care and 
accuracy. The contagion of popular opinion spreads not so easily from one place 
to another. It readily receives a check in some state or other, where it concurs 
not with the prevailing prejudices. And nothing but nature and reason,†d or, at 
least, what bears them a strong resemblance, can force its way through all 
obstacles, and unite the most rival nations into an esteem and admiration of it.
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GREECE was a cluster of little principalities, which soon became republics; and 
being united both by their near neighbourhood, and by the ties of the same 
language and interest, they entered into the closest intercourse of commerce and 
learning. There concurred a happy climate, a soil not unfertile, and a most 
harmonious and comprehensive language; so that every circumstance among that 
people seemed to favour the rise of the arts and sciences. Each city produced 
its several artists and philosophers, who refused to yield the preference to 
those of the neighbouring republics: Their contention and debates sharpened the 
wits of men: A variety of objects was presented to the judgment, while each 
challenged the preference to the rest: and the sciences, not being dwarfed by 
the restraint of authority, were enabled to make such considerable shoots, as 
are, even at this time, the objects of our admiration. After the ROMAN 
christian, or catholic church had spread itself over the civilized world, and 
had engrossed all the learning of the times; being really one large state within 
itself, and united under one head; this variety of sects immediately 
disappeared, and the PERIPATETIC philosophy was alone admitted into all the 
schools, to the utter depravation of every kind of learning. But mankind, having 
at length thrown off this yoke, affairs are now returned nearly to the same 
situation as before, and EUROPE is at present a copy at large, of what GREECE 
was formerly a pattern in miniature. We have seen the advantage of this 
situation in several instances. What checked the progress of the CARTESIAN 
philosophy, to which the FRENCH nation shewed such a strong propensity towards 
the end of the last century, but the opposition made to it by the other nations 
of EUROPE, who soon discovered the weak sides of that philosophy? The severest 
scrutiny, which NEWTON'S theory has undergone, proceeded not from his own 
countrymen, but from foreigners; and if it can overcome the obstacles, which it 
meets with at present in all parts of EUROPE, it will probably go down 
triumphant to the latest posterity. The ENGLISH are become sensible of the 
scandalous licentiousness of their stage, from the example of the FRENCH decency 
and morals. The FRENCH are convinced, that their theatre has become somewhat 
effeminate, by too much love and gallantry; and begin to approve of the more 
masculine taste of some neighbouring nations.
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In CHINA, there seems to be a pretty considerable stock of politeness and 
science, which, in the course of so many centuries, might naturally be expected 
to ripen into something more perfect and finished, than what has yet arisen from 
them. But CHINA is one vast empire, speaking one language, governed by one law, 
and sympathizing in the same manners. The authority of any teacher, such as 
CONFUCIUS, was propagated easily from one corner of the empire to the other. 
None had courage to resist the torrent of popular opinion. And posterity was not 
bold enough to dispute what had been universally received by their ancestors. 
This seems to be one natural reason, why the sciences have made so slow a 
progress in that mighty empire.†3
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If we consider the face of the globe, EUROPE, of all the four parts of the 
world, is the most broken by seas, rivers, and mountains; and GREECE of all 
countries of EUROPE. Hence these regions were naturally divided into several 
distinct governments. And hence the sciences arose in GREECE; and EUROPE has 
been hitherto the most constant habitation of them.
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I have sometimes been inclined to think, that interruptions in the periods of 
learning, were they not attended with such a destruction of ancient books, and 
the records of history, would be rather favourable to the arts and sciences, by 
breaking the progress of authority, and dethroning the tyrannical usurpers over 
human reason. In this particular, they have the same influence, as interruptions 
in political governments and societies. Consider the blind submission of the 
ancient philosophers to the several masters in each school, and you will be 
convinced, that little good could be expected from a hundred centuries of such a 
servile philosophy. Even the ECLECTICS, who arose about the age of AUGUSTUS, 
notwithstanding their professing to chuse freely what pleased them from every 
different sect, were yet, in the main, as slavish and dependent as any of their 
brethren; since they sought for truth not in nature, but in the several schools; 
where they supposed she must necessarily be found, though not united in a body, 
yet dispersed in parts. Upon the revival of learning, those sects of STOICS and 
EPICUREANS, PLATONISTS and PYTHAGORICIANS, could never regain any credit or 
authority; and, at the same time, by the example of their fall, kept men from 
submitting, with such blind deference, to those new sects, which have attempted 
to gain an ascendant over them.
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The third observation, which I shall form on this head, of the rise and progress 
of the arts and sciences, is, That though the only proper Nursery of these noble 
plants be a free state; yet may they be transplanted into any government; and 
that a republic is most favourable to the growth of the sciences, a civilized 
monarchy to that of the polite arts.
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To balance a large state or society, whether monarchical or republican, on 
general laws, is a work of so great difficulty, that no human genius, however 
comprehensive, is able, by the mere dint of reason and reflection, to effect it. 
The judgments of many must unite in this work: Experience must guide their 
labour: Time must bring it to perfection: And the feeling of inconveniencies 
must correct the mistakes, which they inevitably fall into, in their first 
trials and experiments. Hence appears the impossibility, that this undertaking 
should be begun and carried on in any monarchy; since such a form of government, 
ere civilized, knows no other secret or policy, than that of entrusting 
unlimited powers to every governor or magistrate, and subdividing the people 
into so many classes and orders of slavery. From such a situation, no 
improvement can ever be expected in the sciences, in the liberal arts, in laws, 
and scarcely in the manual arts and manufactures. The same barbarism and 
ignorance, with which the government commences, is propagated to all posterity, 
and can never come to a period by the efforts or ingenuity of such unhappy 
slaves.
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But though law, the source of all security and happiness, arises late in any 
government, and is the slow product of order and of liberty, it is not preserved 
with the same difficulty, with which it is produced; but when it has once taken 
root, is a hardy plant, which will scarcely ever perish through the ill culture 
of men, or the rigour of the seasons. The arts of luxury, and much more the 
liberal arts, which depend on a refined taste or sentiment, are easily lost; 
because they are always relished by a few only, whose leisure, fortune, and 
genius fit them for such amusements. But what is profitable to every mortal, and 
in common life, when once discovered, can scarcely fall into oblivion, but by 
the total subversion of society, and by such furious inundations of barbarous 
invaders, as obliterate all memory of former arts and civility. Imitation also 
is apt to transport these coarser and more useful arts from one climate to 
another, and make them precede the refined arts in their progress; though 
perhaps they sprang after them in their first rise and propagation. From these 
causes proceed civilized monarchies; where the arts of government, first 
invented in free states, are preserved to the mutual advantage and security of 
sovereign and subject.
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However perfect, therefore, the monarchical form may appear to some politicians, 
it owes all its perfection to the republican; nor is it possible, that a pure 
despotism, established among a barbarous people, can ever, by its native force 
and energy, refine and polish itself. It must borrow its laws, and methods, and 
institutions, and consequently its stability and order, from free governments. 
These advantages are the sole growth of republics. The extensive despotism of a 
barbarous monarchy, by entering into the detail of the government, as well as 
into the principal points of administration, for ever prevents all such 
improvements.
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In a civilized monarchy, the prince alone is unrestrained in the exercise of his 
authority, and possesses alone a power, which is not bounded by any thing but 
custom, example, and the sense of his own interest. Every minister or 
magistrate, however eminent, must submit to the general laws, which govern the 
whole society, and must exert the authority delegated to him after the manner, 
which is prescribed. The people depend on none but their sovereign, for the 
security of their property. He is so far removed from them, and is so much 
exempt from private jealousies or interests, that this dependence is scarcely 
felt. And thus a species of government arises, to which, in a high political 
rant, we may give the name of Tyranny, but which, by a just and prudent 
administration, may afford tolerable security to the people, and may answer most 
of the ends of political society.
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But though in a civilized monarchy, as well as in a republic, the people have 
security for the enjoyment of their property; yet in both these forms of 
government, those who possess the supreme authority have the disposal of many 
honours and advantages, which excite the ambition and avarice of mankind. The 
only difference is, that, in a republic, the candidates for office must look 
downwards, to gain the suffrages of the people; in a monarchy, they must turn 
their attention upwards, to court the good graces and favour of the great. To be 
successful in the former way, it is necessary for a man to make himself useful, 
by his industry, capacity, or knowledge: To be prosperous in the latter way, it 
is requisite for him to render himself agreeable, by his wit, complaisance, or 
civility. A strong genius succeeds best in republics: A refined taste in 
monarchies. And consequently the sciences are the more natural growth of the 
one, and the polite arts of the other.
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Not to mention, that monarchies, receiving their chief stability from a 
superstitious reverence to priests and princes, have commonly abridged the 
liberty of reasoning, with regard to religion, and politics, and consequently 
metaphysics and morals. All these form the most considerable branches of 
science. Mathematics and natural philosophy, which only remain, are not half so 
valuable.†e
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Among the arts of conversation, no one pleases more than mutual deference or 
civility, which leads us to resign our own inclinations to those of our 
companion, and to curb and conceal that presumption and arrogance, so natural to 
the human mind. A good-natured man, who is well educated, practises this 
civility to every mortal, without premeditation or interest. But in order to 
render that valuable quality general among any people, it seems necessary to 
assist the natural disposition by some general motive. Where power rises upwards 
from the people to the great, as in all republics, such refinements of civility 
are apt to be little practised; since the whole state is, by that means, brought 
near to a level, and every member of it is rendered, in a great measure, 
independent of another. The people have the advantage, by the authority of their 
suffrages: The great, by the superiority of their station. But in a civilized 
monarchy, there is a long train of dependence from the prince to the peasant, 
which is not great enough to render property precarious, or depress the minds of 
the people; but is sufficient to beget in every one an inclination to please his 
superiors, and to form himself upon those models, which are most acceptable to 
people of condition and education. Politeness of manners, therefore, arises most 
naturally in monarchies and courts; and where that flourishes, none of the 
liberal arts will be altogether neglected or despised.
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The republics in EUROPE are at present noted for want of politeness. The 
good-manners of a SWISS civilized in HOLLAND,†4 is an expression for rusticity 
among the FRENCH. The ENGLISH, in some degree, fall under the same censure, 
notwithstanding their learning and genius. And if the VENETIANS be an exception 
to the rule, they owe it, perhaps, to their communication with the other 
ITALIANS, most of whose governments beget a dependence more than sufficient for 
civilizing their manners.
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It is difficult to pronounce any judgment concerning the refinements of the 
ancient republics in this particular: But I am apt to suspect, that the arts of 
conversation were not brought so near to perfection among them as the arts of 
writing and composition. The scurrility of the ancient orators, in many 
instances, is quite shocking, and exceeds all belief. Vanity too is often not a 
little offensive in authors of those ages;†5 as well as the common 
licentiousness and immodesty of their stile, Quicunque impudicus, adulter, 
ganeo, manu, ventre, pene, bona patria laceraverat, says SALLUST in one of the 
gravest and most moral passages of his history. Nam fuit ante Helenam Cunnus 
teterrima belli Causa, is an expression of HORACE, in tracing the origin of 
moral good and evil. OVID and LUCRETIUS†6 are almost as licentious in their 
stile as Lord ROCHESTER; though the former were fine gentlemen and delicate 
writers, and the latter,†g from the corruptions of that court, in which he 
lived, seems to have thrown off all regard to shame and decency. JUVENAL 
inculcates modesty with great zeal; but sets a very bad example of it, if we 
consider the impudence of his expressions.
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I shall also be bold to affirm, that among the ancients, there was not much 
delicacy of breeding, or that polite deference and respect, which civility 
obliges us either to express or counterfeit towards the persons with whom we 
converse. CICERO was certainly one of the finest gentlemen of his age; yet I 
must confess I have frequently been shocked with the poor figure under which he 
represents his friend ATTICUS, in those dialogues, where he himself is 
introduced as a speaker. That learned and virtuous ROMAN, whose dignity, though 
he was only a private gentleman, was inferior to that of no one in ROME, is 
there shewn in rather a more pitiful light than PHILALETHES'S friend in our 
modern dialogues. He is a humble admirer of the orator, pays him frequent 
compliments, and receives his instructions, with all the deference which a 
scholar owes to his master.†7 Even CATO is treated in somewhat of a cavalier 
manner in the dialogues de finibus.†h
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†i One of the most particular details of a real dialogue, which we meet with in 
antiquity, is related by POLYBIUS;†8 when PHILIP, king of MACEDON, a prince of 
wit and parts, met with TITUS FLAMININUS, one of the politest of the ROMANS, as 
we learn from PLUTARCH,†9 accompanied with ambassadors from almost all the GREEK 
cities. The AETOLIAN ambassador very abruptly tells the king, that he talked 
like a fool or a madman ({lerein}). That's evident, says his majesty, even to a 
blind man; which was a raillery on the blindness of his excellency. Yet all this 
did not pass the usual bounds: For the conference was not disturbed; and 
FLAMININUS was very well diverted with these strokes of humour. At the end, when 
PHILIP craved a little time to consult with his friends, of whom he had none 
present, the ROMAN general, being desirous also to shew his wit, as the 
historian says, tells him, that perhaps the reason, why he had none of his 
friends with him, was because he had murdered them all; which was actually the 
case. This unprovoked piece of rusticity is not condemned by the historian; 
caused no farther resentment in PHILIP, than to excite a SARDONIAN smile, or 
what we call a grin; and hindered him not from renewing the conference next day. 
PLUTARCH†10 too mentions this raillery amongst the witty and agreeable sayings 
of FLAMININUS.†j
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Cardinal WOLSEY apologized for his famous piece of insolence, in saying, EGO ET 
REX MEUS, I and my king, by observing, that this expression was conformable to 
the Latin idiom, and that a ROMAN always named himself before the person to 
whom, or of whom he spake. Yet this seems to have been an instance of want of 
civility among that people. The ancients made it a rule, that the person of the 
greatest dignity should be mentioned first in the discourse; insomuch, that we 
find the spring of a quarrel and jealousy between the ROMANS and AETOLIANS, to 
have been a poet's naming the AETOLIANS before the ROMANS, in celebrating a 
victory gained by their united arms over the MACEDONIANS.†11†k Thus LIVIA 
disgusted TIBERIUS by placing her own name before his in an inscription.†12
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No advantages in this world are pure and unmixed. In like manner, as modern 
politeness, which is naturally so ornamental, runs often into affectation and 
foppery, disguise and insincerity; so the ancient simplicity, which is naturally 
so amiable and affecting, often degenerates into rusticity and abuse, scurrility 
and obscenity.
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If the superiority in politeness should be allowed to modern times, the modern 
notions of gallantry, the natural produce of courts and monarchies, will 
probably be assigned as the causes of this refinement. No one denies this 
invention to be modern:†13 But some of the more zealous partizans of the 
ancients, have asserted it to be foppish and ridiculous, and a reproach, rather 
than a credit, to the present age.†14 It may here be proper to examine this 
question.
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Nature has implanted in all living creatures an affection between the sexes, 
which, even in the fiercest and most rapacious animals, is not merely confined 
to the satisfaction of the bodily appetite, but begets a friendship and mutual 
sympathy, which runs through the whole tenor of their lives. Nay, even in those 
species, where nature limits the indulgence of this appetite to one season and 
to one object, and forms a kind of marriage or association between a single male 
and female, there is yet a visible complacency and benevolence, which extends 
farther, and mutually softens the affections of the sexes towards each other.†l 
How much more must this have place in man, where the confinement of the appetite 
is not natural; but either is derived accidentally from some strong charm of 
love, or arises from reflections on duty and convenience? Nothing, therefore, 
can proceed less from affectation than the passion of gallantry. It is natural 
in the highest degree. Art and education, in the most elegant courts, make no 
more alteration on it, than on all the other laudable passions. They only turn 
the mind more towards it; they refine it; they polish it; and give it a proper 
grace and expression.
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But gallantry is as generous as it is natural. To correct such gross vices, as 
lead us to commit real injury on others, is the part of morals, and the object 
of the most ordinary education. Where that is not attended to, in some degree, 
no human society can subsist. But in order to render conversation, and the 
intercourse of minds more easy and agreeable, good-manners have been invented, 
and have carried the matter somewhat farther. Wherever nature has given the mind 
a propensity to any vice, or to any passion disagreeable to others, refined 
breeding has taught men to throw the biass on the opposite side, and to 
preserve, in all their behaviour, the appearance of sentiments different from 
those to which they naturally incline. Thus, as we are commonly proud and 
selfish, and apt to assume the preference above others, a polite man learns to 
behave with deference towards his companions, and to yield the superiority to 
them in all the common incidents of society. In like manner, wherever a person's 
situation may naturally beget any disagreeable suspicion in him, it is the part 
of good-manners to prevent it, by a studied display of sentiments, directly 
contrary to those of which he is apt to be jealous. Thus, old men know their 
infirmities, and naturally dread contempt from the youth: Hence, well-educated 
youth redouble the instances of respect and deference to their elders. Strangers 
and foreigners are without protection: Hence, in all polite countries, they 
receive the highest civilities, and are entitled to the first place in every 
company. A man is lord in his own family, and his guests are, in a manner, 
subject to his authority: Hence, he is always the lowest person in the company; 
attentive to the wants of every one; and giving himself all the trouble, in 
order to please, which may not betray too visible an affectation, or impose too 
much constraint on his guests.†15 Gallantry is nothing but an instance of the 
same generous attention. As nature has given man the superiority above woman, by 
endowing him with greater strength both of mind and body; it is his part to 
alleviate that superiority, as much as possible, by the generosity of his 
behaviour, and by a studied deference and complaisance for all her inclinations 
and opinions. Barbarous nations display this superiority, by reducing their 
females to the most abject slavery; by confining them, by beating them, by 
selling them, by killing them. But the male sex, among a polite people, discover 
their authority in a more generous, though not a less evident manner; by 
civility, by respect, by complaisance, and, in a word, by gallantry. In good 
company, you need not ask, Who is the master of the feast? The man, who sits in 
the lowest place, and who is always industrious in helping every one, is 
certainly the person. We must either condemn all such instances of generosity, 
as foppish and affected, or admit of gallantry among the rest. The ancient 
MUSCOVITES wedded their wives with a whip, instead of a ring. The same people, 
in their own houses, took always the precedency above foreigners, even†16 
foreign ambassadors. These two instances of their generosity and politeness are 
much of a piece.
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Gallantry is not less compatible with wisdom and prudence, than with nature and 
generosity; and when under proper regulations, contributes more than any other 
invention, to the entertainment and improvement of the youth of both sexes.†m 
Among every species of animals, nature has founded on the love between the sexes 
their sweetest and best enjoyment. But the satisfaction of the bodily appetite 
is not alone sufficient to gratify the mind; and even among brute-creatures, we 
find, that their play and dalliance, and other expressions of fondness, form the 
greatest part of the entertainment. In rational beings, we must certainly admit 
the mind for a considerable share. Were we to rob the feast of all its garniture 
of reason, discourse, sympathy, friendship, and gaiety, what remains would 
scarcely be worth acceptance, in the judgment of the truly elegant and 
luxurious.
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What better school for manners, than the company of virtuous women; where the 
mutual endeavour to please must insensibly polish the mind, where the example of 
the female softness and modesty must communicate itself to their admirers, and 
where the delicacy of that sex puts every one on his guard, lest he give offence 
by any breach of decency.†n
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Among the ancients, the character of the fair-sex was considered as altogether 
domestic; nor were they regarded as part of the polite world or of good company. 
This, perhaps, is the true reason why the ancients have not left us one piece of 
pleasantry that is excellent, (unless one may except the Banquet of XENOPHON, 
and the Dialogues of LUCIAN) though many of their serious compositions are 
altogether inimitable. HORACE condemns the coarse railleries and cold jests of 
PLAUTUS: But, though the most easy, agreeable, and judicious writer in the 
world, is his own talent for ridicule very striking or refined? This, therefore, 
is one considerable improvement, which the polite arts have received from 
gallantry, and from courts, where it first arose.†o
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But, to return from this digression, I shall advance it as a fourth observation 
on this subject, of the rise and progress of the arts and sciences, That when 
the arts and sciences come to perfection in any state, from that moment they 
naturally, or rather necessarily decline, and seldom or never revive in that 
nation, where they formerly flourished.
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It must be confessed, that this maxim, though conformable to experience, may, at 
first sight, be esteemed contrary to reason. If the natural genius of mankind be 
the same in all ages, and in almost all countries, (as seems to be the truth) it 
must very much forward and cultivate this genius, to be possessed of patterns in 
every art, which may regulate the taste, and fix the objects of imitation. The 
models left us by the ancients gave birth to all the arts about 200 years ago, 
and have mightily advanced their progress in every country of EUROPE: Why had 
they not a like effect during the reign of TRAJAN and his successors; when they 
were much more entire, and were still admired and studied by the whole world? So 
late as the emperor JUSTINIAN, the POET, by way of distinction, was understood, 
among the GREEKS, to be HOMER; among the ROMANS, VIRGIL. Such admiration still 
remained for these divine geniuses; though no poet had appeared for many 
centuries, who could justly pretend to have imitated them.
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A man's genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to himself 
as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended with success, that 
he dares think himself equal to those undertakings, in which those, who have 
succeeded, have fixed the admiration of mankind. If his own nation be already 
possessed of many models of eloquence, he naturally compares his own juvenile 
exercises with these; and being sensible of the great disproportion, is 
discouraged from any farther attempts, and never aims at a rivalship with those 
authors, whom he so much admires. A noble emulation is the source of every 
excellence. Admiration and modesty naturally extinguish this emulation. And no 
one is so liable to an excess of admiration and modesty, as a truly great 
genius.
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Next to emulation, the greatest encourager of the noble arts is praise and 
glory. A writer is animated with new force, when he hears the applauses of the 
world for his former productions; and, being roused by such a motive, he often 
reaches a pitch of perfection, which is equally surprizing to himself and to his 
readers. But when the posts of honour are all occupied, his first attempts are 
but coldly received by the public; being compared to productions, which are both 
in themselves more excellent, and have already the advantage of an established 
reputation. Were MOLIERE and CORNEILLE to bring upon the stage at present their 
early productions, which were formerly so well received, it would discourage the 
young poets, to see the indifference and disdain of the public. The ignorance of 
the age alone could have given admission to the Prince of TYRE; but it is to 
that we owe the Moor: Had Every man in his humour been rejected, we had never 
seen VOLPONE.
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Perhaps, it may not be for the advantage of any nation to have the arts imported 
from their neighbours in too great perfection. This extinguishes emulation, and 
sinks the ardour of the generous youth. So many models of ITALIAN painting 
brought into ENGLAND, instead of exciting our artists, is the cause of their 
small progress in that noble art. The same, perhaps, was the case of ROME, when 
it received the arts from GREECE. That multitude of polite productions in the 
FRENCH language, dispersed all over GERMANY and the NORTH, hinder these nations 
from cultivating their own language, and keep them still dependent on their 
neighbours for those elegant entertainments.
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It is true, the ancients had left us models in every kind of writing, which are 
highly worthy of admiration. But besides that they were written in languages, 
known only to the learned; besides this, I say, the comparison is not so perfect 
or entire between modern wits, and those who lived in so remote an age. Had 
WALLER been born in ROME, during the reign of TIBERIUS, his first productions 
had been despised, when compared to the finished odes of HORACE. But in this 
island the superiority of the ROMAN poet diminished nothing from the fame of the 
ENGLISH. We esteemed ourselves sufficiently happy, that our climate and language 
could produce but a faint copy of so excellent an original.
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In short, the arts and sciences, like some plants, require a fresh soil; and 
however rich the land may be, and however you may recruit it by art or care, it 
will never, when once exhausted, produce any thing that is perfect or finished 
in the kind.
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†1 Est Deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo:
Impetus hic, sacrae semina mentis habet.
OVID, Fast. lib. vi. 5.
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†2 TACIT. hist. lib. i. 37.
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†3 If it be asked how we can reconcile to the foregoing principles the 
happiness, riches, and good police of the CHINESE, who have always been governed 
by a monarch, and can scarcely form an idea of a free government; I would 
answer, that though the CHINESE government be a pure monarchy, it is not, 
properly speaking, absolute. This proceeds from a peculiarity in the situation 
of that country: They have no neighbours, except the TARTARS, from whom they 
were, in some measure, secured, at least seemed to be secured, by their famous 
wall, and by the great superiority of their numbers. By this means, military 
discipline has always been much neglected amongst them; and their standing 
forces are mere militia, of the worst kind; and unfit to suppress any general 
insurrection in countries so extremely populous. The sword, therefore, may 
properly be said to be always in the hands of the people, which is a sufficient 
restraint upon the monarch, and obliges him to lay his mandarins or governors of 
provinces under the restraint of general laws, in order to prevent those 
rebellions, which we learn from history to have been so frequent and dangerous 
in that government. Perhaps, a pure monarchy of this kind, were it fitted for 
defence against foreign enemies, would be the best of all governments, as having 
both the tranquillity attending kingly power, and the moderation and liberty of 
popular assemblies.
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†4 C'est la politesse d'un Suisse
En HOLLANDE civilise.
ROUSSEAU.
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†5 It is needless to cite CICERO or PLINY on this head: They are too much noted: 
But one is a little surprised to find ARRIAN, a very grave, judicious writer, 
interrupt the thread of his narration all of a sudden, to tell his readers that 
he himself is as eminent among the GREEKS for eloquence as ALEXANDER was for 
arms. Lib. i. 12.
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†6 This poet (See lib. iv. 1175.) recommends a very extraordinary cure for love, 
and what one expects not to meet with in so elegant and philosophical a poem. It 
seems to have been the original of some of Dr. SWIFT'S†f images. The elegant 
CATULLUS and PHAEDRUS fall under the same censure.
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†7 ATT. Non mihi videtur ad beate vivendum satis esse virtutem. MAR. At hercule 
BRUTO meo videtur; cujus ego judicium, pace tua dixerim, longe antepono tuo. 
Tusc. Quaest. lib. v. 5.
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†8 Lib. xvii. 4.
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†9 In vita FLAMIN., c. 2.
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†10 PLUT. in vita FLAMIN. c. 17.
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†11 PLUT. in vita FLAMIN. c. 9.
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†12 TACIT. Ann. lib. iii. cap. 64.
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†13 In the Self-Tormentor of TERENCE, CLINIAS, whenever he comes to town, 
instead of waiting on his mistress, sends for her to come to him.
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†14 LORD SHAFTESBURY, see his Moralists.
