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  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D. D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  VOL III.

  Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.




  THE

  WORKS

  OF

  RICHARD HURD, D. D.

  LORD BISHOP OF WORCESTER.

  IN EIGHT VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.


  [Illustration]

  LONDON:
  PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND
  1811.




  MORAL AND POLITICAL

  DIALOGUES.

  VOL. I.




  MORAL AND POLITICAL

  DIALOGUES,

  WITH

  LETTERS

  ON

  CHIVALRY AND ROMANCE.




  SACRED TO THE MEMORY

  OF THE LATE

  RALPH ALLEN, ESQ.

  OF

  PRIOR-PARK.

[Illustration]

 SI NOBIS ANIMVM BONI VIRI LICERET INSPICERE, O QVAM PVLCHRAM FACIEM,
 QVAM SANCTAM, QVAM EX MAGNIFICO PLACIDOQVE FVLGENTEM VIDEREMVS! NEMO
 ILLVM AMABILEM, QVI NON SIMVL VENERABILEM, DICERET.

  SENECA.




CONTENTS.


  VOL. III.


  PREFACE,

  _On the Manner of writing Dialogue_.


  DIALOGUE I.

  _On Sincerity in the Commerce of the World._

  DR. MORE, MR. WALLER.


  DIALOGUE II.

  _On Retirement._

  MR. COWLEY, DR. SPRAT.


  DIALOGUE III.

  _On the Age of_ Q. ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.


  DIALOGUE IV.

  _On the Age of_ Q. ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.


  DIALOGUE V.

  _On the Constitution of the English Government._

  SIR J. MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS, BP. BURNET.


  VOL. IV.


  DIALOGUE VI.

  _On the Constitution of the English Government._

  SIR J. MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS, BP. BURNET.


  DIALOGUES VII, VIII.

  _On the Uses of Foreign Travel._

  LORD SHAFTESBURY, MR. LOCKE.


  XII LETTERS

  _On Chivalry and Romance_.




CONTENTS

OF

THE THIRD VOLUME.


                                                                    Page

  PREFACE,

  _On the Manner of writing Dialogue_.                                17


  DIALOGUE I.

  _On Sincerity in the Commerce of the World._

  DR. MORE, MR. WALLER.                                               51


  DIALOGUE II.

  _On Retirement._

  MR. COWLEY, DR. SPRAT.                                              95


  DIALOGUE III, IV.

  _On the Age of_ Q. ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.                             165


  DIALOGUE V.

  _On the Constitution of the English Government._

  SIR J. MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS, BP. BURNET.                            281




  PREFACE,

  ON

  THE MANNER

  OF WRITING DIALOGUE.




  PREFACE,

  ON THE

  MANNER OF WRITING DIALOGUE.


The former editions of these Dialogues were given without a name, and
under the fictitious person of an Editor: not, the reader may be sure,
for any purpose so silly as that of imposing on the Public; but for
reasons of another kind, which it is not difficult to apprehend.

However, these reasons, whatever they were, subsisting no longer, the
writer is now to appear in his own person; and the respect he owes to
the public makes him think it fit to bespeak their acceptance of these
volumes in another manner, than he supposed would be readily permitted
to him, under his assumed character.

I. In an age, like this, when most men seem ambitious of turning
writers, many persons may think it strange that the kind of
composition, which was chiefly in use among the masters of this
numerous and stirring family, hath been hitherto neglected.

When the ANCIENTS had any thing—

“But what,” it will be said, “always the _Ancients_? And are we never
to take a pen in hand, but the first question must still be, what our
masters, the ancients, have been pleased to dictate to us? ONE man
understands, that the ancient Ode was distinguished into several parts,
called by I know not what strange names; and then truly an English Ode
must be tricked out in the same fantastic manner. ANOTHER has heard of
a wise, yet merry, company called a Chorus, which was always singing or
preaching in the Greek Tragedies; and then, besure, nothing will serve
but we must be sung and preached to in ours. While a THIRD is smitten
with a tedious long-winded thing, which was once endured under the name
of Dialogue; and strait we have Dialogues of this formal cut, and are
told withal, that no man may presume to write them, on any other model.”