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†15 The frequent mention in ancient authors of that ill-bred custom of the 
master of the family's eating better bread or drinking better wine at table, 
than he afforded his guests, is but an indifferent mark of the civility of those 
ages. See JUVENAL, sat. 5. PLINII lib. xiv. cap. 13. Also PLINII Epist. Lucian 
de mercede conductis, Saturnalia &c. There is scarcely any part Of EUROPE at 
present so uncivilized as to admit of such a custom.
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†16 See Relation of three Embassies, by the Earl of CARLISLE.
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†a Editions C to P add: I shall therefore proceed to deliver a few observations 
on this subject, which I submit to the censure and examination of the learned.
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†b Editions C to P add: According to the necessary progress of things, law must 
precede science. In republics law may precede science, and may arise from the 
very nature of the government. In monarchies it arises not from the nature of 
the government, and cannot precede science. An absolute prince, who is 
barbarous, renders all his ministers and magistrates as absolute as himself: And 
there needs no more to prevent, for ever, all industry, curiosity, and science.
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†c Editions C to K add the following: Antigonus, being complimented by his 
flatterers, as a deity, and as the son of that glorious planet, which 
illuminates the universe, Upon that head, says he, you may consult the person 
that empties my close stool.
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†d Or . . . resemblance: omitted in C and D.
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†e Editions C to P: There is a very great connection among all the arts, which 
contribute to pleasure; and the same delicacy of taste, which enables us to make 
improvements in one, will not allow the others to remain altogether rude and 
barbarous.
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†f C to P insert: beautiful and cleanly.
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†g Editions C and D read: was an abandon'd and shameless Profligate.
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†h Editions C to P add the following: And 'tis remarkable, that CICERO, being a 
great sceptic in matters of religion, and unwilling to determine any thing on 
that head among the different sects of philosophy, introduces his friends 
disputing concerning the being and nature of the gods, while he is only a 
hearer; because, forsooth, it would have been an impropriety for so great a 
genius as himself, had he spoke, not to have said something decisive on the 
subject, and have carried every thing before him, as he always does on other 
occasions. There is also a spirit of dialogue observed in the eloquent books de 
Oratore, and a tolerable equality maintained among the speakers: But then these 
speakers are the great men of the age preceding the author, and he recounts the 
conference as only from hearsay.
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†i This paragraph is not found in Editions C and D.
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†j Editions C to P insert: 'Tis but an indifferent compliment, which HORACE pays 
to his friend GROSPHUS, in the ode addressed to him. No one, says he, is happy 
in every respect. And I may perhaps enjoy some advantages, which you are 
deprived of. You possess great riches: Your bellowing herds cover the SICILIAN 
plains. Your chariot is drawn by the finest horses: And you are arrayed in the 
richest purple. But the indulgent fates, with a small inheritance, have given ME 
a fine genius, and have endowed me with a contempt for the malignant judgments 
of the vulgar.†1 PHAEDRUS says to his patron, EUTYCHUS, If you intend to read my 
works, I shall be pleased: If not, I shall, at least, have the advantage of 
pleasing posterity.†2 I am apt to think that a modern poet would not have been 
guilty of such an impropriety as that which may be observed in VIRGIL'S address 
to AUGUSTUS, when, after a great deal of extravagant flattery, and after having 
deified the emperor, according to the custom of those times, he, at last, places 
this god on the same level with himself. By your gracious nod, says he, render 
my undertaking prosperous; and taking pity, together with me, of the Swains 
ignorant of husbandry, bestow your favourable influence on this work.†3 Had men, 
in that age, been accustomed to observe such niceties, a writer so delicate as 
VIRGIL would certainly have given a different turn to this sentence. The court 
of AUGUSTUS, however polite, had not yet, it seems, worn off the manners of the 
republic.
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†1---Nihil est ab omni
Parte beatum.
Abstulit clarum cita mors ACHILLEM,
Longa TITHONUM minuit senectus,
Et mihi forsan, tibi quod negarit,
Porriget hora.
Te greges centum, Siculaeque circum
Mugiunt vaccae: tibi tollit, hinni-
Tum apta quadrigis equa: te bis Afro
Murice tinctae
Vestiunt lanae: mihi parva rura, &
Spiritum Graiae tenuem Camonae
Parca non mendax dedit & malignum
Spernere vulgus.
Lib. 2. Ode 16.
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†2 Quem si leges, laetabor; sin autem minus,
Habebunt certe quo se oblectent posteri.
Lib. 3. Prol. 31.
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†3 Ignarosque viae mecum miseratus agrestes
Ingredere, & votis jam nunc assuesce vocari.
Georg. Lib. 1, 41.
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One would not say to a prince or great man, "When you and I were in such a 
place, we saw such a thing happen." But, "When you were in such a place, I 
attended you: And such a thing happened."
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Here I cannot forbear mentioning a piece of delicacy observed in FRANCE, which 
seems to me excessive and ridiculous. You must not say, "That is a very fine 
dog, Madam." But, "Madam, that is a very fine dog." They think it indecent that 
those words, dog and madam, should be coupled together in the sentence; though 
they have no reference to each other in the sense.
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After all, I acknowledge, that this reasoning from single passages of ancient 
authors may seem fallacious; and that the foregoing arguments cannot have great 
force, but with those who are well acquainted with these writers, and know the 
truth of the general position. For instance, what absurdity would it be to 
assert, that VIRGIL understood not the force of the terms he employs, and could 
not chuse his epithets with propriety? Because in the following lines, addressed 
also to AUGUSTUS, he has failed in that particular, and has ascribed to the 
INDIANS a quality, which seems, in a manner, to turn his hero into ridicule.
----Et te, maxime CAESAR,
Qui nunc extremis ASIAE jam victor in oris
Imbellem avertis ROMANIS arcibus Indum.
Georg. Lib. 2. 171.
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†k This sentence and the paragraph next following were added in Edition K.
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†l Editions C to P add the following quotation:
Tutti gli altri animai che sono in terra,
O che vivon quieti & stanno in pace;
O se vengon a rissa, & si fan guerra,
A la femina il maschio non la face.
L'orsa con l'orso al bosco sicura erra,
La Leonessa appresso il Leon giace,
Con Lupo vive il Lupa sicura,
Ne la Giuvenca ha del Torel paura.
ARIOSTO, Canto 5.
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†m Editions C to P read: In all vegetables 'tis observable, that the flower and 
the seed are always connected together; and in like manner, among every species, 
&c.
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†n C to O add: I must confess, That my own particular choice rather leads me to 
prefer the company of a few select companions, with whom I can, calmly and 
peaceably, enjoy the feast of reason, and try the justness of every reflection, 
whether gay or serious, that may occur to me. But as such a delightful society 
is not every day to be met with, I must think, that mixt companies, without the 
fair-sex, are the most insipid entertainment in the world, and destitute of 
gaiety and politeness, as much as of sense and reason. Nothing can keep them 
from excessive dulness but hard drinking; a remedy worse than the disease.
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†o Editions C to P insert the following: The point of honour, or duelling, is a 
modern invention, as well as gallantry; and by some esteemed equally useful for 
the refining of manners: But how it has contributed to that effect, I am at a 
loss to determine. Conversation, among the greatest rustics, is not commonly 
invested with such rudeness as can give occasion to duels, even according to the 
most refined laws of this fantastic honour; and as to the other small 
indecencies, which are the most offensive, because the most frequent, they can 
never be cured by the practice of duelling. But these notions are not only 
useless: They are also pernicious. By separating the man of honour from the man 
of virtue, the greatest profligates have got something to value themselves upon, 
and have been able to keep themselves in countenance, tho' guilty of the most 
shameful and most dangerous vices. They are debauchees, spendthrifts, and never 
pay a farthing they owe: But they are men of honour; and therefore are to be 
received as gentlemen in all companies.
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There are some of the parts of modern honour, which are the most essential parts 
of morality; such as fidelity, the observing promises, and telling truth. These 
points of honour Mr. ADDISON had in his eye when he made JUBA say,
Honour's a sacred tye, the law of kings,
The noble mind's distinguishing perfection,
That aids and strengthens virtue when it meets her,
And imitates her actions where she is not:
It ought not to be sported with.
These lines are very beautiful: But I am afraid, that Mr. ADDISON has here been 
guilty of that impropriety of sentiment, with which on other occasions, he has 
so justly reproached our poets. The ancients certainly never had any notion of 
honour as distinct from virtue.

Essay 15. THE EPICUREAN
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ESSAY XV: THE EPICUREAN†1
It is a great mortification to the vanity of man, that his utmost art and 
industry can never equal the meanest of nature's productions, either for beauty 
or value. Art is only the under-workman, and is employed to give a few strokes 
of embellishment to those pieces, which come from the hand of the master. Some 
of the drapery may be of his drawing; but he is not allowed to touch the 
principal figure. Art may make a suit of clothes: But nature must produce a man.
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Even in those productions, commonly denominated works of art, we find that the 
noblest of the kind are beholden for their chief beauty to the force and happy 
influence of nature. To the†a native enthusiasm of the poets, we owe whatever is 
admirable in their productions. The greatest genius, where nature at any time 
fails him, (for she is not equal) throws aside the lyre, and hopes not, from the 
rules of art, to reach that divine harmony, which must proceed from her 
inspiration alone. How poor are those songs, where a happy flow of fancy has not 
furnished materials for art to embellish and refine!
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But of all the fruitless attempts of art, no one is so ridiculous, as that which 
the severe philosophers have undertaken, the producing of an artificial 
happiness, and making us be pleased by rules of reason, and by reflection. Why 
did none of them claim the reward, which XERXES promised to him, who should 
invent a new pleasure? Unless, perhaps, they invented so many pleasures for 
their own use, that they despised riches, and stood in no need of any 
enjoyments, which the rewards of that monarch could procure them. I am apt, 
indeed, to think, that they were not willing to furnish the PERSIAN court with a 
new pleasure, by presenting it with so new and unusual an object of ridicule. 
Their speculations, when confined to theory, and gravely delivered in the 
schools of GREECE, might excite admiration in their ignorant pupils: But the 
attempting to reduce such principles to practice would soon have betrayed their 
absurdity.
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You pretend to make me happy by reason, and by rules of art. You must, then, 
create me anew by rules of art. For on my original frame and structure does my 
happiness depend. But you want power to effect this; and skill too, I am afraid: 
Nor can I entertain a less opinion of nature's wisdom than of yours. And let her 
conduct the machine, which she has so wisely framed. I find, that I should only 
spoil it by my tampering.
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To what purpose should I pretend to regulate, refine, or invigorate any of those 
springs or principles, which nature has implanted in me? Is this the road by 
which I must reach happiness? But happiness implies ease, contentment, repose, 
and pleasure; not watchfulness, care, and fatigue. The health of my body 
consists in the facility, with which all its operations are performed. The 
stomach digests the aliments: The heart circulates the blood: The brain 
separates and refines the spirits: And all this without my concerning myself in 
the matter. When by my will alone I can stop the blood, as it runs with 
impetuosity along its canals, then may I hope to change the course of my 
sentiments and passions. In vain should I strain my faculties, and endeavour to 
receive pleasure from an object, which is not fitted by nature to affect my 
organs with delight. I may give myself pain by my fruitless endeavours; but 
shall never reach any pleasure.
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Away then with all those vain pretences of making ourselves happy within 
ourselves, of feasting on our own thoughts, of being satisfied with the 
consciousness of well-doing, and of despising all assistance and all supplies 
from external objects. This is the voice of PRIDE, not of NATURE. And it were 
well, if even this pride could support itself, and communicate a real inward 
pleasure, however melancholy or severe. But this impotent pride can do no more 
than regulate the outside; and with infinite pains and attention compose the 
language and countenance to a philosophical dignity, in order to deceive the 
ignorant vulgar. The heart, mean while, is empty of all enjoyment: And the mind, 
unsupported by its proper objects, sinks into the deepest sorrow and dejection. 
Miserable, but vain mortal! Thy mind be happy within itself! With what resources 
is it endowed to fill so immense a void, and supply the place of all thy bodily 
senses and faculties? Can thy head subsist without thy other members? In such a 
situation,
What foolish figure must it make?
Do nothing else but sleep and ake.
Into such a lethargy, or such a melancholy, must thy mind be plunged, when 
deprived of foreign occupations and enjoyments.
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Keep me, therefore, no longer in this violent constraint. Confine me not within 
myself; but point out to me those objects and pleasures, which afford the chief 
enjoyment. But why do I apply to you, proud and ignorant sages, to shew me the 
road to happiness? Let me consult my own passions and inclinations. In them must 
I read the dictates of nature; not in your frivolous discourses.
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But see, propitious to my wishes, the divine, the amiable PLEASURE,†2 the 
supreme love of GODS and men, advances towards me. At her approach, my heart 
beats with genial heat, and every sense and every faculty is dissolved in joy; 
while she pours around me all the embellishments of the spring, and all the 
treasures of the autumn. The melody of her voice charms my ears with the softest 
music, as she invites me to partake of those delicious fruits, which, with a 
smile that diffuses a glory on the heavens and the earth, she presents to me. 
The sportive CUPIDS, who attend her, or fan me with their odoriferous wings, or 
pour on my head the most fragrant oils, or offer me their sparkling nectar in 
golden goblets. O! for ever let me spread my limbs on this bed of roses, and 
thus, thus feel the delicious moments, with soft and downy steps, glide along. 
But cruel chance! Whither do you fly so fast? Why do my ardent wishes, and that 
load of pleasures, under which you labour, rather hasten than retard your 
unrelenting pace? Suffer me to enjoy this soft repose, after all my fatigues in 
search of happiness. Suffer me to satiate myself with these delicacies, after 
the pains of so long and so foolish an abstinence.
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But it will not do. The roses have lost their hue: The fruit its flavour: And 
that delicious wine, whose fumes, so late, intoxicated all my senses with such 
delight, now solicits in vain the sated palate. Pleasure smiles at my languor. 
She beckons her sister, Virtue, to come to her assistance. The gay, the frolic 
Virtue observes the call, and brings along the whole troop of my jovial friends. 
Welcome, thrice welcome, my ever dear companions, to these shady bowers, and to 
this luxurious repast. Your presence has restored to the rose its hue, and to 
the fruit its flavour. The vapours of this sprightly nectar now again play 
around my heart; while you partake of my delights, and discover in your chearful 
looks, the pleasure which you receive from my happiness and satisfaction. The 
like do I receive from yours; and encouraged by your joyous presence, shall 
again renew the feast, with which, from too much enjoyment, my senses were well 
nigh sated; while the mind kept not pace with the body, nor afforded relief to 
her o'er-burthened partner.
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In our chearful discourses, better than in the formal reasonings of the schools, 
is true wisdom to be found. In our friendly endearments, better than in the 
hollow debates of statesmen and pretended patriots, does true virtue display 
itself. Forgetful of the past, secure of the future, let us here enjoy the 
present; and while we yet possess a being, let us fix some good, beyond the 
power of fate or fortune. To-morrow will bring its own pleasures along with it: 
Or should it disappoint our fond wishes, we shall at least enjoy the pleasure of 
reflecting on the pleasures of to-day.
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Fear not, my friends, that the barbarous dissonance of BACCHUS, and of his 
revellers, should break in upon this entertainment, and confound us with their 
turbulent and clamorous pleasures. The sprightly muses wait around; and with 
their charming symphony, sufficient to soften the wolves and tygers of the 
savage desert, inspire a soft joy into every bosom. Peace, harmony and concord 
reign in this retreat; nor is the silence ever broken but by the music of our 
songs, or the chearful accents of our friendly voices.
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But hark! the favourite of the muses, the gentle DAMON, strikes the lyre; and 
while he accompanies its harmonious notes with his more harmonious song, he 
inspires us with the same happy debauch of fancy, by which he is himself 
transported. "Ye happy youth," he sings, "Ye favoured of heaven,†3 while the 
wanton spring pours upon you all her blooming honours, let not glory seduce you, 
with her delusive blaze, to pass in perils and dangers this delicious season, 
this prime of life. Wisdom points out to you the road to pleasure: Nature too 
beckons you to follow her in that smooth and flowery path. Will you shut your 
ears to their commanding voice? Will you harden your heart to their soft 
allurements? Oh, deluded mortals, thus to lose your youth, thus to throw away so 
invaluable a present, to trifle with so perishing a blessing. Contemplate well 
your recompence. Consider that glory, which so allures your proud hearts, and 
seduces you with your own praises. It is an echo, a dream, nay the shadow of a 
dream, dissipated by every wind, and lost by every contrary breath of the 
ignorant and ill-judging multitude. You fear not that even death itself shall 
ravish it from you. But behold! while you are yet alive, calumny bereaves you of 
it; ignorance neglects it; nature enjoys it not; fancy alone, renouncing every 
pleasure receives this airy recompence, empty and unstable as herself."
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Thus the hours pass unperceived along, and lead in their wanton train all the 
pleasures of sense, and all the joys of harmony and friendship. Smiling 
innocence closes the procession; and while she presents herself to our ravished 
eyes, she embellishes the whole scene, and renders the view of these pleasures 
as transporting, after they have past us, as when, with laughing countenances, 
they were yet advancing towards us.
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But the sun has sunk below the horizon; and darkness, stealing silently upon us, 
has now buried all nature in an universal shade. "Rejoice, my friends, continue 
your repast, or change it for soft repose. Though absent, your joy or your 
tranquillity shall still be mine." But whither do you go? Or what new pleasures 
call you from our society? Is there aught agreeable without your friends? And 
can aught please, in which we partake not? "Yes, my friends; the joy which I now 
seek, admits not of your participation. Here alone I wish your absence: And here 
alone can I find a sufficient compensation for the loss of your society."
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But I have not advanced far through the shades of the thick wood, which spreads 
a double night around me, ere, methinks, I perceive through the gloom, the 
charming CAELIA, the mistress of my wishes, who wanders impatient through the 
grove, and preventing the appointed hour, silently chides my tardy steps. But 
the joy, which she receives from my presence, best pleads my excuse; and 
dissipating every anxious and every angry thought, leaves room for nought but 
mutual joy and rapture. With what words, my fair one, shall I express my 
tenderness, or describe the emotions which now warm my transported bosom! Words 
are too faint to describe my love; and if, alas! you feel not the same flame 
within you, in vain shall I endeavour to convey to you a just conception of it. 
But your every word and every motion suffice to remove this doubt; and while 
they express your passion, serve also to enflame mine. How amiable this 
solitude, this silence, this darkness! No objects now importune the ravished 
soul. The thought, the sense, all full of nothing but our mutual happiness, 
wholly possess the mind, and convey a pleasure, which deluded mortals vainly 
seek for in every other enjoyment.--
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But why†b does your bosom heave with these sighs, while tears bathe your glowing 
cheeks? Why distract your heart with such vain anxieties? Why so often ask me, 
How long my love shall yet endure? Alas, my CAELIA, can I resolve this question? 
Do I know how long my life shall yet endure? But does this also disturb your 
tender breast? And is the image of our frail mortality for ever present with 
you, to throw a damp on your gayest hours, and poison even those joys which love 
inspires? Consider rather, that if life be frail, if youth be transitory, we 
should well employ the present moment, and lose no part of so perishable an 
existence. Yet a little moment and these shall be no more. We shall be, as if we 
had never been. Not a memory of us be left upon earth; and even the fabulous 
shades below will not afford us a habitation. Our fruitless anxieties, our vain 
projects, our uncertain speculations shall all be swallowed up and lost. Our 
present doubts, concerning the original cause of all things, must never, alas! 
be resolved. This alone we may be certain of, that, if any governing mind 
preside, he must be pleased to see us fulfil the ends of our being, and enjoy 
that pleasure, for which alone we were created. Let this reflection give ease to 
your anxious thoughts; but render not your joys too serious, by dwelling for 
ever upon it. It is sufficient, once, to be acquainted with this philosophy, in 
order to give an unbounded loose to love and jollity, and remove all the 
scruples of a vain superstition: But while youth and passion, my fair one, 
prompt our eager desires, we must find gayer subjects of discourse, to intermix 
with these amorous caresses.
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†1 Or, The man of elegance and pleasure. The intention of this and the three 
following essays is not so much to explain accurately the sentiments of the 
ancient sects of philosophy, as to deliver the sentiments of sects, that 
naturally form themselves in the world, and entertain different ideas of human 
life and of happiness. I have given each of them the name of the philosophical 
sect, to which it bears the greatest affinity.
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†2 Dia Voluptas. LUCRET.
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†3 An imitation of the SYREN'S song in TASSO.
"O Giovinetti, mentre APRILE & MAGGIO
V' ammantan di fiorite & verde spoglie," &c.
Giuresalemme liberata, Canto 14.
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†a Editions C to D: To the Oestrum or Verve. K to P: To the Oestrum or native 
enthusiasm.
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†b Edition C: after our tumultuous joys.

Essay 16. THE STOIC
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ESSAY XVI: THE STOIC†1
There is this obvious and material difference in the conduct of nature, with 
regard to man and other animals, that, having endowed the former with a sublime 
celestial spirit, and having given him an affinity with superior beings, she 
allows not such noble faculties to lie lethargic or idle; but urges him, by 
necessity, to employ, on every emergence, his utmost art and industry. 
Brute-creatures have many of their necessities supplied by nature, being 
cloathed and armed by this beneficent parent of all things: And where their own 
industry is requisite on any occasion, nature, by implanting instincts, still 
supplies them with the art, and guides them to their good, by her unerring 
precepts. But man, exposed naked and indigent to the rude elements, rises slowly 
from that helpless state, by the care and vigilance of his parents; and having 
attained his utmost growth and perfection, reaches only a capacity of 
subsisting, by his own care and vigilance. Every thing is sold to skill and 
labour; and where nature furnishes the materials, they are still rude and 
unfinished, till industry, ever active and intelligent, refines them from their 
brute state, and fits them for human use and convenience.
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Acknowledge, therefore, O man, the beneficence of nature; for she has given thee 
that intelligence which supplies all thy necessities. But let not indolence, 
under the false appearance of gratitude, persuade thee to rest contented with 
her presents. Wouldest thou return to the raw herbage for thy food, to the open 
sky for thy covering, and to stones and clubs for thy defence against the 
ravenous animals of the desert? Then return also to thy savage manners, to thy 
timorous superstition, to thy brutal ignorance; and sink thyself below those 
animals, whose condition thou admirest, and wouldest so fondly imitate.
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Thy kind parent, nature, having given thee art and intelligence, has filled the 
whole globe with materials to employ these talents: Hearken to her voice, which 
so plainly tells thee, that thou thyself shouldest also be the object of thy 
industry, and that by art and attention alone thou canst acquire that ability, 
which will raise thee to thy proper station in the universe. Behold this 
artizan, who converts a rude and shapeless stone into a noble metal; and molding 
that metal by his cunning hands, creates, as it were by magic, every weapon for 
his defence, and every utensil for his convenience. He has not this skill from 
nature: Use and practice have taught it him: And if thou wouldest emulate his 
success, thou must follow his laborious foot-steps.
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But while thou ambitiously aspirest to perfecting thy bodily powers and 
faculties, wouldest thou meanly neglect thy mind, and from a preposterous sloth, 
leave it still rude and uncultivated, as it came from the hands of nature? Far 
be such folly and negligence from every rational being. If nature has been 
frugal in her gifts and endowments, there is the more need of art to supply her 
defects. If she has been generous and liberal, know that she still expects 
industry and application on our part, and revenges herself in proportion to our 
negligent ingratitude. The richest genius, like the most fertile soil, when 
uncultivated, shoots up into the rankest weeds; and instead of vines and olives 
for the pleasure and use of man, produces, to its slothful owner, the most 
abundant crop of poisons.
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The great end of all human industry, is the attainment of happiness. For this 
were arts invented, sciences cultivated, laws ordained, and societies modelled, 
by the most profound wisdom of patriots and legislators. Even the lonely savage, 
who lies exposed to the inclemency of the elements, and the fury of wild beasts, 
forgets not, for a moment, this grand object of his being. Ignorant as he is of 
every art of life, he still keeps in view the end of all those arts, and eagerly 
seeks for felicity amidst that darkness with which he is environed. But as much 
as the wildest savage is inferior to the polished citizen, who, under the 
protection of laws, enjoys every convenience which industry has invented; so 
much is this citizen himself inferior to the man of virtue, and the true 
philosopher, who governs his appetites, subdues his passions, and has learned, 
from reason, to set a just value on every pursuit and enjoyment. For is there an 
art and apprenticeship necessary for every other attainment? And is there no art 
of life, no rule, no precepts to direct us in this principal concern? Can no 
particular pleasure be attained without skill; and can the whole be regulated 
without reflection or intelligence, by the blind guidance of appetite and 
instinct? Surely then no mistakes are ever committed in this affair; but every 
man, however dissolute and negligent, proceeds in the pursuit of happiness, with 
as unerring a motion, as that which the celestial bodies observe, when, 
conducted by the hand of the Almighty, they roll along the ethereal plains. But 
if mistakes be often, be inevitably committed, let us register these mistakes; 
let us consider their causes; let us weigh their importance; let us enquire for 
their remedies. When from this we have fixed all the rules of conduct, we are 
philosophers: When we have reduced these rules to practice, we are sages.
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Like many subordinate artists, employed to form the several wheels and springs 
of a machine: Such are those who excel in all the particular arts of life. He is 
the master workman who puts those several parts together; moves them according 
to just harmony and proportion; and produces true felicity as the result of 
their conspiring order.
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While thou hast such an alluring object in view, shall that labour and 
attention, requisite to the attainment of thy end, ever seem burdensome and 
intolerable? Know, that this labour itself is the chief ingredient of the 
felicity to which thou aspirest, and that every enjoyment soon becomes insipid 
and distasteful, when not acquired by fatigue and industry. See the hardy 
hunters rise from their downy couches, shake off the slumbers which still weigh 
down their heavy eye-lids, and, ere Aurora has yet covered the heavens with her 
flaming mantle, hasten to the forest. They leave behind, in their own houses, 
and in the neighbouring plains, animals of every kind, whose flesh furnishes the 
most delicious fare, and which offer themselves to the fatal stroke. Laborious 
man disdains so easy a purchase. He seeks for a prey, which hides itself from 
his search, or flies from his pursuit, or defends itself from his violence. 
Having exerted in the chace every passion of the mind, and every member of the 
body, he then finds the charms of repose, and with joy compares its pleasures to 
those of his engaging labours.
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And can vigorous industry give pleasure to the pursuit even of the most 
worthless prey, which frequently escapes our toils? And cannot the same industry 
render the cultivating of our mind, the moderating of our passions, the 
enlightening of our reason, an agreeable occupation; while we are every day 
sensible of our progress, and behold our inward features and countenance 
brightening incessantly with new charms? Begin by curing yourself of this 
lethargic indolence; the task is not difficult. You need but taste the sweets of 
honest labour. Proceed to learn the just value of every pursuit; long study is 
not requisite: Compare, though but for once, the mind to the body, virtue to 
fortune, and glory to pleasure. You will then perceive the advantages of 
industry: You will then be sensible what are the proper objects of your 
industry.
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In vain do you seek repose from beds of roses: In vain do you hope for enjoyment 
from the most delicious wines and fruits. Your indolence itself becomes a 
fatigue: Your pleasure itself creates disgust. The mind, unexercised, finds 
every delight insipid and loathsome; and ere yet the body, full of noxious 
humours, feels the torment of its multiplied diseases, your nobler part is 
sensible of the invading poison, and seeks in vain to relieve its anxiety by new 
pleasures, which still augment the fatal malady.
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I need not tell you, that, by this eager pursuit of pleasure, you more and more 
expose yourself to fortune and accidents, and rivet your affections on external 
objects, which chance may, in a moment, ravish from you. I shall suppose, that 
your indulgent stars favour you still with the enjoyment of your riches and 
possessions. I prove to you, that even in the midst of your luxurious pleasures, 
you are unhappy; and that by too much indulgence, you are incapable of enjoying 
what prosperous fortune still allows you to possess.
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But surely the instability of fortune is a consideration not to be overlooked or 
neglected. Happiness cannot possibly exist, where there is no security; and 
security can have no place, where fortune has any dominion. Though that unstable 
deity should not exert her rage against you, the dread of it would still torment 
you; would disturb your slumbers, haunt your dreams, and throw a damp on the 
jollity of your most delicious banquets.
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The temple of wisdom is seated on a rock, above the rage of the fighting 
elements, and inaccessible to all the malice of man. The rolling thunder breaks 
below; and those more terrible instruments of human fury reach not to so sublime 
a height. The sage, while he breathes that serene air, looks down with pleasure, 
mixed with compassion, on the errors of mistaken mortals, who blindly seek for 
the true path of life, and pursue riches, nobility, honour, or power, for 
genuine felicity. The greater part he beholds disappointed of their fond wishes: 
Some lament, that having once possessed the object of their desires, it is 
ravished from them by envious fortune: And all complain, that even their own 
vows, though granted, cannot give them happiness, or relieve the anxiety of 
their distracted minds.
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But does the sage always preserve himself in this philosophical indifference, 
and rest contented with lamenting the miseries of mankind, without ever 
employing himself for their relief? Does he constantly indulge this severe 
wisdom, which, by pretending to elevate him above human accidents, does in 
reality harden his heart, and render him careless of the interests of mankind, 
and of society? No; he knows that in this sullen Apathy, neither true wisdom nor 
true happiness can be found. He feels too strongly the charm of the social 
affections ever to counteract so sweet, so natural, so virtuous a propensity. 
Even when, bathed in tears, he laments the miseries of human race, of his 
country, of his friends, and unable to give succour, can only relieve them by 
compassion; he yet rejoices in the generous disposition, and feels a 
satisfaction superior to that of the most indulged sense. So engaging are the 
sentiments of humanity, that they brighten up the very face of sorrow, and 
operate like the sun, which, shining on a dusky cloud or falling rain, paints on 
them the most glorious colours which are to be found in the whole circle of 
nature.
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But it is not here alone, that the social virtues display their energy. With 
whatever ingredient you mix them, they are still predominant. As sorrow cannot 
overcome them, so neither can sensual pleasure obscure them. The joys of love, 
however tumultuous, banish not the tender sentiments of sympathy and affection. 
They even derive their chief influence from that generous passion; and when 
presented alone, afford nothing to the unhappy mind but lassitude and disgust. 
Behold this sprightly debauchee, who professes a contempt of all other pleasures 
but those of wine and jollity: Separate him from his companions, like a spark 
from a fire, where before it contributed to the general blaze: His alacrity 
suddenly extinguishes; and though surrounded with every other means of delight, 
he lothes the sumptuous banquet, and prefers even the most abstracted study and 
speculation, as more agreeable and entertaining.
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But the social passions never afford such transporting pleasures, or make so 
glorious an appearance in the eyes both of GOD and man, as when, shaking off 
every earthly mixture, they associate themselves with the sentiments of virtue, 
and prompt us to laudable and worthy actions. As harmonious colours mutually 
give and receive a lustre by their friendly union; so do these ennobling 
sentiments of the human mind. See the triumph of nature in parental affection! 
What selfish passion; what sensual delight is a match for it! Whether a man 
exults in the prosperity and virtue of his offspring, or flies to their succour, 
through the most threatening and tremendous dangers?
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Proceed still in purifying the generous passion, you will still the more admire 
its shining glories. What charms are there in the harmony of minds, and in a 
friendship founded on mutual esteem and gratitude! What satisfaction in 
relieving the distressed, in comforting the afflicted, in raising the fallen, 
and in stopping the career of cruel fortune, or of more cruel man, in their 
insults over the good and virtuous! But what supreme joy in the victories over 
vice as well as misery, when, by virtuous example or wise exhortation, our 
fellow-creatures are taught to govern their passions, reform their vices, and 
subdue their worst enemies, which inhabit within their own bosoms?
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But these objects are still too limited for the human mind, which, being of 
celestial origin, swells with the divinest and most enlarged affections, and 
carrying its attention beyond kindred and acquaintance, extends its benevolent 
wishes to the most distant posterity. It views liberty and laws as the source of 
human happiness, and devotes itself, with the utmost alacrity, to their 
guardianship and protection. Toils, dangers, death itself carry their charms, 
when we brave them for the public good, and ennoble that being, which we 
generously sacrifice for the interests of our country. Happy the man, whom 
indulgent fortune allows to pay to virtue what he owes to nature, and to make a 
generous gift of what must otherwise be ravished from him by cruel necessity!
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In the true sage and patriot are united whatever can distinguish human nature, 
or elevate mortal man to a resemblance with the divinity. The softest 
benevolence, the most undaunted resolution, the tenderest sentiments, the most 
sublime love of virtue, all these animate successively his transported bosom. 
What satisfaction, when he looks within, to find the most turbulent passions 
tuned to just harmony and concord, and every jarring sound banished from this 
enchanting music! If the contemplation, even of inanimate beauty, is so 
delightful; if it ravishes the senses, even when the fair form is foreign to us: 
What must be the effects of moral beauty? And what influence must it have, when 
it embellishes our own mind, and is the result of our own reflection and 
industry?
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But where is the reward of virtue? And what recompence has nature provided for 
such important sacrifices, as those of life and fortune, which we must often 
make to it? Oh, sons of earth! Are ye ignorant of the value of this celestial 
mistress? And do ye meanly enquire for her portion, when ye observe her genuine 
charms? But know, that nature has been indulgent to human weakness, and has not 
left this favourite child, naked and unendowed. She has provided virtue with the 
richest dowry; but being careful, lest the allurements of interest should engage 
such suitors, as were insensible of the native worth of so divine a beauty, she 
has wisely provided, that this dowry can have no charms but in the eyes of those 
who are already transported with the love of virtue. GLORY is the portion of 
virtue, the sweet reward of honourable toils, the triumphant crown, which covers 
the thoughtful head of the disinterested patriot, or the dusty brow of the 
victorious warrior. Elevated by so sublime a prize, the man of virtue looks down 
with contempt on all the allurements of pleasure, and all the menaces of danger. 
Death itself loses its terrors, when he considers, that its dominion extends 
only over a part of him, and that, in spite of death and time, the rage of the 
elements, and the endless vicissitude of human affairs, he is assured of an 
immortal fame among all the sons of men.
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There surely is a being who presides over the universe; and who, with infinite 
wisdom and power, has reduced the jarring elements into just order and 
proportion. Let speculative reasoners dispute, how far this beneficent being 
extends his care, and whether he prolongs our existence beyond the grave, in 
order to bestow on virtue its just reward, and render it fully triumphant. The 
man of morals, without deciding any thing on so dubious a subject, is satisfied 
with the portion, marked out to him by the supreme disposer of all things. 
Gratefully he accepts of that farther reward prepared for him; but if 
disappointed, he thinks not virtue an empty name; but justly esteeming it its 
own reward, he gratefully acknowledges the bounty of his creator, who, by 
calling him into existence, has thereby afforded him an opportunity of once 
acquiring so invaluable a possession.
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†1 Or the man of action and virtue.

Essay 17. THE PLATONIST
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ESSAY XVII: THE PLATONIST†1
To some philosophers it appears matter of surprize, that all mankind, possessing 
the same nature, and being endowed with the same faculties, should yet differ so 
widely in their pursuits and inclinations, and that one should utterly condemn 
what is fondly sought after by another. To some it appears matter of still more 
surprize, that a man should differ so widely from himself at different times; 
and, after possession, reject with disdain what, before, was the object of all 
his vows and wishes. To me this feverish uncertainty and irresolution, in human 
conduct, seems altogether unavoidable; nor can a rational soul, made for the 
contemplation of the Supreme Being, and of his works, ever enjoy tranquillity or 
satisfaction, while detained in the ignoble pursuits of sensual pleasure or 
popular applause. The divinity is a boundless ocean of bliss and glory: Human 
minds are smaller streams, which, arising at first from this ocean, seek still, 
amid all their wanderings, to return to it, and to lose themselves in that 
immensity of perfection. When checked in this natural course, by vice or folly, 
they become furious and enraged; and, swelling to a torrent, do then spread 
horror and devastation on the neighbouring plains.
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In vain, by pompous phrase and passionate expression, each recommends his own 
pursuit, and invites the credulous hearers to an imitation of his life and 
manners. The heart belies the countenance, and sensibly feels, even amid the 
highest success, the unsatisfactory nature of all those pleasures, which detain 
it from its true object. I examine the voluptuous man before enjoyment; I 
measure the vehemence of his desire, and the importance of his object; I find 
that all his happiness proceeds only from that hurry of thought, which takes him 
from himself, and turns his view from his guilt and misery. I consider him a 
moment after; he has now enjoyed the pleasure, which he fondly sought after. The 
sense of his guilt and misery returns upon him with double anguish: His mind 
tormented with fear and remorse; his body depressed with disgust and satiety.
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But a more august, at least a more haughty personage, presents himself boldly to 
our censure; and assuming the title of a philosopher and man of morals, offers 
to submit to the most rigid examination. He challenges, with a visible, though 
concealed impatience, our approbation and applause; and seems offended, that we 
should hesitate a moment before we break out into admiration of his virtue. 
Seeing this impatience, I hesitate still more: I begin to examine the motives of 
his seeming virtue: But behold! ere I can enter upon this enquiry, he flings 
himself from me; and addressing his discourse to that crowd of heedless 
auditors, fondly abuses them by his magnificent pretensions.
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O philosopher! thy wisdom is vain, and thy virtue unprofitable. Thou seekest the 
ignorant applauses of men, not the solid reflections of thy own conscience, or 
the more solid approbation of that being, who, with one regard of his all-seeing 
eye, penetrates the universe. Thou surely art conscious of the hollowness of thy 
pretended probity, whilst calling thyself a citizen, a son, a friend, thou 
forgettest thy higher sovereign, thy true father, thy greatest benefactor. Where 
is the adoration due to infinite perfection, whence every thing good and 
valuable is derived? Where is the gratitude, owing to thy creator, who called 
thee forth from nothing, who placed thee in all these relations to thy 
fellow-creatures, and requiring thee to fulfil the duty of each relation, 
forbids thee to neglect what thou owest to himself, the most perfect being, to 
whom thou art connected by the closest tye?
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But thou art thyself thy own idol: Thou worshippest thy imaginary perfections: 
Or rather, sensible of thy real imperfections, thou seekest only to deceive the 
world, and to please thy fancy, by multiplying thy ignorant admirers. Thus, not 
content with neglecting what is most excellent in the universe, thou desirest to 
substitute in his place what is most vile and contemptible.
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Consider all the works of mens hands; all the inventions of human wit, in which 
thou affectest so nice a discernment: Thou wilt find, that the most perfect 
production still proceeds from the most perfect thought, and that it is MIND 
alone, which we admire, while we bestow our applause on the graces of a 
well-proportioned statue, or the symmetry of a noble pile. The statuary, the 
architect comes still in view, and makes us reflect on the beauty of his art and 
contrivance, which, from a heap of unformed matter, could extract such 
expressions and proportions. This superior beauty of thought and intelligence 
thou thyself acknowledgest, while thou invitest us to contemplate, in thy 
conduct, the harmony of affections, the dignity of sentiments, and all those 
graces of a mind, which chiefly merit our attention. But why stoppest thou 
short? Seest thou nothing farther that is valuable? Amid thy rapturous applauses 
of beauty and order, art thou still ignorant where is to be found the most 
consummate beauty? the most perfect order? Compare the works of art with those 
of nature. The one are but imitations of the other. The nearer art approaches to 
nature, the more perfect is it esteemed. But still, how wide are its nearest 
approaches, and what an immense interval may be observed between them? Art 
copies only the outside of nature, leaving the inward and more admirable springs 
and principles; as exceeding her imitation; as beyond her comprehension. Art 
copies only the minute productions of nature, despairing to reach that grandeur 
and magnificence, which are so astonishing in the masterly works of her 
original. Can we then be so blind as not to discover an intelligence and a 
design in the exquisite and most stupendous contrivance of the universe? Can we 
be so stupid as not to feel the warmest raptures of worship and adoration, upon 
the contemplation of that intelligent being, so infinitely good and wise?
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The most perfect happiness, surely, must arise from the contemplation of the 
most perfect object. But what more perfect than beauty and virtue? And where is 
beauty to be found equal to that of the universe? Or virtue, which can be 
compared to the benevolence and justice of the Deity? If aught can diminish the 
pleasure of this contemplation, it must be either the narrowness of our 
faculties, which conceals from us the greatest part of these beauties and 
perfections; or the shortness of our lives, which allows not time sufficient to 
instruct us in them. But it is our comfort, that, if we employ worthily the 
faculties here assigned us, they will be enlarged in another state of existence, 
so as to render us more suitable worshippers of our maker: And that the task, 
which can never be finished in time, will be the business of an eternity.
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†1 Or, the man of contemplation, and philosophical devotion.

Essay 18. THE SCEPTIC
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ESSAY XVIII: THE SCEPTIC
I have long entertained a suspicion, with regard to the decisions of 
philosophers upon all subjects, and found in myself a greater inclination to 
dispute, than assent to their conclusions. There is one mistake, to which they 
seem liable, almost without exception; they confine too much their principles, 
and make no account of that vast variety, which nature has so much affected in 
all her operations. When a philosopher has once laid hold of a favourite 
principle, which perhaps accounts for many natural effects, he extends the same 
principle over the whole creation, and reduces to it every phenomenon, though by 
the most violent and absurd reasoning. Our own mind being narrow and contracted, 
we cannot extend our conception to the variety and extent of nature; but 
imagine, that she is as much bounded in her operations, as we are in our 
speculation.
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But if ever this infirmity of philosophers is to be suspected on any occasion, 
it is in their reasonings concerning human life, and the methods of attaining 
happiness. In that case, they are led astray, not only by the narrowness of 
their understandings, but by that also of their passions. Almost every one has a 
predominant inclination, to which his other desires and affections submit, and 
which governs him, though, perhaps, with some intervals, through the whole 
course of his life. It is difficult for him to apprehend, that any thing, which 
appears totally indifferent to him, can ever give enjoyment to any person, or 
can possess charms, which altogether escape his observation. His own pursuits 
are always, in his account, the most engaging: The objects of his passion, the 
most valuable: And the road, which he pursues, the only one that leads to 
happiness.
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But would these prejudiced reasoners reflect a moment, there are many obvious 
instances and arguments, sufficient to undeceive them, and make them enlarge 
their maxims and principles. Do they not see the vast variety of inclinations 
and pursuits among our species; where each man seems fully satisfied with his 
own course of life, and would esteem it the greatest unhappiness to be confined 
to that of his neighbour? Do they not feel in themselves, that what pleases at 
one time, displeases at another, by the change of inclination; and that it is 
not in their power, by their utmost efforts, to recall that taste or appetite, 
which formerly bestowed charms on what now appears indifferent or disagreeable? 
What is the meaning therefore of those general preferences of the town or 
country life, of a life of action or one of pleasure, of retirement or society; 
when besides the different inclinations of different men, every one's experience 
may convince him, that each of these kinds of life is agreeable in its turn, and 
that their variety or their judicious mixture chiefly contributes to the 
rendering all of them agreeable.
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But shall this business be allowed to go altogether at adventures? And must a 
man consult only his humour and inclination, in order to determine his course of 
life, without employing his reason to inform him what road is preferable, and 
leads most surely to happiness? Is there no difference then between one man's 
conduct and another?
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I answer, there is a great difference. One man, following his inclination, in 
chusing his course of life, may employ much surer means for succeeding than 
another, who is led by his inclination into the same course of life, and pursues 
the same object. Are riches the chief object of your desires? Acquire skill in 
your profession; be diligent in the exercise of it; enlarge the circle of your 
friends and acquaintance; avoid pleasure and expence; and never be generous, but 
with a view of gaining more than you could save by frugality. Would you acquire 
the public esteem? Guard equally against the extremes of arrogance and fawning. 
Let it appear that you set a value upon yourself, but without despising others. 
If you fall into either of the extremes, you either provoke men's pride by your 
insolence, or teach them to despise you by your timorous submission, and by the 
mean opinion which you seem to entertain of yourself.
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These, you say, are the maxims of common prudence, and discretion; what every 
parent inculcates on his child, and what every man of sense pursues in the 
course of life, which he has chosen.--What is it then you desire more? Do you 
come to a philosopher as to a cunning man, to learn something by magic or 
witchcraft, beyond what can be known by common prudence and discretion?--Yes; we 
come to a philosopher to be instructed, how we shall chuse our ends, more than 
the means for attaining these ends: We want to know what desire we shall 
gratify, what passion we shall comply with, what appetite we shall indulge. As 
to the rest, we trust to common sense, and the general maxims of the world for 
our instruction.
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I am sorry then, I have pretended to be a philosopher: For I find your questions 
very perplexing; and am in danger, if my answer be too rigid and severe, of 
passing for a pedant and scholastic; if it be too easy and free, of being taken 
for a preacher of vice and immorality. However, to satisfy you, I shall deliver 
my opinion upon the matter, and shall only desire you to esteem it of as little 
consequence as I do myself. By that means you will neither think it worthy of 
your ridicule nor your anger.
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If we can depend upon any principle, which we learn from philosophy, this, I 
think, may be considered as certain and undoubted, that there is nothing, in 
itself, valuable or despicable, desirable or hateful, beautiful or deformed; but 
that these attributes arise from the particular constitution and fabric of human 
sentiment and affection. What seems the most delicious food to one animal, 
appears loathsome to another: What affects the feeling of one with delight, 
produces uneasiness in another. This is confessedly the case with regard to all 
the bodily senses: But if we examine the matter more accurately, we shall find, 
that the same observation holds even where the mind concurs with the body, and 
mingles its sentiment with the exterior appetite.
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Desire this passionate lover to give you a character of his mistress: He will 
tell you, that he is at a loss for words to describe her charms, and will ask 
you very seriously if ever you were acquainted with a goddess or an angel? If 
you answer that you never were: He will then say, that it is impossible for you 
to form a conception of such divine beauties as those which his charmer 
possesses; so complete a shape; such well-proportioned features; so engaging an 
air; such sweetness of disposition; such gaiety of humour. You can infer 
nothing, however, from all this discourse, but that the poor man is in love; and 
that the general appetite between the sexes, which nature has infused into all 
animals, is in him determined to a particular object by some qualities, which 
give him pleasure. The same divine creature, not only to a different animal, but 
also to a different man, appears a mere mortal being, and is beheld with the 
utmost indifference.
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Nature has given all animals a like prejudice in favour of their offspring. As 
soon as the helpless infant sees the light, though in every other eye it appears 
a despicable and a miserable creature, it is regarded by its fond parent with 
the utmost affection, and is preferred to every other object, however perfect 
and accomplished. The passion alone, arising from the original structure and 
formation of human nature, bestows a value on the most insignificant object.
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We may push the same observation further, and may conclude, that, even when the 
mind operates alone, and feeling the sentiment of blame or approbation, 
pronounces one object deformed and odious, another beautiful and amiable; I say, 
that, even in this case, those qualities are not really in the objects, but 
belong entirely to the sentiment of that mind which blames or praises. I grant, 
that it will be more difficult to make this proposition evident, and as it were, 
palpable, to negligent thinkers; because nature is more uniform in the 
sentiments of the mind than in most feelings of the body, and produces a nearer 
resemblance in the inward than in the outward part of human kind. There is 
something approaching to principles in mental taste; and critics can reason and 
dispute more plausibly than cooks or perfumers. We may observe, however, that 
this uniformity among human kind, hinders not, but that there is a considerable 
diversity in the sentiments of beauty and worth, and that education, custom, 
prejudice, caprice, and humour, frequently vary our taste of this kind. You will 
never convince a man, who is not accustomed to ITALIAN music, and has not an ear 
to follow its intricacies, that a SCOTCH tune is not preferable. You have not 
even any single argument, beyond your own taste, which you can employ in your 
behalf: And to your antagonist, his particular taste will always appear a more 
convincing argument to the contrary. If you be wise, each of you will allow, 
that the other may be in the right; and having many other instances of this 
diversity of taste, you will both confess, that beauty and worth are merely of a 
relative nature, and consist in an agreeable sentiment, produced by an object in 
a particular mind, according to the peculiar structure and constitution of that 
mind.
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By this diversity of sentiment, observable in human kind, nature has, perhaps, 
intended to make us sensible of her authority, and let us see what surprizing 
changes she could produce on the passions and desires of mankind, merely by the 
change of their inward fabric, without any alteration on the objects. The vulgar 
may even be convinced by this argument: But men, accustomed to thinking, may 
draw a more convincing, at least a more general argument, from the very nature 
of the subject.
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In the operation of reasoning, the mind does nothing but run over its objects, 
as they are supposed to stand in reality, without adding any thing to them, or 
diminishing any thing from them. If I examine the PTOLOMAIC and COPERNICAN 
systems, I endeavour only, by my enquiries, to know the real situation of the 
planets; that is in other words, I endeavour to give them, in my conception, the 
same relations, that they bear towards each other in the heavens. To this 
operation of the mind, therefore, there seems to be always a real, though often 
an unknown standard, in the nature of things; nor is truth or falsehood variable 
by the various apprehensions of mankind. Though all human race should for ever 
conclude, that the sun moves, and the earth remains at rest, the sun stirs not 
an inch from his place for all these reasonings; and such conclusions are 
eternally false and erroneous.
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But the case is not the same with the qualities of beautiful and deformed, 
desirable and odious, as with truth and falsehood. In the former case, the mind 
is not content with merely surveying its objects, as they stand in themselves: 
It also feels a sentiment of delight or uneasiness, approbation or blame, 
consequent to that survey; and this sentiment determines it to affix the epithet 
beautiful or deformed, desirable or odious. Now, it is evident, that this 
sentiment must depend upon the particular fabric or structure of the mind, which 
enables such particular forms to operate in such a particular manner, and 
produces a sympathy or conformity between the mind and its objects. Vary the 
structure of the mind or inward organs, the sentiment no longer follows, though 
the form remains the same. The sentiment being different from the object, and 
arising from its operation upon the organs of the mind, an alteration upon the 
latter must vary the effect, nor can the same object, presented to a mind 
totally different, produce the same sentiment.
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This conclusion every one is apt to draw of himself, without much philosophy, 
where the sentiment is evidently distinguishable from the object. Who is not 
sensible, that power, and glory, and vengeance, are not desirable of themselves, 
but derive all their value from the structure of human passions, which begets a 
desire towards such particular pursuits? But with regard to beauty, either 
natural or moral, the case is commonly supposed to be different. The agreeable 
quality is thought to lie in the object, not in the sentiment; and that merely 
because the sentiment is not so turbulent and violent as to distinguish itself, 
in an evident manner, from the perception of the object.
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But a little reflection suffices to distinguish them. A man may know exactly all 
the circles and ellipses of the COPERNICAN system, and all the irregular spirals 
of the PTOLOMAIC, without perceiving that the former is more beautiful than the 
latter. EUCLID has fully explained every quality of the circle, but has not, in 
any proposition, said a word of its beauty. The reason is evident. Beauty is not 
a quality of the circle. It lies not in any part of the line whose parts are all 
equally distant from a common center. It is only the effect, which that figure 
produces upon a mind, whose particular fabric or structure renders it 
susceptible of such sentiments. In vain would you look for it in the circle, or 
seek it, either by your senses, or by mathematical reasonings, in all the 
properties of that figure.
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The mathematician, who took no other pleasure in reading VIRGIL, but that of 
examining ENEAS'S voyage by the map, might perfectly understand the meaning of 
every Latin word, employed by that divine author; and consequently, might have a 
distinct idea of the whole narration. He would even have a more distinct idea of 
it, than they could attain who had not studied so exactly the geography of the 
poem. He knew, therefore, every thing in the poem: But he was ignorant of its 
beauty; because the beauty, properly speaking, lies not in the poem, but in the 
sentiment or taste of the reader. And where a man has no such delicacy of 
temper, as to make him feel this sentiment, he must be ignorant of the beauty, 
though possessed of the science and understanding of an angel.†1
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The inference upon the whole is, that it is not from the value or worth of the 
object, which any person pursues, that we can determine his enjoyment, but 
merely from the passion with which he pursues it, and the success which he meets 
with in his pursuit. Objects have absolutely no worth or value in themselves. 
They derive their worth merely from the passion. If that be strong, and steady, 
and successful, the person is happy. It cannot reasonably be doubted, but a 
little miss, dressed in a new gown for a dancing-school ball, receives as 
compleat enjoyment as the greatest orator, who triumphs in the splendour of his 
eloquence, while he governs the passions and resolutions of a numerous assembly.
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All the difference, therefore, between one man and another, with regard to life, 
consists either in the passion, or in the enjoyment: And these differences are 
sufficient to produce the wide extremes of happiness and misery.
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To be happy, the passion must neither be too violent nor too remiss. In the 
first case, the mind is in a perpetual hurry and tumult; in the second, it sinks 
into a disagreeable indolence and lethargy.
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To be happy, the passion must be benign and social; not rough or fierce. The 
affections of the latter kind are not near so agreeable to the feeling, as those 
of the former. Who will compare rancour and animosity, envy and revenge, to 
friendship, benignity, clemency, and gratitude?
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To be happy, the passion must be chearful and gay, not gloomy and melancholy. A 
propensity to hope and joy is real riches: One to fear and sorrow, real poverty.
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Some passions or inclinations, in the enjoyment of their object, are not so 
steady or constant as others, nor convey such durable pleasure and satisfaction. 
Philosophical devotion, for instance, like the enthusiasm of a poet, is the 
transitory effect of high spirits, great leisure, a fine genius, and a habit of 
study and contemplation: But notwithstanding all these circumstances, an 
abstract, invisible object, like that which natural religion alone presents to 
us, cannot long actuate the mind, or be of any moment in life. To render the 
passion of continuance, we must find some method of affecting the senses and 
imagination, and must embrace some historical, as well as philosophical account 
of the divinity. Popular superstitions and observances are even found to be of 
use in this particular.
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Though the tempers of men be very different, yet we may safely pronounce in 
general, that a life of pleasure cannot support itself so long as one of 
business, but is much more subject to satiety and disgust. The amusements, which 
are the most durable, have all a mixture of application and attention in them; 
such as gaming and hunting. And in general, business and action fill up all the 
great vacancies in human life.
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But where the temper is the best disposed for any enjoyment, the object is often 
wanting: And in this respect, the passions, which pursue external objects, 
contribute not so much to happiness, as those which rest in ourselves; since we 
are neither so certain of attaining such objects, nor so secure in possessing 
them. A passion for learning is preferable, with regard to happiness, to one for 
riches.
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Some men are possessed of great strength of mind; and even when they pursue 
external objects, are not much affected by a disappointment, but renew their 
application and industry with the greatest chearfulness. Nothing contributes 
more to happiness than such a turn of mind.
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According to this short and imperfect sketch of human life, the happiest 
disposition of mind is the virtuous; or, in other words, that which leads to 
action and employment, renders us sensible to the social passions, steels the 
heart against the assaults of fortune, reduces the affections to a just 
moderation, makes our own thoughts an entertainment to us, and inclines us 
rather to the pleasures of society and conversation, than to those of the 
senses. This, in the mean time, must be obvious to the most careless reasoner, 
that all dispositions of mind are not alike favourable to happiness, and that 
one passion or humour may be extremely desirable, while another is equally 
disagreeable. And indeed, all the difference between the conditions of life 
depends upon the mind; nor is there any one situation of affairs, in itself, 
preferable to another. Good and ill, both natural and moral, are entirely 
relative to human sentiment and affection. No man would ever be unhappy, could 
he alter his feelings. PROTEUS-like, he would elude all attacks, by the 
continual alterations of his shape and form.
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But of this resource nature has, in a great measure, deprived us. The fabric and 
constitution of our mind no more depends on our choice, than that of our body. 
The generality of men have not even the smallest notion, that any alteration in 
this respect can ever be desirable. As a stream necessarily follows the several 
inclinations of the ground, on which it runs; so are the ignorant and 
thoughtless part of mankind actuated by their natural propensities. Such are 
effectually excluded from all pretensions to philosophy, and the medicine of the 
mind, so much boasted. But even upon the wise and thoughtful, nature has a 
prodigious influence; nor is it always in a man's power, by the utmost art and 
industry, to correct his temper, and attain that virtuous character, to which he 
aspires. The empire of philosophy extends over a few; and with regard to these 
too, her authority is very weak and limited. Men may well be sensible of the 
value of virtue, and may desire to attain it; but it is not always certain, that 
they will be successful in their wishes.
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Whoever considers, without prejudice, the course of human actions, will find, 
that mankind are almost entirely guided by constitution and temper, and that 
general maxims have little influence, but so far as they affect our taste or 
sentiment. If a man have a lively sense of honour and virtue, with moderate 
passions, his conduct will always be conformable to the rules of morality; or if 
he depart from them, his return will be easy and expeditious. On the other hand, 
where one is born of so perverse a frame of mind, of so callous and insensible a 
disposition, as to have no relish for virtue and humanity, no sympathy with his 
fellow-creatures, no desire of esteem and applause; such a one must be allowed 
entirely incurable, nor is there any remedy in philosophy. He reaps no 
satisfaction but from low and sensual objects, or from the indulgence of 
malignant passions: He feels no remorse to controul his vicious inclinations: He 
has not even that sense or taste, which is requisite to make him desire a better 
character: For my part, I know not how I should address myself to such a one, or 
by what arguments I should endeavour to reform him. Should I tell him of the 
inward satisfaction which results from laudable and humane actions, the delicate 
pleasure of disinterested love and friendship, the lasting enjoyments of a good 
name and an established character, he might still reply, that these were, 
perhaps, pleasures to such as were susceptible of them; but that, for his part, 
he finds himself of a quite different turn and disposition. I must repeat it; my 
philosophy affords no remedy in such a case, nor could I do any thing but lament 
this person's unhappy condition. But then I ask, If any other philosophy can 
afford a remedy; or if it be possible, by any system, to render all mankind 
virtuous, however perverse may be their natural frame of mind? Experience will 
soon convince us of the contrary; and I will venture to affirm, that, perhaps, 
the chief benefit, which results from philosophy, arises in an indirect 
manner,†a and proceeds more from its secret, insensible influence, than from its 
immediate application.
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It is certain, that a serious attention to the sciences and liberal arts softens 
and humanizes the temper, and cherishes those fine emotions, in which true 
virtue and honour consists. It rarely, very rarely happens, that a man of taste 
and learning is not, at least, an honest man, whatever frailties may attend him. 
The bent of his mind to speculative studies must mortify in him the passions of 
interest and ambition, and must, at the same time, give him a greater 
sensibility of all the decencies and duties of life. He feels more fully a moral 
distinction in characters and manners; nor is his sense of this kind diminished, 
but, on the contrary, it is much encreased, by speculation.
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Besides such insensible changes upon the temper and disposition, it is highly 
probable, that others may be produced by study and application. The prodigious 
effects of education may convince us, that the mind is not altogether stubborn 
and inflexible, but will admit of many alterations from its original make and 
structure. Let a man propose to himself the model of a character, which he 
approves: Let him be well acquainted with those particulars, in which his own 
character deviates from this model: Let him keep a constant watch over himself, 
and bend his mind, by a continual effort, from the vices, towards the virtues; 
and I doubt not but, in time, he will find, in his temper, an alteration for the 
better.
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Habit is another powerful means of reforming the mind, and implanting in it good 
dispositions and inclinations. A man, who continues in a course of sobriety and 
temperance, will hate riot and disorder: If he engage in business or study, 
indolence will seem a punishment to him: If he constrain himself to practise 
beneficence and affability, he will soon abhor all instances of pride and 
violence. Where one is thoroughly convinced that the virtuous course of life is 
preferable; if he have but resolution enough, for some time, to impose a 
violence on himself; his reformation needs not be despaired of. The misfortune 
is, that this conviction and this resolution never can have place, unless a man 
be, before-hand, tolerably virtuous.
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Here then is the chief triumph of art and philosophy: It insensibly refines the 
temper, and it points out to us those dispositions which we should endeavour to 
attain, by a constant bent of mind, and by repeated habit. Beyond this I cannot 
acknowledge it to have great influence; and I must entertain doubts concerning 
all those exhortations and consolations, which are in such vogue among 
speculative reasoners.
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We have already observed, that no objects are, in themselves, desirable or 
odious, valuable or despicable; but that objects acquire these qualities from 
the particular character and constitution of the mind, which surveys them. To 
diminish therefore, or augment any person's value for an object, to excite or 
moderate his passions, there are no direct arguments or reasons, which can be 
employed with any force or influence. The catching of flies, like DOMITIAN, if 
it give more pleasure, is preferable to the hunting of wild beasts, like WILLIAM 
RUFUS, or conquering of kingdoms, like ALEXANDER.
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But though the value of every object can be determined only by the sentiment or 
passion of every individual, we may observe, that the passion, in pronouncing 
its verdict, considers not the object simply, as it is in itself, but surveys it 
with all the circumstances, which attend it. A man transported with joy, on 
account of his possessing a diamond, confines not his view to the glistering 
stone before him: He also considers its rarity, and thence chiefly arises his 
pleasure and exultation. Here therefore a philosopher may step in, and suggest 
particular views, and considerations, and circumstances, which otherwise would 
have escaped us; and, by that means, he may either moderate or excite any 
particular passion.
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It may seem unreasonable absolutely to deny the authority of philosophy in this 
respect: But it must be confessed, that there lies this strong presumption 
against it, that, if these views be natural and obvious, they would have 
occurred of themselves, without the assistance of philosophy; if they be not 
natural, they never can have any influence on the affections. These are of a 
very delicate nature, and cannot be forced or constrained by the utmost art or 
industry. A consideration, which we seek for on purpose, which we enter into 
with difficulty, which we cannot retain without care and attention, will never 
produce those genuine and durable movements of passion, which are the result of 
nature, and the constitution of the mind. A man may as well pretend to cure 
himself of love, by viewing his mistress through the artificial medium of a 
microscope or prospect, and beholding there the coarseness of her skin, and 
monstrous disproportion of her features, as hope to excite or moderate any 
passion by the artificial arguments of a SENECA or an EPICTETUS. The remembrance 
of the natural aspect and situation of the object, will, in both cases, still 
recur upon him. The reflections of philosophy are too subtile and distant to 
take place in common life, or eradicate any affection. The air is too fine to 
breathe in, where it is above the winds and clouds of the atmosphere.
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Another defect of those refined reflections, which philosophy suggests to us, 
is, that commonly they cannot diminish or extinguish our vicious passions, 
without diminishing or extinguishing such as are virtuous, and rendering the 
mind totally indifferent and unactive. They are, for the most part, general, and 
are applicable to all our affections. In vain do we hope to direct their 
influence only to one side. If by incessant study and meditation we have 
rendered them intimate and present to us, they will operate throughout, and 
spread an universal insensibility over the mind. When we destroy the nerves, we 
extinguish the sense of pleasure, together with that of pain, in the human body.
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It will be easy, by one glance of the eye, to find one or other of these defects 
in most of those philosophical reflections, so much celebrated both in ancient 
and modern times. Let not the injuries or violence of men, say the 
philosophers,†2 ever discompose you by anger or hatred. Would you be angry at 
the ape for its malice, or the tyger for its ferocity? This reflection leads us 
into a bad opinion of human nature, and must extinguish the social affections. 
It tends also to prevent all remorse for a man's own crimes; when he considers, 
that vice is as natural to mankind, as the particular instincts to 
brute-creatures.
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All ills arise from the order of the universe, which is absolutely perfect. 
Would you wish to disturb so divine an order for the sake of your own particular 
interest? What if the ills I suffer arise from malice or oppression? But the 
vices and imperfections of men are also comprehended in the order of the 
universe:
If plagues and earthquakes break not heav'n's design,
Why then a BORGIA or a CATILINE?
Let this be allowed; and my own vices will also be a part of the same order.
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†b To one who said, that none were happy, who were not above opinion, a SPARTAN 
replied, then none are happy but knaves and robbers.†3
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Man is born to be miserable; and is he surprized at any particular misfortune? 
And can he give way to sorrow and lamentation upon account of any disaster? Yes: 
He very reasonably laments, that he should be born to be miserable. Your 
consolation presents a hundred ills for one, of which you pretend to ease him.
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You should always have before your eyes death, disease, poverty, blindness, 
exile, calumny, and infamy, as ills which are incident to human nature. If any 
one of these ills falls to your lot, you will bear it the better, when you have 
reckoned upon it. I answer, if we confine ourselves to a general and distant 
reflection on the ills of human life, that can have no effect to prepare us for 
them. If by close and intense meditation we render them present and intimate to 
us, that is the true secret for poisoning all our pleasures, and rendering us 
perpetually miserable.
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Your sorrow is fruitless, and will not change the course of destiny. Very true: 
And for that very reason I am sorry.
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Cicero's consolation for deafness is somewhat curious. How many languages are 
there, says he, which you do not understand? The PUNIC, SPANISH, GALLIC, 
AEGYPTIAN, &c. With regard to all these, you are as if you were deaf, yet you 
are indifferent about the matter. Is it then so great a misfortune to be deaf to 
one language more?†4
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I like better the repartee of ANTIPATER the CYRENIAC, when some women were 
condoling with him for his blindness: What! says he, Do you think there are no 
pleasures in the dark?
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Nothing can be more destructive, says FONTENELLE, to ambition, and the passion 
for conquest, than the true system of astronomy. What a poor thing is even the 
whole globe in comparison of the infinite extent of nature? This consideration 
is evidently too distant ever to have any effect. Or, if it had any, would it 
not destroy patriotism as well as ambition? The same gallant author adds with 
some reason, that the bright eyes of the ladies are the only objects, which lose 
nothing of their lustre or value from the most extensive views of astronomy, but 
stand proof against every system. Would philosophers advise us to limit our 
affection to them?
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†c Exile, says PLUTARCH to a friend in banishment, is no evil: Mathematicians 
tell us, that the whole earth is but a point, compared to the heavens. To change 
one's country then is little more than to remove from one street to another. Man 
is not a plant, rooted to a certain spot of earth: All soils and all climates 
are alike suited to him.†5 These topics are admirable, could they fall only into 
the hands of banished persons. But what if they come also to the knowledge of 
those who are employed in public affairs, and destroy all their attachment to 
their native country? Or will they operate like the quack's medicine, which is 
equally good for a diabetes and a dropsy?
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It is certain, were a superior being thrust into a human body, that the whole of 
life would to him appear so mean, contemptible, and puerile, that he never could 
be induced to take part in any thing, and would scarcely give attention to what 
passes around him. To engage him to such a condescension as to play even the 
part of a PHILIP with zeal and alacrity, would be much more difficult, than to 
constrain the same PHILIP, after having been a king and a conqueror during fifty 
years, to mend old shoes with proper care and attention; the occupation which 
LUCIAN assigns him in the infernal regions. Now all the same topics of disdain 
towards human affairs, which could operate on this supposed being, occur also to 
a philosopher; but being, in some measure, disproportioned to human capacity, 
and not being fortified by the experience of any thing better, they make not a 
full impression on him. He sees, but he feels not sufficiently their truth; and 
is always a sublime philosopher, when he needs not; that is, as long as nothing 
disturbs him, or rouzes his affections. While others play, he wonders at their 
keenness and ardour; but he no sooner puts in his own stake, than he is commonly 
transported with the same passions, that he had so much condemned, while he 
remained a simple spectator.
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There are two considerations chiefly, to be met with in books of philosophy, 
from which any important effect is to be expected, and that because these 
considerations are drawn from common life, and occur upon the most superficial 
view of human affairs. When we reflect on the shortness and uncertainty of life, 
how despicable seem all our pursuits of happiness? And even, if we would extend 
our concern beyond our own life, how frivolous appear our most enlarged and most 
generous projects; when we consider the incessant changes and revolutions of 
human affairs, by which laws and learning, books and governments are hurried 
away by time, as by a rapid stream, and are lost in the immense ocean of matter? 
Such a reflection certainly tends to mortify all our passions: But does it not 
thereby counterwork the artifice of nature, who has happily deceived us into an 
opinion, that human life is of some importance? And may not such a reflection be 
employed with success by voluptuous reasoners, in order to lead us, from the 
paths of action and virtue, into the flowery fields of indolence and pleasure?
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We are informed by THUCYDIDES, that, during the famous plague of ATHENS, when 
death seemed present to every one, a dissolute mirth and gaiety prevailed among 
the people, who exhorted one another to make the most of life as long as it 
endured.†d The same observation is made by BOCCACE with regard to the plague of 
FLORENCE. A like principle makes soldiers, during war, be more addicted to riot 
and expence, than any other race of men.†e Present pleasure is always of 
importance; and whatever diminishes the importance of all other objects must 
bestow on it an additional influence and value.
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The second philosophical consideration, which may often have an influence on the 
affections, is derived from a comparison of our own condition with the condition 
of others. This comparison we are continually making, even in common life; but 
the misfortune is, that we are rather apt to compare our situation with that of 
our superiors, than with that of our inferiors. A philosopher corrects this 
natural infirmity, by turning his view to the other side, in order to render 
himself easy in the situation, to which fortune has confined him. There are few 
people, who are not susceptible of some consolation from this reflection, 
though, to a very good-natured man, the view of human miseries should rather 
produce sorrow than comfort, and add, to his lamentations for his own 
misfortunes, a deep compassion for those of others. Such is the imperfection, 
even of the best of these philosophical topics of consolation.†6
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I shall conclude this subject with observing, that, though virtue be undoubtedly 
the best choice, when it is attainable; yet such is the disorder and confusion 
of human affairs, that no perfect or regular distribution of happiness and 
misery is ever, in this life, to be expected. Not only the goods of fortune, and 
the endowments of the body (both of which are important), not only these 
advantages, I say, are unequally divided between the virtuous and vicious, but 
even the mind itself partakes, in some degree, of this disorder, and the most 
worthy character, by the very constitution of the passions, enjoys not always 
the highest felicity.
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It is observable, that, though every bodily pain proceeds from some disorder in 
the part or organ, yet the pain is not always proportioned to the disorder; but 
is greater or less, according to the greater or less sensibility of the part, 
upon which the noxious humours exert their influence. A tooth-ach produces more 
violent convulsions of pain than a phthisis or a dropsy. In like manner, with 
regard to the economy of the mind, we may observe, that all vice is indeed 
pernicious; yet the disturbance or pain is not measured out by nature with exact 
proportion to the degree of vice, nor is the man of highest virtue, even 
abstracting from external accidents, always the most happy. A gloomy and 
melancholy disposition is certainly, to our sentiments, a vice or imperfection; 
but as it may be accompanied with great sense of honour and great integrity, it 
may be found in very worthy characters; though it is sufficient alone to 
imbitter life, and render the person affected with it completely miserable. On 
the other hand, a selfish villain may possess a spring and alacrity of temper, a 
certain†f gaiety of heart, which is indeed a good quality, but which is rewarded 
much beyond its merit, and when attended with good fortune, will compensate for 
the uneasiness and remorse arising from all the other vices.
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I shall add, as an observation to the same purpose, that, if a man be liable to 
a vice or imperfection, it may often happen, that a good quality, which he 
possesses along with it, will render him more miserable, than if he were 
completely vicious. A person of such imbecility of temper as to be easily broken 
by affliction, is more unhappy for being endowed with a generous and friendly 
disposition, which gives him a lively concern for others, and exposes him the 
more to fortune and accidents. A sense of shame, in an imperfect character, is 
certainly a virtue; but produces great uneasiness and remorse, from which the 
abandoned villain is entirely free. A very amorous complexion, with a heart 
incapable of friendship, is happier than the same excess in love, with a 
generosity of temper, which transports a man beyond himself, and renders him a 
total slave to the object of his passion.
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In a word, human life is more governed by fortune than by reason; is to be 
regarded more as a dull pastime than as a serious occupation; and is more 
influenced by particular humour, than by general principles. Shall we engage 
ourselves in it with passion and anxiety? It is not worthy of so much concern. 
Shall we be indifferent about what happens? We lose all the pleasure of the game 
by our phlegm and carelessness. While we are reasoning concerning life, life is 
gone; and death, though perhaps they receive him differently, yet treats alike 
the fool and the philosopher. To reduce life to exact rule and method, is 
commonly a painful, oft a fruitless occupation: And is it not also a proof, that 
we overvalue the prize for which we contend? Even to reason so carefully 
concerning it, and to fix with accuracy its just idea, would be overvaluing it, 
were it not that, to some tempers, this occupation is one of the most amusing, 
in which life could possibly be employed.
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†1 Were I not afraid of appearing too philosophical, I should remind my reader 
of that famous doctrine, supposed to be fully proved in modern times, "That 
tastes and colours, and all other sensible qualities, lie not in the bodies, but 
merely in the senses." The case is the same with beauty and deformity, virtue 
and vice. This doctrine, however, takes off no more from the reality of the 
latter qualities, than from that of the former; nor need it give any umbrage 
either to critics or moralists. Though colours were allowed to lie only in the 
eye, would dyers or painters ever be less regarded or esteemed? There is a 
sufficient uniformity in the senses and feelings of mankind, to make all these 
qualities the objects of art and reasoning, and to have the greatest influence 
on life and manners. And as it is certain, that the discovery above-mentioned in 
natural philosophy, makes no alteration on action and conduct; why should a like 
discovery in moral philosophy make any alteration?
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†2 PLUT. de ira cohibenda.
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†3 PLUT. Lacon. Apophtheg.
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†4 TUSC. Quest. lib. v. 40.
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†5 De exilio.
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†6 The Sceptic, perhaps, carries the matter too far, when he limits all 
philosophical topics and reflections to these two. There seem to be others, 
whose truth is undeniable, and whose natural tendency is to tranquillize and 
soften all the passions. Philosophy greedily seizes these, studies them, weighs 
them, commits them to the memory, and familiarizes them to the mind: And their 
influence on tempers, which are thoughtful, gentle, and moderate, may be 
considerable. But what is their influence, you will say, if the temper be 
antecedently disposed after the same manner as that to which they pretend to 
form it? They may, at least, fortify that temper, and furnish it with views, by 
which it may entertain and nourish itself. Here are a few examples of such 
philosophical reflections.
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1. Is it not certain, that every condition has concealed ills? Then why envy any 
body?
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2. Every one has known ills; and there is a compensation throughout. Why not be 
contented with the present?
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3. Custom deadens the sense both of the good and the ill, and levels every 
thing.
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4. Health and humour all. The rest of little consequence, except these be 
affected.
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5. How many other good things have I? Then why be vexed for one ill?
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6. How many are happy in the condition of which I complain? How many envy me?
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7. Every good must be paid for: Fortune by labour, favour by flattery. Would I 
keep the price, yet have the commodity?
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8. Expect not too great happiness in life. Human nature admits it not.
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9. Propose not a happiness too complicated. But does that depend on me? Yes: The 
first choice does. Life is like a game: One may choose the game: And passion, by 
degrees, seizes the proper object.
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10. Anticipate by your hopes and fancy future consolation, which time infallibly 
brings to every affliction.
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11. I desire to be rich. Why? That I may possess many fine objects; houses, 
gardens, equipage, &c. How many fine objects does nature offer to every one 
without expence? If enjoyed, sufficient. If not: See the effect of custom or of 
temper, which would soon take off the relish of the riches.
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12. I desire fame. Let this occur: If I act well, I shall have the esteem of all 
my acquaintance. And what is all the rest to me?
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These reflections are so obvious, that it is a wonder they occur not to every 
man: So convincing, that it is a wonder they persuade not every man. But perhaps 
they do occur to and persuade most men; when they consider human life, by a 
general and calm survey: But where any real, affecting incident happens; when 
passion is awakened, fancy agitated, example draws, and counsel urges; the 
philosopher is lost in the man, and he seeks in vain for that persuasion which 
before seemed so firm and unshaken. What remedy for this inconvenience? Assist 
yourself by a frequent perusal of the entertaining moralists: Have recourse to 
the learning of PLUTARCH, the imagination of LUCIAN, the eloquence of CICERO, 
the wit of SENECA, the gaiety of MONTAIGNE, the sublimity of SHAFTESBURY. Moral 
precepts, so couched, strike deep, and fortify the mind against the illusions of 
passion. But trust not altogether to external aid: By habit and study acquire 
that philosophical temper which both gives force to reflection, and by rendering 
a great part of your happiness independent, takes off the edge from all 
disorderly passions, and tranquillizes the mind. Despise not these helps; but 
confide not too much in them neither; unless nature has been favourable in the 
temper, with which she has endowed you.
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†a The remainder of this sentence does not occur in Editions C and D.
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†b This paragraph does not occur in Editions C and D.
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†c The two following paragraphs do not occur in Editions C and D.
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†d This sentence does not occur in Editions C and D.
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†e In place of this sentence Editions C and D read as follows: And 'tis 
observable, in this Kingdom, that long Peace, by producing Security, has much 
alter'd them in this Particular, and has quite remov'd our Officers from the 
generous Character of their Profession.
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†f Gaiete de Coeur: Edition C.

Essay 19. OF POLYGAMY AND DIVORCES
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ESSAY XIX: OF POLYGAMY AND DIVORCES As marriage is an engagement entered into by 
mutual consent, and has for its end the propagation of the species, it is 
evident, that it must be susceptible of all the variety of conditions, which 
consent establishes, provided they be not contrary to this end.
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A man, in conjoining himself to a woman, is bound to her according to the terms 
of his engagement: In begetting children, he is bound, by all the ties of nature 
and humanity, to provide for their subsistence and education. When he has 
performed these two parts of duty, no one can reproach him with injustice or 
injury. And as the terms of his engagement, as well as the methods of subsisting 
his offspring, may be various, it is mere superstition to imagine, that marriage 
can be entirely uniform, and will admit only of one mode or form. Did not human 
laws restrain the natural liberty of men, every particular marriage would be as 
different as contracts or bargains of any other kind or species.
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As circumstances vary, and the laws propose different advantages, we find, that, 
in different times and places, they impose different conditions on this 
important contract. In TONQUIN, it is usual for the sailors, when the ships come 
into harbour, to marry for the season; and notwithstanding this precarious 
engagement, they are assured, it is said, of the strictest fidelity to their 
bed, as well as in the whole management of their affairs, from those temporary 
spouses.
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I cannot, at present, recollect my authorities; but I have somewhere read, that 
the republic of ATHENS, having lost many of its citizens by war and pestilence, 
allowed every man to marry two wives, in order the sooner to repair the waste 
which had been made by these calamities. The poet EURIPIDES happened to be 
coupled to two noisy Vixens who so plagued him with their jealousies and 
quarrels, that he became ever after a professed woman-hater; and is the only 
theatrical writer, perhaps the only poet, that ever entertained an aversion to 
the sex.
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In that agreeable romance, called the History of the SEVARAMBIANS, where a great 
many men and a few women are supposed to be shipwrecked on a desert coast; the 
captain of the troop, in order to obviate those endless quarrels which arose, 
regulates their marriages after the following manner: He takes a handsome female 
to himself alone; assigns one to every couple of inferior officers; and to five 
of the lowest rank he gives one wife in common.†a
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The ancient BRITONS had a singular kind of marriage, to be met with among no 
other people. Any number of them, as ten or a dozen, joined in a society 
together, which was perhaps requisite for mutual defence in those barbarous 
times. In order to link this society the closer, they took an equal number of 
wives in common; and whatever children were born, were reputed to belong to all 
of them, and were accordingly provided for by the whole community.
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Among the inferior creatures, nature herself, being the supreme legislator, 
prescribes all the laws which regulate their marriages, and varies those laws 
according to the different circumstances of the creature. Where she furnishes, 
with ease, food and defence to the newborn animal, the present embrace 
terminates the marriage; and the care of the offspring is committed entirely to 
the female. Where the food is of more difficult purchase, the marriage continues 
for one season, till the common progeny can provide for itself; and then the 
union immediately dissolves, and leaves each of the parties free to enter into a 
new engagement at the ensuing season. But nature, having endowed man with 
reason, has not so exactly regulated every article of his marriage contract, but 
has left him to adjust them, by his own prudence, according to his particular 
circumstances and situation. Municipal laws are a supply to the wisdom of each 
individual; and, at the same time, by restraining the natural liberty of men, 
make private interest submit to the interest of the public. All regulations, 
therefore, on this head are equally lawful, and equally conformable to the 
principles of nature; though they are not all equally convenient, or equally 
useful to society. The laws may allow of polygamy, as among the Eastern nations; 
or of voluntary divorces, as among the GREEKS and ROMANS; or they may confine 
one man to one woman, during the whole course of their lives, as among the 
modern EUROPEANS. It may not be disagreeable to consider the advantages and 
disadvantages, which result from each of these institutions.
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The advocates for polygamy may recommend it as the only effectual remedy for the 
disorders of love, and the only expedient for freeing men from that slavery to 
the females, which the natural violence of our passions has imposed upon us. By 
this means alone can we regain our right of sovereignty; and, sating our 
appetite, re-establish the authority of reason in our minds, and, of 
consequence, our own authority in our families. Man, like a weak sovereign, 
being unable to support himself against the wiles and intrigues of his subjects, 
must play one faction against another, and become absolute by the mutual 
jealousy of the females. To divide and to govern is an universal maxim; and by 
neglecting it, the EUROPEANS undergo a more grievous and a more ignominious 
slavery than the TURKS or PERSIANS, who are subjected indeed to a sovereign, 
that lies at a distance from them, but in their domestic affairs rule with an 
uncontroulable sway.†b
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On the other hand, it may be urged with better reason, that this sovereignty of 
the male is a real usurpation, and destroys that nearness of rank, not to say 
equality, which nature has established between the sexes. We are, by nature, 
their lovers, their friends, their patrons: Would we willingly exchange such 
endearing appellations, for the barbarous title of master and tyrant?
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In what capacity shall we gain by this inhuman proceeding? As lovers, or as 
husbands? The lover, is totally annihilated; and courtship, the most agreeable 
scene in life, can no longer have place, where women have not the free disposal 
of themselves, but are bought and sold, like the meanest animal. The husband is 
as little a gainer, having found the admirable secret of extinguishing every 
part of love, except its jealousy. No rose without its thorn; but he must be a 
foolish wretch indeed, that throws away the rose and preserves only the thorn.†c
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But the ASIATIC manners are as destructive to friendship as to love. Jealousy 
excludes men from all intimacies and familiarities with each other. No one dares 
bring his friend to his house or table, lest he bring a lover to his numerous 
wives. Hence all over the east, each family is as much separate from another, as 
if they were so many distinct kingdoms. No wonder then, that SOLOMON, living 
like an eastern prince, with his seven hundred wives, and three hundred 
concubines, without one friend, could write so pathetically concerning the 
vanity of the world. Had he tried the secret of one wife or mistress, a few 
friends, and a great many companions, he might have found life somewhat more 
agreeable. Destroy love and friendship; what remains in the world worth 
accepting?
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†d The bad education of children, especially children of condition, is another 
unavoidable consequence of these eastern institutions. Those who pass the early 
part of life among slaves, are only qualified to be, themselves, slaves and 
tyrants; and in every future intercourse, either with their inferiors or 
superiors, are apt to forget the natural equality of mankind. What attention, 
too, can it be supposed a parent, whose seraglio affords him fifty sons, will 
give to instilling principles of morality or science into a progeny, with whom 
he himself is scarcely acquainted, and whom he loves with so divided an 
affection? Barbarism, therefore, appears, from reason as well as experience, to 
be the inseparable attendant of polygamy.
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To render polygamy more odious, I need not recount the frightful effects of 
jealousy, and the constraint in which it holds the fair-sex all over the east. 
In those countries men are not allowed to have any commerce with the females, 
not even physicians, when sickness may be supposed to have extinguished all 
wanton passions in the bosoms of the fair, and, at the same time, has rendered 
them unfit objects of desire. TOURNEFORT tells us, that, when he was brought 
into the grand signior's seraglio as a physician, he was not a little surprized, 
in looking along a gallery, to see a great number of naked arms, standing out 
from the sides of the room. He could not imagine what this could mean; till he 
was told, that those arms, belonged to bodies, which he must cure, without 
knowing any more about them, than what he could learn from the arms. He was not 
allowed to ask a question of the patient, or even of her attendants, lest he 
might find it necessary to enquire concerning circumstances, which the delicacy 
of the seraglio allows not to be revealed. Hence physicians in the east pretend 
to know all diseases from the pulse; as our quacks in EUROPE undertake to cure a 
person merely from seeing his water. I suppose, had Monsieur TOURNEFORT been of 
this latter kind, he would not, in CONSTANTINOPLE, have been allowed by the 
jealous TURKS to be furnished with materials requisite for exercising his art.
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In another country, where polygamy is also allowed, they render their wives 
cripples, and make their feet of no use to them, in order to confine them to 
their own houses. But it will, perhaps, appear strange, that, in a EUROPEAN 
country, jealousy can yet be carried to such a height, that it is indecent so 
much as to suppose that a woman of rank can have feet or legs.†e Witness the 
following story, which we have from very good authority.†1 When the mother of 
the late king of SPAIN was on her road towards MADRID, she passed through a 
little town in SPAIN, famous for its manufactory of gloves and stockings. The 
magistrates of the place thought they could not better express their joy for the 
reception of their new queen, than by presenting her with a sample of those 
commodities, for which alone their town was remarkable. The major domo, who 
conducted the princess, received the gloves very graciously: But when the 
stockings were presented, he flung them away with great indignation, and 
severely reprimanded the magistrates for this egregious piece of indecency. 
Know, says he, that a queen of SPAIN has no legs. The young queen, who, at that 
time, understood the language but imperfectly, and had often been frightened 
with stories of SPANISH jealousy, imagined that they were to cut off her legs. 
Upon which she fell a crying, and begged them to conduct her back to GERMANY; 
for that she never could endure the operation: And it was with some difficulty 
they could appease her. PHILIP IV. is said never in his life to have laughed 
heartily, but at the recital of this story.†f
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Having rejected polygamy, and matched one man with one woman, let us now 
consider what duration we shall assign to their union, and whether we shall 
admit of those voluntary divorces, which were customary among the GREEKS and 
ROMANS. Those who would defend this practice may employ the following reasons.
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How often does disgust and aversion arise after marriage, from the most trivial 
accidents, or from an incompatibility of humour; where time, instead of curing 
the wounds, proceeding from mutual injuries, festers them every day the more, by 
new quarrels and reproaches? Let us separate hearts, which were not made to 
associate together. Each of them may, perhaps, find another for which it is 
better fitted. At least, nothing can be more cruel than to preserve, by 
violence, an union, which, at first, was made by mutual love, and is now, in 
effect, dissolved by mutual hatred.
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But the liberty of divorces is not only a cure to hatred and domestic quarrels: 
It is also an admirable preservative against them, and the only secret for 
keeping alive that love, which first united the married couple. The heart of man 
delights in liberty: The very image of constraint is grievous to it: When you 
would confine it by violence, to what would otherwise have been its choice, the 
inclination immediately changes, and desire is turned into aversion. If the 
public interest will not allow us to enjoy in polygamy that variety, which is so 
agreeable in love; at least, deprive us not of that liberty, which is so 
essentially requisite. In vain you tell me, that I had my choice of the person, 
with whom I would conjoin myself. I had my choice, it is true, of my prison; but 
this is but a small comfort, since it must still be a prison.
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Such are the arguments which may be urged in favour of divorces: But there seem 
to be these three unanswerable objections against them. First, What must become 
of the children, upon the separation of the parents? Must they be committed to 
the care of a step-mother; and instead of the fond attention and concern of a 
parent, feel all the indifference or hatred of a stranger or an enemy? These 
inconveniencies are sufficiently felt, where nature has made the divorce by the 
doom inevitable to all mortals: And shall we seek to multiply those 
inconveniencies, by multiplying divorces, and putting it in the power of 
parents, upon every caprice, to render their posterity miserable?
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Secondly, If it be true, on the one hand, that the heart of man naturally 
delights in liberty, and hates every thing to which it is confined; it is also 
true, on the other, that the heart of man naturally submits to necessity, and 
soon loses an inclination, when there appears an absolute impossibility of 
gratifying it. These principles of human nature, you'll say, are contradictory: 
But what is man but a heap of contradictions! Though it is remarkable, that, 
where principles are, after this manner, contrary in their operation, they do 
not always destroy each other; but the one or the other may predominate on any 
particular occasion, according as circumstances are more or less favourable to 
it. For instance, love is a restless and impatient passion, full of caprices and 
variations: arising in a moment from a feature, from an air, from nothing, and 
suddenly extinguishing after the same manner. Such a passion requires liberty 
above all things; and therefore ELOISA had reason, when, in order to preserve 
this passion, she refused to marry her beloved ABELARD.
How oft, when prest to marriage, have I said,
Curse on all laws but those which love has made:
Love, free as air, at sight of human ties,
Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
But friendship is a calm and sedate affection, conducted by reason and cemented 
by habit; springing from long acquaintance and mutual obligations; without 
jealousies or fears, and without those feverish fits of heat and cold, which 
cause such an agreeable torment in the amorous passion. So sober an affection, 
therefore, as friendship, rather thrives under constraint, and never rises to 
such a height, as when any strong interest or necessity binds two persons 
together, and gives them some common object of pursuit.†g We need not, 
therefore, be afraid of drawing the marriage-knot, which chiefly subsists by 
friendship, the closest possible. The amity between the persons, where it is 
solid and sincere, will rather gain by it: And where it is wavering and 
uncertain, this is the best expedient for fixing it. How many frivolous quarrels 
and disgusts are there, which people of common prudence endeavour to forget, 
when they lie under a necessity of passing their lives together; but which would 
soon be inflamed into the most deadly hatred, were they pursued to the utmost, 
under the prospect of an easy separation?
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In the third place, we must consider, that nothing is more dangerous than to 
unite two persons so closely in all their interests and concerns, as man and 
wife, without rendering the union entire and total. The least possibility of a 
separate interest must be the source of endless quarrels and suspicions.†h The 
wife, not secure of her establishment, will still be driving some separate end 
or project; and the husband's selfishness, being accompanied with more power, 
may be still more dangerous.
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Should these reasons against voluntary divorces be deemed insufficient, I hope 
no body will pretend to refuse the testimony of experience. At the time when 
divorces were most frequent among the ROMANS, marriages were most rare; and 
AUGUSTUS was obliged, by penal laws, to force men of fashion into the married 
state: A circumstance which is scarcely to be found in any other age or 
nation.†i The more ancient laws of ROME, which prohibited divorces, are 
extremely praised by DIONYSIUS HALYCARNASSAEUS.†2 Wonderful was the harmony, 
says the historian, which this inseparable union of interests produced between 
married persons; while each of them considered the inevitable necessity by which 
they were linked together, and abandoned all prospect of any other choice or 
establishment.
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The exclusion of polygamy and divorces sufficiently recommends our present 
EUROPEAN practice with regard to marriage.
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†1 Memoirs de la cour d'ESPAGNE par Madame d'AUNOY.
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†2 Lib. ii. 25.

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†a Editions C to P add the following: Could the greatest legislator, in such 
circumstances, have contrived matters with greater wisdom?
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†b Editions C to P add the following: An honest TURK, who should come from his 
seraglio, where every one trembles before him, would be surprized to see SYLVIA 
in her drawing-room, adored by all the beaus and pretty fellows about town, and 
he would certainly take her for some mighty and despotic queen, surrounded by 
her guard of obsequious slaves and eunuchs.
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†c C to N add the following paragraph: I would not willingly insist upon it as 
an advantage in our EUROPEAN customs, what was observed by MEHEMET EFFENDI the 
last TURKISH ambassador in FRANCE. We TURKS, says he, are great simpletons in 
comparison of the Christians. We are at the expense and trouble of keeping a 
seraglio, each in his own house: But you ease yourselves of this burden, and 
have your seraglio in your friends' houses. The known virtue of our BRITISH 
ladies frees them sufficiently from this imputation: And the TURK himself, had 
he travelled among us, must have owned, that our free commerce with the fair 
sex, more than any other invention, embellishes, enlivens, and polishes society.
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†d This paragraph does not occur in Editions C to K.
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†e Editions C to P add the following: A SPANIARD is jealous of the very thoughts 
of those who approach his wife; and, if possible, will prevent his being 
dishonoured, even by the wantonness of imagination.
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†f Editions C to P add as follows: If a SPANISH lady must not be supposed to 
have legs, what must be supposed of a TURKISH lady? She must not be supposed to 
have a being at all. Accordingly, 'tis esteemed a piece of rudeness and 
indecency at CONSTANTINOPLE, ever to make mention of a man's wives before him.†1 
In EUROPE, 'tis true, fine bred people make it also a rule never to talk of 
their wives. But the reason is not founded on our jealousy. I suppose it is 
because we should be apt, were it not for this rule, to become troublesome to 
company, by talking too much of them.
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The author of the PERSIAN letters has given a different reason for this polite 
maxim. Men, says he, never care to mention their wives in company, lest they 
should talk of them before people, who are better acquainted with them than 
themselves.
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†1 Memoires de Marquis d'Argens.
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†g Editions C to P add as follows: Let us consider then, whether love or 
friendship should most predominate in marriage; and we shall soon determine 
whether liberty or constraint be most favourable to it. The happiest marriages, 
to be sure, are found where love, by long acquaintance, is consolidated into 
friendship. Whoever dreams of raptures and extasies beyond the honey-month, is a 
fool. Even romances themselves, with all their liberty of fiction, are obliged 
to drop their lovers the very day of their marriage, and find it easier to 
support the passion for a dozen years under coldness, disdain and difficulties, 
than a week under possession and security.
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†h In place of "The wife, not secure of her establishment, will still be driving 
some separate end or project," Editions P to C read: "What Dr. PARNEL calls, The 
little pilf'ring temper of a wife, will be doubly ruinous."
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†i Editions C and D omit the remainder of the paragraph.

Essay 20. OF SIMPLICITY AND REFINEMENT IN WRITING
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ESSAY XX: OF SIMPLICITY AND REFINEMENT IN WRITING
Fine writing, according to Mr. ADDISON, consists of sentiments, which are 
natural, without being obvious. There cannot be a juster, and more concise 
definition of fine writing.
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Sentiments, which are merely natural, affect not the mind with any pleasure, and 
seem not worthy of our attention. The pleasantries of a waterman, the 
observations of a peasant, the ribaldry of a porter or hackney coachman, all of 
these are natural, and disagreeable. What an insipid comedy should we make of 
the chit-chat of the tea-table, copied faithfully and at full length? Nothing 
can please persons of taste, but nature drawn with all her graces and ornaments, 
la belle nature; or if we copy low life, the strokes must be strong and 
remarkable, and must convey a lively image to the mind. The absurd naivety†a of 
Sancho Pancho is represented in such inimitable colours by CERVANTES, that it 
entertains as much as the picture of the most magnanimous hero or softest lover.
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The case is the same with orators, philosophers, critics, or any author who 
speaks in his own person, without introducing other speakers or actors. If his 
language be not elegant, his observations uncommon, his sense strong and 
masculine, he will in vain boast his nature and simplicity. He may be correct; 
but he never will be agreeable. It is the unhappiness of such authors, that they 
are never blamed or censured. The good fortune of a book, and that of a man, are 
not the same. The secret deceiving path of life, which HORACE talks of, 
fallentis semita vitae, may be the happiest lot of the one; but is the greatest 
misfortune, which the other can possibly fall into.
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On the other hand, productions, which are merely surprising, without being 
natural, can never give any lasting entertainment to the mind. To draw chimeras 
is not, properly speaking, to copy or imitate. The justness of the 
representation is lost, and the mind is displeased to find a picture, which 
bears no resemblance to any original. Nor are such excessive refinements more 
agreeable in the epistolary or philosophic style, than in the epic or tragic. 
Too much ornament is a fault in every kind of production. Uncommon expressions, 
strong flashes of wit, pointed similies, and epigrammatic turns, especially when 
they recur too frequently, are a disfigurement, rather than any embellishment of 
discourse. As the eye, in surveying a GOTHIC building, is distracted by the 
multiplicity of ornaments, and loses the whole by its minute attention to the 
parts; so the mind, in perusing a work overstocked with wit, is fatigued and 
disgusted with the constant endeavour to shine and surprize. This is the case 
where a writer overabounds in wit, even though that wit, in itself, should be 
just and agreeable. But it commonly happens to such writers, that they seek for 
their favourite ornaments, even where the subject does not afford them; and by 
that means, have twenty insipid conceits for one thought which is really 
beautiful.
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There is no subject in critical learning more copious, than this of the just 
mixture of simplicity and refinement in writing; and therefore, not to wander in 
too large a field, I shall confine myself to a few general observations on that 
head.
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First, I observe, That though excesses of both kinds are to be avoided, and 
though a proper medium ought to be studied in all productions; yet this medium 
lies not in a point, but admits of a considerable latitude. Consider the wide 
distance, in this respect, between Mr. POPE and LUCRETIUS. These seem to lie in 
the two greatest extremes of refinement and simplicity, in which a poet can 
indulge himself, without being guilty of any blameable excess. All this interval 
may be filled with poets, who may differ from each other, but may be equally 
admirable, each in his peculiar stile and manner. CORNEILLE and CONGREVE, who 
carry their wit and refinement somewhat farther than Mr. POPE (if poets of so 
different a kind can be compared together), and SOPHOCLES and TERENCE, who are 
more simple than LUCRETIUS, seem to have gone out of that medium, in which the 
most perfect productions are found, and to be guilty of some excess in these 
opposite characters. Of all the great poets, VIRGIL and RACINE, in my opinion, 
lie nearest the center, and are the farthest removed from both the extremities.
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My second observation on this head is, That it is very difficult, if not 
impossible, to explain by words, where the just medium lies between the excesses 
of simplicity and refinement, or to give any rule by which we can know precisely 
the bounds between the fault and the beauty. A critic may not only discourse 
very judiciously on this head, without instructing his readers, but even without 
understanding the matter perfectly himself. There is not a finer piece of 
criticism than the dissertation on pastorals by FONTENELLE; in which, by a 
number of reflections and philosophical reasonings, he endeavours to fix the 
just medium, which is suitable to that species of writing. But let any one read 
the pastorals of that author, and he will be convinced, that this judicious 
critic, notwithstanding his fine reasonings, had a false taste, and fixed the 
point of perfection much nearer the extreme of refinement than pastoral poetry 
will admit of. The sentiments of his shepherds are better suited to the 
toilettes of PARIS, than to the forests of ARCADIA. But this it is impossible to 
discover from his critical reasonings. He blames all excessive painting and 
ornament as much as VIRGIL could have done, had that great poet writ a 
dissertation on this species of poetry. However different the tastes of men, 
their general discourse on these subjects is commonly the same. No criticism can 
be instructive, which descends not to particulars, and is not full of examples 
and illustrations. It is allowed on all hands, that beauty, as well as virtue, 
always lies in a medium; but where this medium is placed, is the great question, 
and can never be sufficiently explained by general reasonings.
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I shall deliver it as a third observation on this subject, That we ought to be 
more on our guard against the excess of refinement than that of simplicity; and 
that because the former excess is both less beautiful, and more dangerous than 
the latter.
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It is a certain rule, that wit and passion are entirely incompatible. When the 
affections are moved, there is no place for the imagination. The mind of man 
being naturally limited, it is impossible that all its faculties can operate at 
once: And the more any one predominates, the less room is there for the others 
to exert their vigour. For this reason, a greater degree of simplicity is 
required in all compositions, where men, and actions, and passions are painted, 
than in such as consist of reflections and observations. And as the former 
species of writing is the more engaging and beautiful, one may safely, upon this 
account, give the preference to the extreme of simplicity above that of 
refinement.
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We may also observe, that those compositions, which we read the oftenest, and 
which every man of taste has got by heart, have the recommendation of 
simplicity, and have nothing surprizing in the thought, when divested of that 
elegance of expression, and harmony of numbers, with which it is cloathed. If 
the merit of the composition lie in a point of wit; it may strike at first; but 
the mind anticipates the thought in the second perusal, and is no longer 
affected by it. When I read an epigram of MARTIAL, the first line recalls the 
whole; and I have no pleasure in repeating to myself what I know already. But 
each line, each word in CATULLUS, has its merit; and I am never tired with the 
perusal of him. It is sufficient to run over COWLEY once: But PARNEL, after the 
fiftieth reading, is as fresh as at the first. Besides, it is with books as with 
women, where a certain plainness of manner and of dress is more engaging than 
that glare of paint and airs and apparel, which may dazzle the eye, but reaches 
not the affections. TERENCE is a modest and bashful beauty, to whom we grant 
every thing, because he assumes nothing, and whose purity and nature make a 
durable, though not a violent impression on us.
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But refinement, as it is the less beautiful, so is it the more dangerous 
extreme, and what we are the aptest to fall into. Simplicity passes for dulness, 
when it is not accompanied with great elegance and propriety. On the contrary, 
there is something surprizing in a blaze of wit and conceit. Ordinary readers 
are mightily struck with it, and falsely imagine it to be the most difficult, as 
well as most excellent way of writing. SENECA abounds with agreeable faults, 
says QUINTILIAN, abundat dulcibus vitiis; and for that reason is the more 
dangerous, and the more apt to pervert the taste of the young and inconsiderate.
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I shall add, that the excess of refinement is now more to be guarded against 
than ever; because it is the extreme, which men are the most apt to fall into, 
after learning has made some progress, and after eminent writers have appeared 
in every species of composition. The endeavour to please by novelty leads men 
wide of simplicity and nature, and fills their writings with affectation and 
conceit.†b It was thus the ASIATIC eloquence degenerated so much from the ATTIC: 
It was thus the age of CLAUDIUS and NERO became so much inferior to that of 
AUGUSTUS in taste and genius: And perhaps there are, at present, some symptoms 
of a like degeneracy of taste, in FRANCE as well as in ENGLAND.
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†a Editions C to K: Naivety, a word which I have borrow'd from the French, and 
which is wanted in our language.
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†b The first clause of this sentence was added in Edition K.

Essay 21. OF NATIONAL CHARACTERS
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†a ESSAY XXI: OF NATIONAL CHARACTERS
The vulgar are apt to carry all national characters to extremes; and having once 
established it as a principle, that any people are knavish, or cowardly, or 
ignorant, they will admit of no exception, but comprehend every individual under 
the same censure. Men of sense condemn these undistinguishing judgments: Though 
at the same time, they allow, that each nation has a peculiar set of manners, 
and that some particular qualities are more frequently to be met with among one 
people than among their neighbours. The common people in SWITZERLAND have 
probably more honesty than those of the same rank in IRELAND; and every prudent 
man will, from that circumstance alone, make a difference in the trust which he 
reposes in each. We have reason to expect greater wit and gaiety in a FRENCHMAN 
than in a SPANIARD; though CERVANTES was born in SPAIN. An ENGLISHMAN will 
naturally be supposed to have more knowledge than a DANE; though TYCHO BRAHE was 
a native of DENMARK.
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Different reasons are assigned for these national characters; while some account 
for them from moral, others from physical causes. By moral causes, I mean all 
circumstances, which are fitted to work on the mind as motives or reasons, and 
which render a peculiar set of manners habitual to us. Of this kind are, the 
nature of the government, the revolutions of public affairs, the plenty or 
penury in which the people live, the situation of the nation with regard to its 
neighbours, and such like circumstances. By physical causes I mean those 
qualities of the air and climate, which are supposed to work insensibly on the 
temper, by altering the tone and habit of the body, and giving a particular 
complexion, which, though reflection and reason may sometimes overcome it, will 
yet prevail among the generality of mankind, and have an influence on their 
manners.
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That the character of a nation will much depend on moral causes, must be evident 
to the most superficial observer; since a nation is nothing but a collection of 
individuals, and the manners of individuals are frequently determined by these 
causes. As poverty and hard labour debase the minds of the common people, and 
render them unfit for any science and ingenious profession; so where any 
government becomes very oppressive to all its subjects, it must have a 
proportional effect on their temper and genius, and must banish all the liberal 
arts from among them.†b
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The same principle of moral causes fixes the character of different professions, 
and alters even that disposition, which the particular members receive from the 
hand of nature. A soldier and a priest are different characters, in all nations, 
and all ages; and this difference is founded on circumstances, whose operation 
is eternal and unalterable.
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The uncertainty of their life makes soldiers lavish and generous, as well as 
brave: Their idleness, together with the large societies, which they form in 
camps or garrisons, inclines them to pleasure and gallantry: By their frequent 
change of company, they acquire good breeding and an openness of behaviour: 
Being employed only against a public and an open enemy, they become candid, 
honest, and undesigning: And as they use more the labour of the body than that 
of the mind, they are commonly thoughtless and ignorant.†1
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It is a trite, but not altogether a false maxim, that priests of all religions 
are the same; and though the character of the profession will not, in every 
instance, prevail over the personal character, yet is it sure always to 
predominate with the greater number. For as chymists observe, that spirits, when 
raised to a certain height, are all the same, from whatever materials they be 
extracted; so these men, being elevated above humanity, acquire a uniform 
character, which is entirely their own, and which, in my opinion, is, generally 
speaking, not the most amiable that is to be met with in human society. It is, 
in most points, opposite to that of a soldier; as is the way of life, from which 
it is derived.†2
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As to physical causes, I am inclined to doubt altogether of their operation in 
this particular; nor do I think, that men owe any thing of their temper or 
genius to the air, food, or climate. I confess, that the contrary opinion may 
justly, at first sight, seem probable; since we find, that these circumstances 
have an influence over every other animal, and that even those creatures, which 
are fitted to live in all climates, such as dogs, horses, &c. do not attain the 
same perfection in all. The courage of bull-dogs and game-cocks seems peculiar 
to ENGLAND. FLANDERS is remarkable for large and heavy horses: SPAIN for horses 
light, and of good mettle. And any breed of these creatures, transplanted from 
one country to another, will soon lose the qualities, which they derived from 
their native climate. It may be asked, why not the same with men?†3†e
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There are few questions more curious than this, or which will oftener occur in 
our enquiries concerning human affairs; and therefore it may be proper to give 
it a full examination.
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The human mind is of a very imitative nature; nor is it possible for any set of 
men to converse often together, without acquiring a similitude of manners, and 
communicating to each other their vices as well as virtues. The propensity to 
company and society is strong in all rational creatures; and the same 
disposition, which gives us this propensity, makes us enter deeply into each 
other's sentiments, and causes like passions and inclinations to run, as it 
were, by contagion, through the whole club or knot of companions. Where a number 
of men are united into one political body, the occasions of their intercourse 
must be so frequent, for defence, commerce, and government, that, together with 
the same speech or language, they must acquire a resemblance in their manners, 
and have a common or national character, as well as a personal one, peculiar to 
each individual. Now though nature produces all kinds of temper and 
understanding in great abundance, it does not follow, that she always produces 
them in like proportions, and that in every society the ingredients of industry 
and indolence, valour and cowardice, humanity and brutality, wisdom and folly, 
will be mixed after the same manner. In the infancy of society, if any of these 
dispositions be found in greater abundance than the rest, it will naturally 
prevail in the composition, and give a tincture to the national character. Or 
should it be asserted, that no species of temper can reasonably be presumed to 
predominate, even in those contracted societies, and that the same proportions 
will always be preserved in the mixture; yet surely the persons in credit and 
authority, being still a more contracted body, cannot always be presumed to be 
of the same character; and their influence on the manners of the people, must, 
at all times, be very considerable. If on the first establishment of a republic, 
a BRUTUS should be placed in authority, and be transported with such an 
enthusiasm for liberty and public good, as to overlook all the ties of nature, 
as well as private interest, such an illustrious example will naturally have an 
effect on the whole society, and kindle the same passion in every bosom. 
Whatever it be that forms the manners of one generation, the next must imbibe a 
deeper tincture of the same dye; men being more susceptible of all impressions 
during infancy, and retaining these impressions as long as they remain in the 
world. I assert, then, that all national characters, where they depend not on 
fixed moral causes, proceed from such accidents as these, and that physical 
causes have no discernible operation on the human mind.†g It is a maxim in all 
philosophy, that causes, which do not appear, are to be considered as not 
existing.
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If we run over the globe, or revolve the annals of history, we shall discover 
every where signs of a sympathy or contagion of manners, none of the influence 
of air or climate.
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First. We may observe, that, where a very extensive government has been 
established for many centuries, it spreads a national character over the whole 
empire, and communicates to every part a similarity of manners. Thus the CHINESE 
have the greatest uniformity of character imaginable: though the air and 
climate, in different parts of those vast dominions, admit of very considerable 
variations.
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Secondly. In small governments, which are contiguous, the people have 
notwithstanding a different character, and are often as distinguishable in their 
manners as the most distant nations. ATHENS and THEBES were but a short day's 
journey from each other; though the ATHENIANS were as remarkable for ingenuity, 
politeness, and gaiety, as the THEBANS for dulness, rusticity, and a phlegmatic 
temper. PLUTARCH, discoursing of the effects of air on the minds of men, 
observes, that the inhabitants of the PIRAEUM possessed very different tempers 
from those of the higher town in ATHENS, which was distant about four miles from 
the former: But I believe no one attributes the difference of manners in WAPPING 
and St. JAMES'S, to a difference of air or climate.
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Thirdly. The same national character commonly follows the authority of 
government to a precise boundary; and upon crossing a river or passing a 
mountain, one finds a new set of manners, with a new government. The 
LANGUEDOCIANS and GASCONS are the gayest people in FRANCE; but whenever you pass 
the PYRENEES, you are among SPANIARDS. Is it conceivable, that the qualities of 
the air should change exactly with the limits of an empire, which depend so much 
on the accidents of battles, negociations, and marriages?
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Fourthly. Where any set of men, scattered over distant nations, maintain a close 
society or communication together, they acquire a similitude of manners, and 
have but little in common with the nations amongst whom they live. Thus the JEWS 
in EUROPE, and the ARMENIANS in the east, have a peculiar character; and the 
former are as much noted for fraud, as the latter for probity.†4 The Jesuits, in 
all Roman-catholic countries, are also observed to have a character peculiar to 
themselves.
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Fifthly. Where any accident, as a difference in language or religion, keeps two 
nations, inhabiting the same country, from mixing with each other, they will 
preserve, during several centuries, a distinct and even opposite set of manners. 
The integrity, gravity, and bravery of the TURKS, form an exact contrast to the 
deceit, levity, and cowardice of the modern GREEKS.
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Sixthly. The same set of manners will follow a nation, and adhere to them over 
the whole globe, as well as the same laws and language. The SPANISH, ENGLISH, 
FRENCH and DUTCH colonies are all distinguishable even between the tropics.
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Seventhly. The manners of a people change very considerably from one age to 
another; either by great alterations in their government, by the mixtures of new 
people, or by that inconstancy, to which all human affairs are subject. The 
ingenuity, industry, and activity of the ancient GREEKS have nothing in common 
with the stupidity and indolence of the present inhabitants of those regions. 
Candour, bravery, and love of liberty formed the character of the ancient 
ROMANS; as subtilty, cowardice, and a slavish disposition do that of the modern. 
The old SPANIARDS were restless, turbulent, and so addicted to war, that many of 
them killed themselves, when deprived of their arms by the ROMANS.†5 One would 
find an equal difficulty at present, (at least one would have found it fifty 
years ago) to rouze up the modern SPANIARDS to arms. The BATAVIANS were all 
soldiers of fortune, and hired themselves into the ROMAN armies. Their posterity 
make use of foreigners for the same purpose that the ROMANS did their ancestors. 
Though some few strokes of the FRENCH character be the same with that which 
CAESAR has ascribed to the GAULS; yet what comparison between the civility, 
humanity, and knowledge of the modern inhabitants of that country, and the 
ignorance, barbarity, and grossness of the ancient?†i Not to insist upon the 
great difference between the present possessors of BRITAIN, and those before the 
ROMAN conquest; we may observe that our ancestors, a few centuries ago, were 
sunk into the most abject superstition, last century they were inflamed with the 
most furious enthusiasm, and are now settled into the most cool indifference 
with regard to religious matters, that is to be found in any nation of the 
world.
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Eighthly. Where several neighbouring nations have a very close communication 
together, either by policy, commerce, or travelling, they acquire a similitude 
of manners, proportioned to the communication. Thus all the FRANKS appear to 
have a uniform character to the eastern nations. The differences among them are 
like the peculiar accents of different provinces, which are not distinguishable, 
except by an ear accustomed to them, and which commonly escape a foreigner.
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Ninthly. We may often remark a wonderful mixture of manners and characters in 
the same nation, speaking the same language, and subject to the same government: 
And in this particular the ENGLISH are the most remarkable of any people, that 
perhaps ever were in the world. Nor is this to be ascribed to the mutability and 
uncertainty of their climate, or to any other physical causes; since all these 
causes take place in the neighbouring country of SCOTLAND, without having the 
same effect. Where the government of a nation is altogether republican, it is 
apt to beget a peculiar set of manners. Where it is altogether monarchical, it 
is more apt to have the same effect; the imitation of superiors spreading the 
national manners faster among the people. If the governing part of a state 
consist altogether of merchants, as in HOLLAND, their uniform way of life will 
fix their character. If it consists chiefly of nobles and landed gentry, like 
GERMANY, FRANCE, and SPAIN, the same effect follows. The genius of a particular 
sect or religion is also apt to mould the manners of a people. But the ENGLISH 
government is a mixture of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy. The people in 
authority are composed of gentry and merchants. All sects of religion are to be 
found among them. And the great liberty and independency, which every man 
enjoys, allows him to display the manners peculiar to him. Hence the ENGLISH, of 
any people in the universe, have the least of a national character; unless this 
very singularity may pass for such.
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If the characters of men depended on the air and climate, the degrees of heat 
and cold should naturally be expected to have a mighty influence; since nothing 
has a greater effect on all plants and irrational animals. And indeed there is 
some reason to think, that all the nations, which live beyond the polar circles 
or between the tropics, are inferior to the rest of the species, and are 
incapable of all the higher attainments of the human mind. The poverty and 
misery of the northern inhabitants of the globe, and the indolence of the 
southern, from their few necessities, may, perhaps, account for this remarkable 
difference, without our having recourse to physical causes. This however is 
certain, that the characters of nations are very promiscuous in the temperate 
climates, and that almost all the general observations, which have been formed 
of the more southern or more northern people in these climates, are found to be 
uncertain and fallacious.†6
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Shall we say, that the neighbourhood of the sun inflames the imagination of men, 
and gives it a peculiar spirit and vivacity. The FRENCH, GREEKS, EGYPTIANS, and 
PERSIANS are remarkable for gaiety. The SPANIARDS, TURKS, and CHINESE are noted 
for gravity and a serious deportment, without any such difference of climate as 
to produce this difference of temper.
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The GREEKS and ROMANS, who called all other nations barbarians, confined genius 
and a fine understanding to the more southern climates, and pronounced the 
northern nations incapable of all knowledge and civility. But our island has 
produced as great men, either for action or learning, as GREECE or ITALY has to 
boast of.
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It is pretended, that the sentiments of men become more delicate as the country 
approaches nearer to the sun; and that the taste of beauty and elegance receives 
proportional improvements in every latitude; as we may particularly observe of 
the languages, of which the more southern are smooth and melodious, the northern 
harsh and untuneable. But this observation holds not universally. The ARABIC is 
uncouth and disagreeable: The MUSCOVITE soft and musical. Energy, strength, and 
harshness form the character of the LATIN tongue: The ITALIAN is the most 
liquid, smooth, and effeminate language that can possibly be imagined. Every 
language will depend somewhat on the manners of the people; but much more on 
that original stock of words and sounds, which they received from their 
ancestors, and which remain unchangeable, even while their manners admit of the 
greatest alterations. Who can doubt, but the ENGLISH are at present a more 
polite and knowing people than the GREEKS were for several ages after the siege 
of TROY? Yet is there no comparison between the language of MILTON and that of 
HOMER. Nay, the greater are the alterations and improvements, which happen in 
the manners of a people, the less can be expected in their language. A few 
eminent and refined geniuses will communicate their taste and knowledge to a 
whole people, and produce the greatest improvements; but they fix the tongue by 
their writings, and prevent, in some degree, its farther changes.
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Lord BACON has observed, that the inhabitants of the south are, in general, more 
ingenious than those of the north; but that, where the native of a cold climate 
has genius, he rises to a higher pitch than can be reached by the southern wits. 
This observation a late†7 writer confirms, by comparing the southern wits to 
cucumbers, which are commonly all good in their kind; but at best are an insipid 
fruit: While the northern geniuses are like melons, of which not one in fifty is 
good; but when it is so, it has an exquisite relish. I believe this remark may 
be allowed just, when confined to the EUROPEAN nations, and to the present age, 
or rather to the preceding one: But I think it may be accounted for from moral 
causes. All the sciences and liberal arts have been imported to us from the 
south; and it is easy to imagine, that, in the first ardor of application, when 
excited by emulation and by glory, the few, who were addicted to them, would 
carry them to the greatest height, and stretch every nerve, and every faculty, 
to reach the pinnacle of perfection. Such illustrious examples spread knowledge 
every where, and begot an universal esteem for the sciences: After which, it is 
no wonder, that industry relaxes; while men meet not with suitable 
encouragement, nor arrive at such distinction by their attainments. The 
universal diffusion of learning among a people, and the entire banishment of 
gross ignorance and rusticity, is, therefore, seldom attended with any 
remarkable perfection in particular persons.†k It seems to be taken for granted 
in the dialogue de Oratoribus, that knowledge was much more common in 
VESPASIAN'S age than in that of CICERO and AUGUSTUS. QUINTILIAN also complains 
of the profanation of learning, by its becoming too common. "Formerly," says 
JUVENAL, "science was confined to GREECE and ITALY. Now the whole world emulates 
ATHENS and ROME. Eloquent GAUL has taught BRITAIN, knowing in the laws. Even 
THULE entertains thoughts of hiring rhetoricians for its instruction."†8 This 
state of learning is remarkable; because JUVENAL is himself the last of the 
ROMAN writers, that possessed any degree of genius. Those, who succeeded, are 
valued for nothing but the matters of fact, of which they give us information. I 
hope the late conversion of MUSCOVY to the study of the sciences will not prove 
a like prognostic to the present period of learning.
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Cardinal BENTIVOGLIO gives the preference to the northern nations above the 
southern with regard to candour and sincerity; and mentions, on the one hand, 
the SPANIARDS and ITALIANS, and on the other, the FLEMINGS and GERMANS. But I am 
apt to think, that this has happened by accident. The ancient ROMANS seem to 
have been a candid sincere people, as are the modern TURKS. But if we must needs 
suppose, that this event has arisen from fixed causes, we may only conclude from 
it, that all extremes are apt to concur, and are commonly attended with the same 
consequences. Treachery is the usual concomitant of ignorance and barbarism; and 
if civilized nations ever embrace subtle and crooked politics, it is from an 
excess of refinement, which makes them disdain the plain direct path to power 
and glory.
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Most conquests have gone from north to south; and it has hence been inferred, 
that the northern nations possess a superior degree of courage and ferocity. But 
it would have been juster to have said, that most conquests are made by poverty 
and want upon plenty and riches. The SARACENS, leaving the deserts of ARABIA, 
carried their conquests northwards upon all the fertile provinces of the ROMAN 
empire; and met the TURKS half way, who were coming southwards from the deserts 
of TARTARY.
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An eminent writer†9 has remarked, that all courageous animals are also 
carnivorous, and that greater courage is to be expected in a people, such as the 
ENGLISH, whose food is strong and hearty, than in the half-starved commonalty of 
other countries. But the SWEDES, notwithstanding their disadvantages in this 
particular, are not inferior, in martial courage, to any nation that ever was in 
the world.
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In general, we may observe, that courage, of all national qualities, is the most 
precarious; because it is exerted only at intervals, and by a few in every 
nation; whereas industry, knowledge, civility, may be of constant and universal 
use, and for several ages, may become habitual to the whole people. If courage 
be preserved, it must be by discipline, example, and opinion. The tenth legion 
of CAESAR, and the regiment of PICARDY in FRANCE were formed promiscuously from 
among the citizens; but having once entertained a notion, that they were the 
best troops in the service, this very opinion really made them such.
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As a proof how much courage depends on opinion, we may observe, that, of the two 
chief tribes of the GREEKS, the DORIANS, and IONIANS, the former were always 
esteemed, and always appeared more brave and manly than the latter; though the 
colonies of both the tribes were interspersed and intermingled throughout all 
the extent of GREECE, the Lesser ASIA, SICILY, ITALY, and the islands of the 
AEGEAN sea. The ATHENIANS were the only IONIANS that ever had any reputation for 
valour or military atchievements; though even these were deemed inferior to the 
LACEDEMONIANS, the bravest of the DORIANS.
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The only observation, with regard to the difference of men in different 
climates, on which we can rest any weight, is the vulgar one, that people in the 
northern regions have a greater inclination to strong liquors, and those in the 
southern to love and women. One can assign a very probable physical cause for 
this difference. Wine and distilled waters warm the frozen blood in the colder 
climates, and fortify men against the injuries of the weather: As the genial 
heat of the sun, in the countries exposed to his beams, inflames the blood, and 
exalts the passion between the sexes.
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Perhaps too, the matter may be accounted for by moral causes. All strong liquors 
are rarer in the north, and consequently are more coveted. DIODORUS SICULUS†10 
tells us, that the GAULS in his time were great drunkards, and much addicted to 
wine; chiefly, I suppose, from its rarity and novelty. On the other hand, the 
heat in the southern climates, obliging men and women to go half naked, thereby 
renders their frequent commerce more dangerous, and inflames their mutual 
passion. This makes parents and husbands more jealous and reserved; which still 
farther inflames the passion. Not to mention, that, as women ripen sooner in the 
southern regions, it is necessary to observe greater jealousy and care in their 
education; it being evident, that a girl of twelve cannot possess equal 
discretion to govern this passion, with one who feels not its violence till she 
be seventeen or eighteen.†m Nothing so much encourages the passion of love as 
ease and leisure, or is more destructive to it than industry and hard labour; 
and as the necessities of men are evidently fewer in the warm climates than in 
the cold ones, this circumstance alone may make a considerable difference 
between them.
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But perhaps the fact is doubtful, that nature has, either from moral or physical 
causes, distributed these respective inclinations to the different climates. The 
ancient GREEKS, though born in a warm climate, seem to have been much addicted 
to the bottle; nor were their parties of pleasure any thing but matches of 
drinking among men, who passed their time altogether apart from the fair. Yet 
when ALEXANDER led the GREEKS into PERSIA, a still more southern climate, they 
multiplied their debauches of this kind, in imitation of the PERSIAN manners.†11 
So honourable was the character of a drunkard among the PERSIANS, that CYRUS the 
younger, soliciting the sober LACEDEMONIANS for succour against his brother 
ARTAXERXES, claims it chiefly on account of his superior endowments, as more 
valorous, more bountiful, and a better drinker.†12 DARIUS HYSTASPES made it be 
inscribed on his tomb-stone, among his other virtues and princely qualities, 
that no one could bear a greater quantity of liquor. You may obtain any thing of 
the NEGROES by offering them strong drink; and may easily prevail with them to 
sell, not only their children, but their wives and mistresses, for a cask of 
brandy. In FRANCE and ITALY few drink pure wine, except in the greatest heats of 
summer; and indeed, it is then almost as necessary, in order to recruit the 
spirits, evaporated by heat, as it is in SWEDEN, during the winter, in order to 
warm the bodies congealed by the rigour of the season.
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If jealousy be regarded as a proof of an amorous disposition, no people were 
more jealous than the MUSCOVITES, before their communication with EUROPE had 
somewhat altered their manners in this particular.
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But supposing the fact true, that nature, by physical principles, has regularly 
distributed these two passions, the one to the northern, the other to the 
southern regions; we can only infer, that the climate may affect the grosser and 
more bodily organs of our frame; not that it can work upon those finer organs, 
on which the operations of the mind and understanding depend. And this is 
agreeable to the analogy of nature. The races of animals never degenerate when 
carefully tended; and horses, in particular, always show their blood in their 
shape, spirit, and swiftness: But a coxcomb may beget a philosopher; as a man of 
virtue may leave a worthless progeny.
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I shall conclude this subject with observing, that though the passion for liquor 
be more brutal and debasing than love, which, when properly managed, is the 
source of all politeness and refinement; yet this gives not so great an 
advantage to the southern climates, as we may be apt, at first sight, to 
imagine. When love goes beyond a certain pitch, it renders men jealous, and cuts 
off the free intercourse between the sexes, on which the politeness of a nation 
will commonly much depend. And if we would subtilize and refine upon this point, 
we might observe, that the people, in very temperate climates, are the most 
likely to attain all sorts of improvement; their blood not being so inflamed as 
to render them jealous, and yet being warm enough to make them set a due value 
on the charms and endowments of the fair sex.
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†1 It is a saying of MENANDER, {Kompsos sratiotes, oud' an ei plattei theos 
Outheis genoit' an}. MEN. apud STOBAEUM. It is not in the power even of God to 
make a polite soldier. The contrary observation with regard to the manners of 
soldiers takes place in our days. This seems to me a presumption, that the 
ancients owed all their refinement and civility to books and study; for which, 
indeed, a soldier's life is not so well calculated. Company and the world is 
their sphere. And if there be any politeness to be learned from company, they 
will certainly have a considerable share of it.
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†2 Though all mankind have a strong propensity to religion at certain times and 
in certain dispositions; yet are there few or none, who have it to that degree, 
and with that constancy, which is requisite to support the character of this 
profession. It must, therefore, happen, that clergymen, being drawn from the 
common mass of mankind, as people are to other employments, by the views of 
profit, the greater part, though no atheists or free-thinkers, will find it 
necessary, on particular occasions, to feign more devotion than they are, at 
that time, possessed of, and to maintain the appearance of fervor and 
seriousness, even when jaded with the exercises of their religion, or when they 
have their minds engaged in the common occupations of life. They must not, like 
the rest of the world, give scope to their natural movements and sentiments: 
They must set a guard over their looks and words and actions: And in order to 
support the veneration paid them by the multitude, they must not only keep a 
remarkable reserve, but must promote the spirit of superstition, by a continued 
grimace and hypocrisy. This dissimulation often destroys the candor and 
ingenuity of their temper, and makes an irreparable breach in their character.
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If by chance any of them be possessed of a temper more susceptible of devotion 
than usual, so that he has but little occasion for hypocrisy to support the 
character of his profession; it is so natural for him to over-rate this 
advantage, and to think that it atones for every violation of morality, that 
frequently he is not more virtuous than the hypocrite. And though few dare 
openly avow those exploded opinions, that every thing is lawful to the saints, 
and that they alone have property in their goods; yet may we observe, that these 
principles lurk in every bosom, and represent a zeal for religious observances 
as so great a merit, that it may compensate for many vices and enormities. This 
observation is so common, that all prudent men are on their guard, when they 
meet with any extraordinary appearance of religion; though at the same time, 
they confess, that there are many exceptions to this general rule, and that 
probity and superstition, or even probity and fanaticism, are not altogether and 
in every instance incompatible.
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Most men are ambitious; but the ambition of other men may commonly be satisfied, 
by excelling in their particular profession, and thereby promoting the interests 
of society. The ambition of the clergy can often be satisfied only by promoting 
ignorance and superstition and implicit faith and pious frauds. And having got 
what ARCHIMEDES only wanted, (namely, another world, on which he could fix his 
engines) no wonder they move this world at their pleasure.
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Most men have an overweaning conceit of themselves; but these have a peculiar 
temptation to that vice, who are regarded with such veneration, and are even 
deemed sacred, by the ignorant multitude.
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Most men are apt to bear a particular regard for members of their own 
profession; but as a lawyer, or physician, or merchant, does, each of them, 
follow out his business apart, the interests of men of these professions are not 
so closely united as the interests of clergymen of the same religion; where the 
whole body gains by the veneration, paid to their common tenets, and by the 
suppression of antagonists.
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Few men can bear contradiction with patience; but the clergy too often proceed 
even to a degree of fury on this head: Because all their credit and livelihood 
depend upon the belief, which their opinions meet with; and they alone pretend 
to a divine and supernatural authority, or have any colour for representing 
their antagonists as impious and prophane. The Odium Theologicum, or Theological 
Hatred, is noted even to a proverb, and means that degree of rancour, which is 
the most furious and implacable.
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Revenge is a natural passion to mankind; but seems to reign with the greatest 
force in priests and women: Because, being deprived of the immediate exertion of 
anger, in violence and combat, they are apt to fancy themselves despised on that 
account; and their pride supports their vindictive disposition.†c
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Thus many of the vices of human nature are, by fixed moral causes, inflamed in 
that profession; and though several individuals escape the contagion, yet all 
wise governments will be on their guard against the attempts of a society, who 
will for ever combine into one faction, and while it acts as a society, will for 
ever be actuated by ambition, pride, revenge, and a persecuting spirit.
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The temper of religion is grave and serious; and this is the character required 
of priests, which confines them to strict rules of decency, and commonly 
prevents irregularity and intemperance amongst them. The gaiety, much less the 
excesses of pleasure, is not permitted in that body; and this virtue is, 
perhaps, the only one which they owe to their profession. In religions, indeed, 
founded on speculative principles, and where public discourses make a part of 
religious service, it may also be supposed that the clergy will have a 
considerable share in the learning of the times; though it is certain that their 
taste in eloquence will always be greater than their proficiency in reasoning 
and philosophy. But whoever possesses the other noble virtues of humanity, 
meekness, and moderation, as very many of them, no doubt, do, is beholden for 
them to nature or reflection, not to the genius of his calling.
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It was no bad expedient in the old ROMANS, for preventing the strong effect of 
the priestly character, to make it a law that no one should be received into the 
sacerdotal office, till he was past fifty years of age, DION. Hal. lib. ii. 21. 
The living a layman till that age, it is presumed, would be able to fix the 
character.†d
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†3 CAESAR (de Bello GALLICO, lib. 4. 2.) says, that the GALLIC horses were very 
good; the GERMAN very bad. We find in lib. 7. 65. that he was obliged to remount 
some GERMAN cavalry with GALLIC horses. At present, no part of EUROPE has so bad 
horses of all kinds as FRANCE: But GERMANY abounds with excellent war horses. 
This may beget a little suspicion, that even animals depend not on the climate; 
but on the different breeds, and on the skill and care in rearing them. The 
north of ENGLAND abounds in the best horses of all kinds which are perhaps in 
the world. In the neighbouring counties, north side of the TWEED), no good 
horses of any kind are to be met with. STRABO, lib. 2. 103. rejects, in a great 
measure, the influence of climates upon men. All is custom and education, says 
he. It is not from nature, that the ATHENIANS are learned, the LACEDEMONIANS 
ignorant, and the THEBANS too, who are still nearer neighbours to the former. 
Even the difference of animals, he adds, depends not on climate.†f
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†4 A small sect or society amidst a greater are commonly most regular in their 
morals; because they are more remarked, and the faults of individuals draw 
dishonour on the whole. The only exception to this rule is, when the 
superstition and prejudices of the large society are so strong as to throw an 
infamy on the smaller society, independent of their morals. For in that case, 
having no character either to save or gain, they become careless of their 
behaviour, except among themselves.†h
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†5 TIT. LIVII, lib. xxxiv. cap. 17.
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†6 I am apt to suspect the negroes to be naturally inferior to the whites. There 
scarcely ever was a civilized nation of that complexion, nor even any individual 
eminent either in action or speculation. No ingenious manufactures amongst them, 
no arts, no sciences. On the other hand, the most rude and barbarous of the 
whites, such as the ancient GERMANS, the present TARTARS, have still something 
eminent about them, in their valour, form of government, or some other 
particular. Such a uniform and constant difference could not happen, in so many 
countries and ages, if nature had not made an original distinction between these 
breeds of men. Not to mention our colonies, there are NEGROE slaves dispersed 
all over EUROPE, of which none ever discovered any symptoms of ingenuity; though 
low people, without education, will start up amongst us, and distinguish 
themselves in every profession. In JAMAICA, indeed, they talk of one negroe as a 
man of parts and learning; but it is likely he is admired for very slender 
accomplishments, like a parrot, who speaks a few words plainly.†j
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†7 Dr. Berkeley: Minute Philosopher.
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†8 "Sed Cantaber unde
Stoicus? antiqui praesertim aetate Metelli.
Nunc totus GRAIAS, nostrasque habet orbis ATHENAS.
GALLIA causidicos docuit facunda BRITANNOS:
De conducendo loquitur jam rhetore THULE."
Sat. 15. 108.
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†9 Sir WILLIAM TEMPLE'S account of the Netherlands.
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†10 Lib. v. 26. The same author ascribes taciturnity to that people; a new proof 
that national characters may alter very much.†l Taciturnity, as a national 
character, implies unsociableness. ARISTOTLE in his Politics, book ii. cap. 9. 
says, that the GAULS are the only warlike nation, who are negligent of women.
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†11 BABYLONII maxime in vinum, & quae ebrietatem sequuntur, effusi sunt. QUINT. 
CUR. lib. v. cap. 1.
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†12 PLUT. SYMP. lib. i. quaest. 4.
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†a This Essay was first published in Edition D.
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†b Editions D to P add: Instances of this nature are very frequent in the world.
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†c This paragraph was added in Edition K.
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†d This paragraph was added in Edition K.
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†e This paragraph is not in Edition D.
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†f This note is not in Edition D.
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†g This sentence was added in Edition Q.
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†h This note was added in Edition K.
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†i This sentence was added in Edition K.
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†j This note was added in Edition K.
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†k This sentence and the previous one were added in Edition K.
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†l This sentence was added in Edition K; and the next in Edition M.
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†m This sentence was added in Edition R.

Essay 22. OF TRAGEDY
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†a ESSAY XXII: OF TRAGEDY
It seems an unaccountable pleasure, which the spectators of a well-written 
tragedy receive from sorrow, terror, anxiety, and other passions, that are in 
themselves disagreeable and uneasy. The more they are touched and affected, the 
more are they delighted with the spectacle; and as soon as the uneasy passions 
cease to operate, the piece is at an end. One scene of full joy and contentment 
and security is the utmost, that any composition of this kind can bear; and it 
is sure always to be the concluding one. If, in the texture of the piece, there 
be interwoven any scenes of satisfaction, they afford only faint gleams of 
pleasure, which are thrown in by way of variety, and in order to plunge the 
actors into deeper distress, by means of that contrast and disappointment. The 
whole art of the poet is employed, in rouzing and supporting the compassion and 
indignation, the anxiety and resentment of his audience. They are pleased in 
proportion as they are afflicted, and never are so happy as when they employ 
tears, sobs, and cries to give vent to their sorrow, and relieve their heart, 
swoln with the tenderest sympathy and compassion.
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The few critics who have had some tincture of philosophy, have remarked this 
singular phenomenon, and have endeavoured to account for it.
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L'Abbe DUBOS, in his reflections on poetry and painting, asserts, that nothing 
is in general so disagreeable to the mind as the languid, listless state of 
indolence, into which it falls upon the removal of all passion and occupation. 
To get rid of this painful situation, it seeks every amusement and pursuit; 
business, gaming, shews, executions; whatever will rouze the passions, and take 
its attention from itself. No matter what the passion is: Let it be 
disagreeable, afflicting, melancholy, disordered; it is still better than that 
insipid languor, which arises from perfect tranquillity and repose.
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It is impossible not to admit this account, as being, at least in part, 
satisfactory. You may observe, when there are several tables of gaming, that all 
the company run to those, where the deepest play is, even though they find not 
there the best players. The view, or, at least, imagination of high passions, 
arising from great loss or gain, affects the spectator by sympathy, gives him 
some touches of the same passions, and serves him for a momentary entertainment. 
It makes the time pass the easier with him, and is some relief to that 
oppression, under which men commonly labour, when left entirely to their own 
thoughts and meditations.
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We find that common liars always magnify, in their narrations, all kinds of 
danger, pain, distress, sickness, deaths, murders, and cruelties; as well as 
joy, beauty, mirth, and magnificence. It is an absurd secret, which they have 
for pleasing their company, fixing their attention, and attaching them to such 
marvellous relations, by the passions and emotions, which they excite.
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There is, however, a difficulty in applying to the present subject, in its full 
extent, this solution, however ingenious and satisfactory it may appear. It is 
certain, that the same object of distress, which pleases in a tragedy, were it 
really set before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness; though it be 
then the most effectual cure to languor and indolence. Monsieur FONTENELLE seems 
to have been sensible of this difficulty; and accordingly attempts another 
solution of the phenomenon; at least makes some addition to the theory above 
mentioned.†1
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"Pleasure and pain," says he, "which are two sentiments so different in 
themselves, differ not so much in their cause. From the instance of tickling, it 
appears, that the movement of pleasure, pushed a little too far, becomes pain; 
and that the movement of pain, a little moderated, becomes pleasure. Hence it 
proceeds, that there is such a thing as a sorrow, soft and agreeable: It is a 
pain weakened and diminished. The heart likes naturally to be moved and 
affected. Melancholy objects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful, 
provided they are softened by some circumstance. It is certain, that, on the 
theatre, the representation has almost the effect of reality; yet it has not 
altogether that effect. However we may be hurried away by the spectacle; 
whatever dominion the senses and imagination may usurp over the reason, there 
still lurks at the bottom a certain idea of falsehood in the whole of what we 
see. This idea, though weak and disguised, suffices to diminish the pain which 
we suffer from the misfortunes of those whom we love, and to reduce that 
affliction to such a pitch as converts it into a pleasure. We weep for the 
misfortune of a hero, to whom we are attached. In the same instant we comfort 
ourselves, by reflecting, that it is nothing but a fiction: And it is precisely 
that mixture of sentiments, which composes an agreeable sorrow, and tears that 
delight us. But as that affliction, which is caused by exterior and sensible 
objects, is stronger than the consolation which arises from an internal 
reflection, they are the effects and symptoms of sorrow, that ought to 
predominate in the composition."
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This solution seems just and convincing; but perhaps it wants still some new 
addition, in order to make it answer fully the phenomenon, which we here 
examine. All the passions, excited by eloquence, are agreeable in the highest 
degree, as well as those which are moved by painting and the theatre. The 
epilogues of CICERO are, on this account chiefly, the delight of every reader of 
taste; and it is difficult to read some of them without the deepest sympathy and 
sorrow. His merit as an orator, no doubt, depends much on his success in this 
particular. When he had raised tears in his judges and all his audience, they 
were then the most highly delighted, and expressed the greatest satisfaction 
with the pleader. The pathetic description of the butchery, made by VERRES of 
the SICILIAN captains, is a masterpiece of this kind: But I believe none will 
affirm, that the being present at a melancholy scene of that nature would afford 
any entertainment. Neither is the sorrow here softened by fiction: For the 
audience were convinced of the reality of every circumstance. What is it then, 
which in this case raises a pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, so to speak; 
and a pleasure, which still retains all the features and outward symptoms of 
distress and sorrow?
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I answer: This extraordinary effect proceeds from that very eloquence, with 
which the melancholy scene is represented. The genius required to paint objects 
in a lively manner, the art employed in collecting all the pathetic 
circumstances, the judgment displayed in disposing them: the exercise, I say, of 
these noble talents, together with the force of expression, and beauty of 
oratorial numbers, diffuse the highest satisfaction on the audience, and excite 
the most delightful movements. By this means, the uneasiness of the melancholy 
passions is not only overpowered and effaced by something stronger of an 
opposite kind; but the whole impulse of those passions is converted into 
pleasure, and swells the delight which the eloquence raises in us. The same 
force of oratory, employed on an uninteresting subject, would not please half so 
much, or rather would appear altogether ridiculous; and the mind, being left in 
absolute calmness and indifference, would relish none of those beauties of 
imagination or expression, which, if joined to passion, give it such exquisite 
entertainment. The impulse or vehemence, arising from sorrow, compassion, 
indignation, receives a new direction from the sentiments of beauty. The latter, 
being the predominant emotion, seize the whole mind, and convert the former into 
themselves, at least tincture them so strongly as totally to alter their nature. 
And the soul, being, at the same time, rouzed by passion, and charmed by 
eloquence, feels on the whole a strong movement, which is altogether delightful.
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The same principle takes place in tragedy; with this addition, that tragedy is 
an imitation; and imitation is always of itself agreeable. This circumstance 
serves still farther to smooth the motions of passion, and convert the whole 
feeling into one uniform and strong enjoyment. Objects of the greatest terror 
and distress please in painting, and please more than the most beautiful 
objects, that appear calm and indifferent.†2 The affection, rouzing the mind, 
excites a large stock of spirit and vehemence; which is all transformed into 
pleasure by the force of the prevailing movement. It is thus the fiction of 
tragedy softens the passion, by an infusion of a new feeling, not merely by 
weakening or diminishing the sorrow. You may by degrees weaken a real sorrow, 
till it totally disappears; yet in none of its gradations will it ever give 
pleasure; except, perhaps, by accident, to a man sunk under lethargic indolence, 
whom it rouzes from that languid state.
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To confirm this theory, it will be sufficient to produce other instances, where 
the subordinate movement is converted into the predominant, and gives force to 
it, though of a different, and even sometimes though of a contrary nature.
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Novelty naturally rouzes the mind, and attracts our attention; and the 
movements, which it causes, are always converted into any passion, belonging to 
the object, and join their force to it. Whether an event excite joy or sorrow, 
pride or shame, anger or good-will, it is sure to produce a stronger affection, 
when new or unusual. And though novelty of itself be agreeable, it fortifies the 
painful, as well as agreeable passions.
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Had you any intention to move a person extremely by the narration of any event, 
the best method of encreasing its effect would be artfully to delay informing 
him of it, and first to excite his curiosity and impatience before you let him 
into the secret. This is the artifice practised by IAGO in the famous scene of 
SHAKESPEARE; and every spectator is sensible, that OTHELLO'S jealousy acquires 
additional force from his preceding impatience, and that the subordinate passion 
is here readily transformed into the predominant one.
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Difficulties encrease passions of every kind; and by rouzing our attention, and 
exciting our active powers, they produce an emotion, which nourishes the 
prevailing affection.
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Parents commonly love that child most, whose sickly infirm frame of body has 
occasioned them the greatest pains, trouble, and anxiety in rearing him. The 
agreeable sentiment of affection here acquires force from sentiments of 
uneasiness.
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Nothing endears so much a friend as sorrow for his death. The pleasure of his 
company has not so powerful an influence.
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Jealousy is a painful passion; yet without some share of it, the agreeable 
affection of love has difficulty to subsist in its full force and violence. 
Absence is also a great source of complaint among lovers, and gives them the 
greatest uneasiness: Yet nothing is more favourable to their mutual passion than 
short intervals of that kind. And if long intervals often prove fatal, it is 
only because, through time, men are accustomed to them, and they cease to give 
uneasiness. Jealousy and absence in love compose the dolce peccante of the 
ITALIANS, which they suppose so essential to all pleasure.
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There is a fine observation of the elder PLINY, which illustrates the principle 
here insisted on. It is very remarkable, says he, that the last works of 
celebrated artists, which they left imperfect, are always the most prized, such 
as the IRIS of ARISTIDES, the TYNDARIDES of NICOMACHUS, the MEDEA of TIMOMACHUS, 
and the VENUS of APELLES. These are valued even above the finished productions: 
The broken lineaments of the piece, and the half-formed idea of the painter are 
carefully studied; and our very grief for that curious hand, which had been 
stopped by death, is an additional encrease to our pleasure.†3
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These instances (and many more might be collected) are sufficient to afford us 
some insight into the analogy of nature, and to show us, that the pleasure, 
which poets, orators, and musicians give us, by exciting grief, sorrow, 
indignation, compassion, is not so extraordinary or paradoxical, as it may at 
first sight appear. The force of imagination, the energy of expression, the 
power of numbers, the charms of imitation; all these are naturally, of 
themselves, delightful to the mind: And when the object presented lays also hold 
of some affection, the pleasure still rises upon us, by the conversion of this 
subordinate movement into that which is predominant. The passion, though, 
perhaps, naturally, and when excited by the simple appearance of a real object, 
it may be painful; yet is so smoothed, and softened, and mollified, when raised 
by the finer arts, that it affords the highest entertainment.
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To confirm this reasoning, we may observe, that if the movements of the 
imagination be not predominant above those of the passion, a contrary effect 
follows; and the former, being now subordinate, is converted into the latter, 
and still farther encreases the pain and affliction of the sufferer.
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Who could ever think of it as a good expedient for comforting an afflicted 
parent, to exaggerate, with all the force of elocution, the irreparable loss, 
which he has met with by the death of a favourite child? The more power of 
imagination and expression you here employ, the more you encrease his despair 
and affliction.
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The shame, confusion, and terror of VERRES, no doubt, rose in proportion to the 
noble eloquence and vehemence of CICERO: So also did his pain and uneasiness. 
These former passions were too strong for the pleasure arising from the beauties 
of elocution; and operated, though from the same principle, yet in a contrary 
manner, to the sympathy, compassion, and indignation of the audience.
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Lord CLARENDON, when he approaches towards the catastrophe of the royal party, 
supposes, that his narration must then become infinitely disagreeable; and he 
hurries over the king's death, without giving us one circumstance of it. He 
considers it as too horrid a scene to be contemplated with any satisfaction, or 
even without the utmost pain and aversion. He himself, as well as the readers of 
that age, were too deeply concerned in the events, and felt a pain from 
subjects, which an historian and a reader of another age would regard as the 
most pathetic and most interesting, and, by consequence, the most agreeable.
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An action, represented in tragedy, may be too bloody and atrocious. It may 
excite such movements of horror as will not soften into pleasure; and the 
greatest energy of expression, bestowed on descriptions of that nature, serves 
only to augment our uneasiness. Such is that action represented in the Ambitious 
Stepmother, where a venerable old man, raised to the height of fury and despair, 
rushes against a pillar, and striking his head upon it, besmears it all over 
with mingled brains and gore. The ENGLISH theatre abounds too much with such 
shocking images.
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Even the common sentiments of compassion require to be softened by some 
agreeable affection, in order to give a thorough satisfaction to the audience. 
The mere suffering of plaintive virtue, under the triumphant tyranny and 
oppression of vice, forms a disagreeable spectacle, and is carefully avoided by 
all masters of the drama. In order to dismiss the audience with entire 
satisfaction and contentment, the virtue must either convert itself into a noble 
courageous despair, or the vice receive its proper punishment.
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Most painters appear in this light to have been very unhappy in their subjects. 
As they wrought much for churches and convents, they have chiefly represented 
such horrible subjects as crucifixions and martyrdoms, where nothing appears but 
tortures, wounds, executions, and passive suffering, without any action or 
affection. When they turned their pencil from this ghastly mythology, they had 
commonly recourse to OVID, whose fictions, though passionate and agreeable, are 
scarcely natural or probable enough for painting.
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The same inversion of that principle, which is here insisted on, displays itself 
in common life, as in the effects of oratory and poetry. Raise so the 
subordinate passion that it becomes the predominant, it swallows up that 
affection which it before nourished and encreased. Too much jealousy 
extinguishes love: Too much difficulty renders us indifferent: Too much sickness 
and infirmity disgusts a selfish and unkind parent.
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What so disagreeable as the dismal, gloomy, disastrous stories, with which 
melancholy people entertain their companions? The uneasy passion being there 
raised alone, unaccompanied with any spirit, genius, or eloquence, conveys a 
pure uneasiness, and is attended with nothing that can soften it into pleasure 
or satisfaction.
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†1 Reflexions sur la poetique, sec. 36.
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†2 Painters make no scruple of representing distress and sorrow as well as any 
other passion: But they seem not to dwell so much on these melancholy affections 
as the poets, who, though they copy every motion of the human breast, yet pass 
quickly over the agreeable sentiments. A painter represents only one instant; 
and if that be passionate enough, it is sure to affect and delight the 
spectator: But nothing can furnish to the poet a variety of scenes and incidents 
and sentiments, except distress, terror, or anxiety. Compleat joy and 
satisfaction is attended with security, and leaves no farther room for action.
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†3 Illud vero perquam rarum ac memoria dignum, etiam suprema opera artificum, 
imperfectasque tabulas, sicut, IRIN ARISTIDIS, TYNDARIDAS NICOMACHI, MEDEAM 
TIMOACHI, & quam diximus VENEREM APELLIS, in majori admiratione esse quam 
perfecta. Quippe in iis lineamenta reliqua, ipsaeque cogitationes artificum 
spectantur, atque in lenocinio commendationis dolor est manus, cum id ageret, 
extinctae. Lib. xxxv. cap. 11.
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†a This Essay was first published in Edition L.

Essay 23. OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE
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†a ESSAY XXIII: OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE
The great variety of Taste, as well as of opinion, which prevails in the world, 
is too obvious not to have fallen under every one's observation. Men of the most 
confined knowledge are able to remark a difference of taste in the narrow circle 
of their acquaintance, even where the persons have been educated under the same 
government, and have early imbibed the same prejudices. But those, who can 
enlarge their view to contemplate distant nations and remote ages, are still 
more surprized at the great inconsistence and contrariety. We are apt to call 
barbarous whatever departs widely from our own taste and apprehension: But soon 
find the epithet of reproach retorted on us. And the highest arrogance and 
self-conceit is at last startled, on observing an equal assurance on all sides, 
and scruples, amidst such a contest of sentiment, to pronounce positively in its 
own favour.
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As this variety of taste is obvious to the most careless enquirer; so will it be 
found, on examination, to be still greater in reality than in appearance. The 
sentiments of men often differ with regard to beauty and deformity of all kinds, 
even while their general discourse is the same. There are certain terms in every 
language, which import blame, and others praise; and all men, who use the same 
tongue, must agree in their application of them. Every voice is united in 
applauding elegance, propriety, simplicity, spirit in writing; and in blaming 
fustian, affectation, coldness, and a false brilliancy: But when critics come to 
particulars, this seeming unanimity vanishes; and it is found, that they had 
affixed a very different meaning to their expressions. In all matters of opinion 
and science, the case is opposite: The difference among men is there oftener 
found to lie in generals than in particulars; and to be less in reality than in 
appearance. An explanation of the terms commonly ends the controversy; and the 
disputants are surprized to find, that they had been quarrelling, while at 
bottom they agreed in their judgment.
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Those who found morality on sentiment, more than on reason, are inclined to 
comprehend ethics under the former observation, and to maintain, that, in all 
questions, which regard conduct and manners, the difference among men is really 
greater than at first sight it appears. It is indeed obvious, that writers of 
all nations and all ages concur in applauding justice, humanity, magnanimity, 
prudence, veracity; and in blaming the opposite qualities. Even poets and other 
authors, whose compositions are chiefly calculated to please the imagination, 
are yet found from HOMER down to FENELON, to inculcate the same moral precepts, 
and to bestow their applause and blame on the same virtues and vices. This great 
unanimity is usually ascribed to the influence of plain reason; which, in all 
these cases, maintains similar sentiments in all men, and prevents those 
controversies, to which the abstract sciences are so much exposed. So far as the 
unanimity is real, this account may be admitted as satisfactory: But we must 
also allow that some part of the seeming harmony in morals may be accounted for 
from the very nature of language. The word virtue, with its equivalent in every 
tongue, implies praise; as that of vice does blame: And no one, without the most 
obvious and grossest impropriety, could affix reproach to a term, which in 
general acceptation is understood in a good sense; or bestow applause, where the 
idiom requires disapprobation. HOMER'S general precepts, where he delivers any 
such, will never be controverted; but it is obvious, that, when he draws 
particular pictures of manners, and represents heroism in ACHILLES and prudence 
in ULYSSES, he intermixes a much greater degree of ferocity in the former, and 
of cunning and fraud in the latter, than FENELON would admit of. The sage 
ULYSSES in the GREEK poet seems to delight in lies and fictions, and often 
employs them without any necessity or even advantage: But his more scrupulous 
son, in the FRENCH epic writer, exposes himself to the most imminent perils, 
rather than depart from the most exact line of truth and veracity.
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The admirers and followers of the ALCORAN insist on the excellent moral precepts 
interspersed throughout that wild and absurd performance. But it is to be 
supposed, that the ARABIC words, which correspond to the ENGLISH, equity, 
justice, temperance, meekness, charity, were such as, from the constant use of 
that tongue, must always be taken in a good sense; and it would have argued the 
greatest ignorance, not of morals, but of language, to have mentioned them with 
any epithets, besides those of applause and approbation. But would we know, 
whether the pretended prophet had really attained a just sentiment of morals? 
Let us attend to his narration; and we shall soon find, that he bestows praise 
on such instances of treachery, inhumanity, cruelty, revenge, bigotry, as are 
utterly incompatible with civilized society. No steady rule of right seems there 
to be attended to; and every action is blamed or praised, so far only as it is 
beneficial or hurtful to the true believers.
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The merit of delivering true general precepts in ethics is indeed very small. 
Whoever recommends any moral virtues, really does no more than is implied in the 
terms themselves. That people, who invented the word charity, and used it in a 
good sense, inculcated more clearly and much more efficaciously, the precept, be 
charitable, than any pretended legislator or prophet, who should insert such a 
maxim in his writings. Of all expressions, those, which, together with their 
other meaning, imply a degree either of blame or approbation, are the least 
liable to be perverted or mistaken.
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It is natural for us to seek a Standard of Taste; a rule, by which the various 
sentiments of men may be reconciled; at least, a decision, afforded, confirming 
one sentiment, and condemning another.
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There is a species of philosophy, which cuts off all hopes of success in such an 
attempt, and represents the impossibility of ever attaining any standard of 
taste. The difference, it is said, is very wide between judgment and sentiment. 
All sentiment is right; because sentiment has a reference to nothing beyond 
itself, and is always real, wherever a man is conscious of it. But all 
determinations of the understanding are not right; because they have a reference 
to something beyond themselves, to wit, real matter of fact; and are not always 
conformable to that standard. Among a thousand different opinions which 
different men may entertain of the same subject, there is one, and but one, that 
is just and true; and the only difficulty is to fix and ascertain it. On the 
contrary, a thousand different sentiments, excited by the same object, are all 
right: Because no sentiment represents what is really in the object. It only 
marks a certain conformity or relation between the object and the organs or 
faculties of the mind; and if that conformity did not really exist, the 
sentiment could never possibly have being. Beauty is no quality in things 
themselves: It exists merely in the mind which contemplates them; and each mind 
perceives a different beauty. One person may even perceive deformity, where 
another is sensible of beauty; and every individual ought to acquiesce in his 
own sentiment, without pretending to regulate those of others. To seek the real 
beauty, or real deformity, is as fruitless an enquiry, as to pretend to 
ascertain the real sweet or real bitter. According to the disposition of the 
organs, the same object may be both sweet and bitter; and the proverb has justly 
determined it to be fruitless to dispute concerning tastes. It is very natural, 
and even quite necessary, to extend this axiom to mental, as well as bodily 
taste; and thus common sense, which is so often at variance with philosophy, 
especially with the sceptical kind, is found, in one instance at least, to agree 
in pronouncing the same decision.
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But though this axiom, by passing into a proverb, seems to have attained the 
sanction of common sense; there is certainly a species of common sense which 
opposes it, at least serves to modify and restrain it. Whoever would assert an 
equality of genius and elegance between OGILBY and MILTON, or BUNYANS and 
ADDISON, would be thought to defend no less an extravagance, than if he had 
maintained a mole-hill to be as high as TENERIFFE, or a pond as extensive as the 
ocean. Though there may be found persons, who give the preference to the former 
authors; no one pays attention to such a taste; and we pronounce without scruple 
the sentiment of these pretended critics to be absurd and ridiculous. The 
principle of the natural equality of tastes is then totally forgot, and while we 
admit it on some occasions, where the objects seem near an equality, it appears 
an extravagant paradox, or rather a palpable absurdity, where objects so 
disproportioned are compared together.
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It is evident that none of the rules of composition are fixed by reasonings a 
priori, or can be esteemed abstract conclusions of the understanding, from 
comparing those habitudes and relations of ideas, which are eternal and 
immutable. Their foundation is the same with that of all the practical sciences, 
experience; nor are they any thing but general observations, concerning what has 
been universally found to please in all countries and in all ages. Many of the 
beauties of poetry and even of eloquence are founded on falsehood and fiction, 
on hyperboles, metaphors, and an abuse or perversion of terms from their natural 
meaning. To check the sallies of the imagination, and to reduce every expression 
to geometrical truth and exactness, would be the most contrary to the laws of 
criticism; because it would produce a work, which, by universal experience, has 
been found the most insipid and disagreeable. But though poetry can never submit 
to exact truth, it must be confined by rules of art, discovered to the author 
either by genius or observation. If some negligent or irregular writers have 
pleased, they have not pleased by their transgressions of rule or order, but in 
spite of these transgressions: They have possessed other beauties, which were 
conformable to just criticism; and the force of these beauties has been able to 
overpower censure, and give the mind a satisfaction superior to the disgust 
arising from the blemishes. ARIOSTO pleases; but not by his monstrous and 
improbable fictions, by his bizarre mixture of the serious and comic styles, by 
the want of coherence in his stories, or by the continual interruptions of his 
narration. He charms by the force and clearness of his expression, by the 
readiness and variety of his inventions, and by his natural pictures of the 
passions, especially those of the gay and amorous kind: And however his faults 
may diminish our satisfaction, they are not able entirely to destroy it. Did our 
pleasure really arise from those parts of his poem, which we denominate faults, 
this would be no objection to criticism in general: It would only be an 
objection to those particular rules of criticism, which would establish such 
circumstances to be faults, and would represent them as universally blameable. 
If they are found to please, they cannot be faults; let the pleasure, which they 
produce, be ever so unexpected and unaccountable.
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But though all the general rules of art are founded only on experience and on 
the observation of the common sentiments of human nature, we must not imagine, 
that, on every occasion, the feelings of men will be conformable to these rules. 
Those finer emotions of the mind are of a very tender and delicate nature, and 
require the concurrence of many favourable circumstances to make them play with 
facility and exactness, according to their general and established principles. 
The least exterior hindrance to such small springs, or the least internal 
disorder, disturbs their motion, and confounds the operation of the whole 
machine. When we would make an experiment of this nature, and would try the 
force of any beauty or deformity, we must choose with care a proper time and 
place, and bring the fancy to a suitable situation and disposition. A perfect 
serenity of mind, a recollection of thought, a due attention to the object; if 
any of these circumstances be wanting, our experiment will be fallacious, and we 
shall be unable to judge of the catholic and universal beauty. The relation, 
which nature has placed between the form and the sentiment, will at least be 
more obscure; and it will require greater accuracy to trace and discern it. We 
shall be able to ascertain its influence not so much from the operation of each 
particular beauty, as from the durable admiration, which attends those works, 
that have survived all the caprices of mode and fashion, all the mistakes of 
ignorance and envy.
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The same HOMER, who pleased at ATHENS and ROME two thousand years ago, is still 
admired at PARIS and at LONDON. All the changes of climate, government, 
religion, and language, have not been able to obscure his glory. Authority or 
prejudice may give a temporary vogue to a bad poet or orator; but his reputation 
will never be durable or general. When his compositions are examined by 
posterity or by foreigners, the enchantment is dissipated, and his faults appear 
in their true colours. On the contrary, a real genius, the longer his works 
endure, and the more wide they are spread, the more sincere is the admiration 
which he meets with. Envy and jealousy have too much place in a narrow circle; 
and even familiar acquaintance with his person may diminish the applause due to 
his performances: But when these obstructions are removed, the beauties, which 
are naturally fitted to excite agreeable sentiments, immediately display their 
energy; and while the world endures, they maintain their authority over the 
minds of men.
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It appears then, that, amidst all the variety and caprice of taste, there are 
certain general principles of approbation or blame, whose influence a careful 
eye may trace in all operations of the mind. Some particular forms or qualities, 
from the original structure of the internal fabric, are calculated to please, 
and others to displease; and if they fail of their effect in any particular 
instance, it is from some apparent defect or imperfection in the organ. A man in 
a fever would not insist on his palate as able to decide concerning flavours; 
nor would one, affected with the jaundice, pretend to give a verdict with regard 
to colours. In each creature, there is a sound and a defective state; and the 
former alone can be supposed to afford us a true standard of taste and 
sentiment. If, in the sound state of the organ, there be an entire or a 
considerable uniformity of sentiment among men, we may thence derive an idea of 
the perfect beauty; in like manner as the appearance of objects in day-light, to 
the eye of a man in health, is denominated their true and real colour, even 
while colour is allowed to be merely a phantasm of the senses.
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Many and frequent are the defects in the internal organs, which prevent or 
weaken the influence of those general principles, on which depends our sentiment 
of beauty or deformity. Though some objects, by the structure of the mind, be 
naturally calculated to give pleasure, it is not to be expected, that in every 
individual the pleasure will be equally felt. Particular incidents and 
situations occur, which either throw a false light on the objects, or hinder the 
true from conveying to the imagination the proper sentiment and perception.
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One obvious cause, why many feel not the proper sentiment of beauty, is the want 
of that delicacy of imagination, which is requisite to convey a sensibility of 
those finer emotions. This delicacy every one pretends to: Every one talks of 
it; and would reduce every kind of taste or sentiment to its standard. But as 
our intention in this essay is to mingle some light of the understanding with 
the feelings of sentiment, it will be proper to give a more accurate definition 
of delicacy, than has hitherto been attempted. And not to draw our philosophy 
from too profound a source, we shall have recourse to a noted story in DON 
QUIXOTE.
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It is with good reason, says SANCHO to the squire with the great nose, that I 
pretend to have a judgment in wine: This is a quality hereditary in our family. 
Two of my kinsmen were once called to give their opinion of a hogshead, which 
was supposed to be excellent, being old and of a good vintage. One of them 
tastes it; considers it; and after mature reflection pronounces the wine to be 
good, were it not for a small taste of leather, which he perceived in it. The 
other, after using the same precautions, gives also his verdict in favour of the 
wine; but with the reserve of a taste of iron, which he could easily 
distinguish. You cannot imagine how much they were both ridiculed for their 
judgment. But who laughed in the end? On emptying the hogshead, there was found 
at the bottom, an old key with a leathern thong tied to it.
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The great resemblance between mental and bodily taste will easily teach us to 
apply this story. Though it be certain, that beauty and deformity, more than 
sweet and bitter, are not qualities in objects, but belong entirely to the 
sentiment, internal or external; it must be allowed, that there are certain 
qualities in objects, which are fitted by nature to produce those particular 
feelings. Now as these qualities may be found in a small degree, or may be mixed 
and confounded with each other, it often happens, that the taste is not affected 
with such minute qualities, or is not able to distinguish all the particular 
flavours, amidst the disorder, in which they are presented. Where the organs are 
so fine, as to allow nothing to escape them; and at the same time so exact as to 
perceive every ingredient in the composition: This we call delicacy of taste, 
whether we employ these terms in the literal or metaphorical sense. Here then 
the general rules of beauty are of use; being drawn from established models, and 
from the observation of what pleases or displeases, when presented singly and in 
a high degree: And if the same qualities, in a continued composition and in a 
smaller degree, affect not the organs with a sensible delight or uneasiness, we 
exclude the person from all pretensions to this delicacy. To produce these 
general rules or avowed patterns of composition is like finding the key with the 
leathern thong; which justified the verdict of SANCHO'S kinsmen, and confounded 
those pretended judges who had condemned them. Though the hogshead had never 
been emptied, the taste of the one was still equally delicate, and that of the 
other equally dull and languid: But it would have been more difficult to have 
proved the superiority of the former, to the conviction of every by-stander. In 
like manner, though the beauties of writing had never been methodized, or 
reduced to general principles; though no excellent models had ever been 
acknowledged; the different degrees of taste would still have subsisted, and the 
judgment of one man been preferable to that of another; but it would not have 
been so easy to silence the bad critic, who might always insist upon his 
particular sentiment, and refuse to submit to his antagonist. But when we show 
him an avowed principle of art; when we illustrate this principle by examples, 
whose operation, from his own particular taste, he acknowledges to be 
conformable to the principle; when we prove, that the same principle may be 
applied to the present case, where he did not perceive or feel its influence: He 
must conclude, upon the whole, that the fault lies in himself, and that he wants 
the delicacy, which is requisite to make him sensible of every beauty and every 
blemish, in any composition or discourse.
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It is acknowledged to be the perfection of every sense or faculty, to perceive 
with exactness its most minute objects, and allow nothing to escape its notice 
and observation. The smaller the objects are, which become sensible to the eye, 
the finer is that organ, and the more elaborate its make and composition. A good 
palate is not tried by strong flavours; but by a mixture of small ingredients, 
where we are still sensible of each part, notwithstanding its minuteness and its 
confusion with the rest. In like manner, a quick and acute perception of beauty 
and deformity must be the perfection of our mental taste; nor can a man be 
satisfied with himself while he suspects, that any excellence or blemish in a 
discourse has passed him unobserved. In this case, the perfection of the man, 
and the perfection of the sense or feeling, are found to be united. A very 
delicate palate, on many occasions, may be a great inconvenience both to a man 
himself and to his friends: But a delicate taste of wit or beauty must always be 
a desirable quality; because it is the source of all the finest and most 
innocent enjoyments, of which human nature is susceptible. In this decision the 
sentiments of all mankind are agreed. Wherever you can ascertain a delicacy of 
taste, it is sure to meet with approbation; and the best way of ascertaining it 
is to appeal to those models and principles, which have been established by the 
uniform consent and experience of nations and ages.
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But though there be naturally a wide difference in point of delicacy between one 
person and another, nothing tends further to encrease and improve this talent, 
than practice in a particular art, and the frequent survey or contemplation of a 
particular species of beauty. When objects of any kind are first presented to 
the eye or imagination, the sentiment, which attends them, is obscure and 
confused; and the mind is, in a great measure, incapable of pronouncing 
concerning their merits or defects. The taste cannot perceive the several 
excellencies of the performance; much less distinguish the particular character 
of each excellency, and ascertain its quality and degree. If it pronounce the 
whole in general to be beautiful or deformed, it is the utmost that can be 
expected; and even this judgment, a person, so unpractised, will be apt to 
deliver with great hesitation and reserve. But allow him to acquire experience 
in those objects, his feeling becomes more exact and nice: He not only perceives 
the beauties and defects of each part, but marks the distinguishing species of 
each quality, and assigns it suitable praise or blame. A clear and distinct 
sentiment attends him through the whole survey of the objects; and he discerns 
that very degree and kind of approbation or displeasure, which each part is 
naturally fitted to produce. The mist dissipates, which seemed formerly to hang 
over the object: The organ acquires greater perfection in its operations; and 
can pronounce, without danger of mistake, concerning the merits of every 
performance. In a word, the same address and dexterity, which practice gives to 
the execution of any work, is also acquired by the same means, in the judging of 
it.
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So advantageous is practice to the discernment of beauty, that, before we can 
give judgment on any work of importance, it will even be requisite, that that 
very individual performance be more than once perused by us, and be surveyed in 
different lights with attention and deliberation. There is a flutter or hurry of 
thought which attends the first perusal of any piece, and which confounds the 
genuine sentiment of beauty. The relation of the parts is not discerned: The 
true characters of style are little distinguished: The several perfections and 
defects seem wrapped up in a species of confusion, and present themselves 
indistinctly to the imagination. Not to mention, that there is a species of 
beauty, which, as it is florid and superficial, pleases at first; but being 
found incompatible with a just expression either of reason or passion, soon 
palls upon the taste, and is then rejected with disdain, at least rated at a 
much lower value.
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It is impossible to continue in the practice of contemplating any order of 
beauty, without being frequently obliged to form comparisons between the several 
species and degrees of excellence, and estimating their proportion to each 
other. A man, who has had no opportunity of comparing the different kinds of 
beauty, is indeed totally unqualified to pronounce an opinion with regard to any 
object presented to him. By comparison alone we fix the epithets of praise or 
blame, and learn how to assign the due degree of each. The coarsest daubing 
contains a certain lustre of colours and exactness of imitation, which are so 
far beauties, and would affect the mind of a peasant or Indian with the highest 
admiration. The most vulgar ballads are not entirely destitute of harmony or 
nature; and none but a person, familiarized to superior beauties, would 
pronounce their numbers harsh, or narration uninteresting. A great inferiority 
of beauty gives pain to a person conversant in the highest excellence of the 
kind, and is for that reason pronounced a deformity: As the most finished 
object, with which we are acquainted, is naturally supposed to have reached the 
pinnacle of perfection, and to be entitled to the highest applause. One 
accustomed to see, and examine, and weigh the several performances, admired in 
different ages and nations, can alone rate the merits of a work exhibited to his 
view, and assign its proper rank among the productions of genius.
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But to enable a critic the more fully to execute this undertaking, he must 
preserve his mind free from all prejudice, and allow nothing to enter into his 
consideration, but the very object which is submitted to his examination. We may 
observe, that every work of art, in order to produce its due effect on the mind, 
must be surveyed in a certain point of view, and cannot be fully relished by 
persons, whose situation, real or imaginary, is not conformable to that which is 
required by the performance. An orator addresses himself to a particular 
audience, and must have a regard to their particular genius, interests, 
opinions, passions, and prejudices; otherwise he hopes in vain to govern their 
resolutions, and inflame their affections. Should they even have entertained 
some prepossessions against him, however unreasonable, he must not overlook this 
disadvantage; but, before he enters upon the subject, must endeavour to 
conciliate their affection, and acquire their good graces. A critic of a 
different age or nation, who should peruse this discourse, must have all these 
circumstances in his eye, and must place himself in the same situation as the 
audience, in order to form a true judgment of the oration. In like manner, when 
any work is addressed to the public, though I should have a friendship or enmity 
with the author, I must depart from this situation; and considering myself as a 
man in general, forget, if possible, my individual being and my peculiar 
circumstances. A person influenced by prejudice, complies not with this 
condition; but obstinately maintains his natural position, without placing 
himself in that point of view, which the performance supposes. If the work be 
addressed to persons of a different age or nation, he makes no allowance for 
their peculiar views and prejudices; but, full of the manners of his own age and 
country, rashly condemns what seemed admirable in the eyes of those for whom 
alone the discourse was calculated. If the work be executed for the public, he 
never sufficiently enlarges his comprehension, or forgets his interest as a 
friend or enemy, as a rival or commentator. By this means, his sentiments are 
perverted; nor have the same beauties and blemishes the same influence upon him, 
as if he had imposed a proper violence on his imagination, and had forgotten 
himself for a moment. So far his taste evidently departs from the true standard; 
and of consequence loses all credit and authority.
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It is well known, that in all questions, submitted to the understanding, 
prejudice is destructive of sound judgment, and perverts all operations of the 
intellectual faculties: It is no less contrary to good taste; nor has it less 
influence to corrupt our sentiment of beauty. It belongs to good sense to check 
its influence in both cases; and in this respect, as well as in many others, 
reason, if not an essential part of taste, is at least requisite to the 
operations of this latter faculty. In all the nobler productions of genius, 
there is a mutual relation and correspondence of parts; nor can either the 
beauties or blemishes be perceived by him, whose thought is not capacious enough 
to comprehend all those parts, and compare them with each other, in order to 
perceive the consistence and uniformity of the whole. Every work of art has also 
a certain end or purpose, for which it is calculated; and is to be deemed more 
or less perfect, as it is more or less fitted to attain this end. The object of 
eloquence is to persuade, of history to instruct, of poetry to please by means 
of the passions and the imagination. These ends we must carry constantly in our 
view, when we peruse any performance; and we must be able to judge how far the 
means employed are adapted to their respective purposes. Besides, every kind of 
composition, even the most poetical, is nothing but a chain of propositions and 
reasonings; not always, indeed, the justest and most exact, but still plausible 
and specious, however disguised by the colouring of the imagination. The persons 
introduced in tragedy and epic poetry, must be represented as reasoning, and 
thinking, and concluding, and acting, suitably to their character and 
circumstances; and without judgment, as well as taste and invention, a poet can 
never hope to succeed in so delicate an undertaking. Not to mention, that the 
same excellence of faculties which contributes to the improvement of reason, the 
same clearness of conception, the same exactness of distinction, the same 
vivacity of apprehension, are essential to the operations of true taste, and are 
its infallible concomitants. It seldom, or never happens, that a man of sense, 
who has experience in any art, cannot judge of its beauty; and it is no less 
rare to meet with a man who has a just taste without a sound understanding.
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Thus, though the principles of taste be universal, and nearly, if not entirely 
the same in all men; yet few are qualified to give judgment on any work of art, 
or establish their own sentiment as the standard of beauty. The organs of 
internal sensation are seldom so perfect as to allow the general principles 
their full play, and produce a feeling correspondent to those principles. They 
either labour under some defect, or are vitiated by some disorder; and by that 
means, excite a sentiment, which may be pronounced erroneous. When the critic 
has no delicacy, he judges without any distinction, and is only affected by the 
grosser and more palpable qualities of the object: The finer touches pass 
unnoticed and disregarded. Where he is not aided by practice, his verdict is 
attended with confusion and hesitation. Where no comparison has been employed, 
the most frivolous beauties, such as rather merit the name of defects, are the 
object of his admiration. Where he lies under the influence of prejudice, all 
his natural sentiments are perverted. Where good sense is wanting, he is not 
qualified to discern the beauties of design and reasoning, which are the highest 
and most excellent. Under some or other of these imperfections, the generality 
of men labour; and hence a true judge in the finer arts is observed, even during 
the most polished ages, to be so rare a character: Strong sense, united to 
delicate sentiment, improved by practice, perfected by comparison, and cleared 
of all prejudice, can alone entitle critics to this valuable character; and the 
joint verdict of such, wherever they are to be found, is the true standard of 
taste and beauty.
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But where are such critics to be found? By what marks are they to be known? How 
distinguish them from pretenders? These questions are embarrassing; and seem to 
throw us back into the same uncertainty, from which, during the course of this 
essay, we have endeavoured to extricate ourselves.
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But if we consider the matter aright, these are questions of fact, not of 
sentiment. Whether any particular person be endowed with good sense and a 
delicate imagination, free from prejudice, may often be the subject of dispute, 
and be liable to great discussion and enquiry: But that such a character is 
valuable and estimable will be agreed in by all mankind. Where these doubts 
occur, men can do no more than in other disputable questions, which are 
submitted to the understanding: They must produce the best arguments, that their 
invention suggests to them; they must acknowledge a true and decisive standard 
to exist somewhere, to wit, real existence and matter of fact; and they must 
have indulgence to such as differ from them in their appeals to this standard. 
It is sufficient for our present purpose, if we have proved, that the taste of 
all individuals is not upon an equal footing, and that some men in general, 
however difficult to be particularly pitched upon, will be acknowledged by 
universal sentiment to have a preference above others.
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But in reality the difficulty of finding, even in particulars, the standard of 
taste, is not so great as it is represented. Though in speculation, we may 
readily avow a certain criterion in science and deny it in sentiment, the matter 
is found in practice to be much more hard to ascertain in the former case than 
in the latter. Theories of abstract philosophy, systems of profound theology, 
have prevailed during one age: In a successive period, these have been 
universally exploded: Their absurdity has been detected: Other theories and 
systems have supplied their place, which again gave place to their successors: 
And nothing has been experienced more liable to the revolutions of chance and 
fashion than these pretended decisions of science. The case is not the same with 
the beauties of eloquence and poetry. Just expressions of passion and nature are 
sure, after a little time, to gain public applause, which they maintain for 
ever. ARISTOTLE, and PLATO, and EPICURUS, and DESCARTES, may successively yield 
to each other: But TERENCE and VIRGIL maintain an universal, undisputed empire 
over the minds of men. The abstract philosophy of CICERO has lost its credit: 
The vehemence of his oratory is still the object of our admiration.
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Though men of delicate taste be rare, they are easily to be distinguished in 
society, by the soundness of their understanding and the superiority of their 
faculties above the rest of mankind. The ascendant, which they acquire, gives a 
prevalence to that lively approbation, with which they receive any productions 
of genius, and renders it generally predominant. Many men, when left to 
themselves, have but a faint and dubious perception of beauty, who yet are 
capable of relishing any fine stroke, which is pointed out to them. Every 
convert to the admiration of the real poet or orator is the cause of some new 
conversion. And though prejudices may prevail for a time, they never unite in 
celebrating any rival to the true genius, but yield at last to the force of 
nature and just sentiment. Thus, though a civilized nation may easily be 
mistaken in the choice of their admired philosopher, they never have been found 
long to err, in their affection for a favourite epic or tragic author.
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But notwithstanding all our endeavours to fix a standard of taste, and reconcile 
the discordant apprehensions of men, there still remain two sources of 
variation, which are not sufficient indeed to confound all the boundaries of 
beauty and deformity, but will often serve to produce a difference in the 
degrees of our approbation or blame. The one is the different humours of 
particular men; the other, the particular manners and opinions of our age and 
country. The general principles of taste are uniform in human nature: Where men 
vary in their judgments, some defect or perversion in the faculties may commonly 
be remarked; proceeding either from prejudice, from want of practice, or want of 
delicacy; and there is just reason for approving one taste, and condemning 
another. But where there is such a diversity in the internal frame or external 
situation as is entirely blameless on both sides, and leaves no room to give one 
the preference above the other; in that case a certain degree of diversity in 
judgment is unavoidable, and we seek in vain for a standard, by which we can 
reconcile the contrary sentiments.
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A young man, whose passions are warm, will be more sensibly touched with amorous 
and tender images, than a man more advanced in years, who takes pleasure in 
wise, philosophical reflections concerning the conduct of life and moderation of 
the passions. At twenty, OVID may be the favourite author; HORACE at forty; and 
perhaps TACITUS at fifty. Vainly would we, in such cases, endeavour to enter 
into the sentiments of others, and divest ourselves of those propensities, which 
are natural to us. We choose our favourite author as we do our friend, from a 
conformity of humour and disposition. Mirth or passion, sentiment or reflection; 
whichever of these most predominates in our temper, it gives us a peculiar 
sympathy with the writer who resembles us.
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One person is more pleased with the sublime; another with the tender; a third 
with raillery. One has a strong sensibility to blemishes, and is extremely 
studious of correctness: Another has a more lively feeling of beauties, and 
pardons twenty absurdities and defects for one elevated or pathetic stroke. The 
ear of this man is entirely turned towards conciseness and energy; that man is 
delighted with a copious, rich, and harmonious expression. Simplicity is 
affected by one; ornament by another. Comedy, tragedy, satire, odes, have each 
its partizans, who prefer that particular species of writing to all others. It 
is plainly an error in a critic, to confine his approbation to one species or 
style of writing, and condemn all the rest. But it is almost impossible not to 
feel a predilection for that which suits our particular turn and disposition. 
Such preferences are innocent and unavoidable, and can never reasonably be the 
object of dispute, because there is no standard, by which they can be decided.
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For a like reason, we are more pleased, in the course of our reading, with 
pictures and characters, that resemble objects which are found in our own age or 
country, than with those which describe a different set of customs. It is not 
without some effort, that we reconcile ourselves to the simplicity of ancient 
manners, and behold princesses carrying water from the spring, and kings and 
heroes dressing their own victuals. We may allow in general, that the 
representation of such manners is no fault in the author, nor deformity in the 
piece; but we are not so sensibly touched with them. For this reason, comedy is 
not easily transferred from one age or nation to another. A FRENCHMAN or 
ENGLISHMAN is not pleased with the ANDRIA of TERENCE, or CLITIA of MACHIAVEL; 
where the fine lady, upon whom all the play turns, never once appears to the 
spectators, but is always kept behind the scenes, suitably to the reserved 
humour of the ancient GREEKS and modern ITALIANS. A man of learning and 
reflection can make allowance for these peculiarities of manners; but a common 
audience can never divest themselves so far of their usual ideas and sentiments, 
as to relish pictures which no wise resemble them.
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But here there occurs a reflection, which may, perhaps, be useful in examining 
the celebrated controversy concerning ancient and modern learning; where we 
often find the one side excusing any seeming absurdity in the ancients from the 
manners of the age, and the other refusing to admit this excuse, or at least, 
admitting it only as an apology for the author, not for the performance. In my 
opinion, the proper boundaries in this subject have seldom been fixed between 
the contending parties. Where any innocent peculiarities of manners are 
represented, such as those above mentioned, they ought certainly to be admitted; 
and a man, who is shocked with them, gives an evident proof of false delicacy 
and refinement. The poet's monument more durable than brass, must fall to the 
ground like common brick or clay, were men to make no allowance for the 
continual revolutions of manners and customs, and would admit of nothing but 
what was suitable to the prevailing fashion. Must we throw aside the pictures of 
our ancestors, because of their ruffs and fardingales? But where the ideas of 
morality and decency alter from one age to another, and where vicious manners 
are described, without being marked with the proper characters of blame and 
disapprobation; this must be allowed to disfigure the poem, and to be a real 
deformity. I cannot, nor is it proper I should, enter into such sentiments; and 
however I may excuse the poet, on account of the manners of his age, I never can 
relish the composition. The want of humanity and of decency, so conspicuous in 
the characters drawn by several of the ancient poets, even sometimes by HOMER 
and the GREEK tragedians, diminishes considerably the merit of their noble 
performances, and gives modern authors an advantage over them. We are not 
interested in the fortunes and sentiments of such rough heroes: We are 
displeased to find the limits of vice and virtue so much confounded: And 
whatever indulgence we may give to the writer on account of his prejudices, we 
cannot prevail on ourselves to enter into his sentiments, or bear an affection 
to characters, which we plainly discover to be blameable.
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The case is not the same with moral principles, as with speculative opinions of 
any kind. These are in continual flux and revolution. The son embraces a 
different system from the father. Nay, there scarcely is any man, who can boast 
of great constancy and uniformity in this particular. Whatever speculative 
errors may be found in the polite writings of any age or country, they detract 
but little from the value of those compositions. There needs but a certain turn 
of thought or imagination to make us enter into all the opinions, which then 
prevailed, and relish the sentiments or conclusions derived from them. But a 
very violent effort is requisite to change our judgment of manners, and excite 
sentiments of approbation or blame, love or hatred, different from those to 
which the mind from long custom has been familiarized. And where a man is 
confident of the rectitude of that moral standard, by which he judges, he is 
justly jealous of it, and will not pervert the sentiments of his heart for a 
moment, in complaisance to any writer whatsoever.
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Of all speculative errors, those, which regard religion, are the most excusable 
in compositions of genius; nor is it ever permitted to judge of the civility or 
wisdom of any people, or even of single persons, by the grossness or refinement 
of their theological principles. The same good sense, that directs men in the 
ordinary occurrences of life, is not hearkened to in religious matters, which 
are supposed to be placed altogether above the cognizance of human reason. On 
this account, all the absurdities of the pagan system of theology must be 
overlooked by every critic, who would pretend to form a just notion of ancient 
poetry; and our posterity, in their turn, must have the same indulgence to their 
forefathers. No religious principles can ever be imputed as a fault to any poet, 
while they remain merely principles, and take not such strong possession of his 
heart, as to lay him under the imputation of bigotry or superstition. Where that 
happens, they confound the sentiments of morality, and alter the natural 
boundaries of vice and virtue. They are therefore eternal blemishes, according 
to the principle abovementioned; nor are the prejudices and false opinions of 
the age sufficient to justify them.
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It is essential to the ROMAN catholic religion to inspire a violent hatred of 
every other worship, and to represent all pagans, mahometans, and heretics as 
the objects of divine wrath and vengeance. Such sentiments, though they are in 
reality very blameable, are considered as virtues by the zealots of that 
communion, and are represented in their tragedies and epic poems as a kind of 
divine heroism. This bigotry has disfigured two very fine tragedies of the 
FRENCH theatre, POLIEUCTE and ATHALIA; where an intemperate zeal for particular 
modes of worship is set off with all the pomp imaginable, and forms the 
predominant character of the heroes. "What is this," says the sublime JOAD to 
JOSABET, finding her in discourse with MATHAN, the priest of BAAL, "Does the 
daughter of DAVID speak to this traitor? Are you not afraid, lest the earth 
should open and pour forth flames to devour you both? Or lest these holy walls 
should fall and crush you together? What is his purpose? Why comes that enemy of 
God hither to poison the air, which we breathe, with his horrid presence?" Such 
sentiments are received with great applause on the theatre of PARIS; but at 
LONDON the spectators would be full as much pleased to hear ACHILLES tell 
AGAMEMNON, that he was a dog in his forehead, and a deer in his heart, or 
JUPITER threaten JUNO with a sound drubbing, if she will not be quiet.
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RELIGIOUS principles are also a blemish in any polite composition, when they 
rise up to superstition, and intrude themselves into every sentiment, however 
remote from any connection with religion. It is no excuse for the poet, that the 
customs of his country had burthened life with so many religious ceremonies and 
observances, that no part of it was exempt from that yoke. It must for ever be 
ridiculous in PETRARCH to compare his mistress, LAURA, to JESUS CHRIST. Nor is 
it less ridiculous in that agreeable libertine, BOCCACE, very seriously to give 
thanks to GOD ALMIGHTY and the ladies, for their assistance in defending him 
against his enemies.
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†a This essay was first published in Edition L.