Thus the modern critic, with much complacency and even gayety—But I
resume the sentence I set out with, and observe, “WHEN THE ANCIENTS
had any thing to say to the world on the subject either of morals
or government, they generally chose the way of DIALOGUE, for the
conveyance of their instructions; as supposing they might chance to
gain a readier acceptance in this agreeable form, than any other.”

    Hæc adeo penitus curâ videre sagaci
    Otia qui studiis læti tenuere decoris,
    Inque ACADEMIA umbriferâ nitidoque LYCEO
    Fuderunt claras fœcundi pectoris artes.

Such was the address, or fancy at least, of the wise ANCIENTS.

The MODERNS, on the contrary, have appeared to reverence themselves,
or their cause, too much, to think that either stood in need of this
oblique management. No writer has the least doubt of being favourably
received in all companies, let him come upon us in what shape he will:
and, not to stand upon ceremony, when he brings so welcome a present,
as what he calls _Truth_, with him, he obtrudes it upon us in the
direct way of Dissertation.

Nobody, I suppose, objects to this practice, when important truths
indeed are to be taught, and when the abilities of the Teacher are such
as may command respect. But the case is different, when writers presume
to try their hands upon us, without these advantages. Nay, and even
with them, it can do no hurt, when the subject is proper for familiar
discourse, to throw it into this gracious and popular form.

I have said, _where the subject is proper for familiar discourse_; for
all subjects, I think, cannot, or should not be treated in this way.

It is true, the inquisitive genius of the Academic Philosophy gave
great scope to the freedom of debate. Hence the origin of the Greek
Dialogue: of which, if PLATO was not the Inventor, he was, at least,
the Model.

This sceptical humour was presently much increased; and every thing was
now disputed, not for PLATO’S reason (which was, also, his master’s)
for the sake of exposing _Falsehood_ and discovering _Truth_; but
because it was pretended that nothing could be certainly affirmed to be
either _true_ or _false_.

And, when afterwards CICERO, our other great master of Dialogue,
introduced this sort of writing into Rome, we know that, besides his
profession of the Academic Sect, now extended and indeed outraged into
absolute scepticism, the very purpose he had in philosophizing, and the
rhetorical uses to which he put his Philosophy, would determine him
very naturally to the same practice.

Thus all subjects, of what nature and importance soever, were equally
discussed in the ancient Dialogue; till matters were at length brought
to that pass, that the only end, proposed by it, was to shew the
writer’s dexterity in disputing for, or against any opinion, without
referring his disputation to any certain use or conclusion at all.

Such was the character of the ancient, and especially of the Ciceronian
Dialogue; arising out of the genius and principles of those times.

But for us to follow our masters in this licence would be, indeed, to
deserve the objected charge of _servile Imitators_; since the reasons,
that led them into it, do not subsist in our case. They disputed every
thing, because they believed nothing. We should forbear to dispute
some things, because they are such as both for their sacredness, and
certainty, no man in his senses affects to disbelieve. At least, the
Stoic BALBUS may teach us a decent reserve in one instance, _Since_,
as he observes, _it is a wicked and impious custom to dispute against
the Being, Attributes, and Providence of God, whether it be under an
assumed character, or in one’s own_[1].

Thus much I have thought fit to say, to prevent mistakes, and to shew
of what kind the subjects are which may be allowed to enter into
modern Dialogue. They are only such, as are either, in the strict sense
of the word, _not_ important, and yet afford an ingenuous pleasure
in the discussion of them; or not _so_ important as to exclude the
sceptical inconclusive air, which the decorum of polite dialogue
necessarily demands.

And, under these restrictions, we may treat a number of curious and
useful subjects, in this form. The benefit will be that which the
Ancients certainly found in this practice, and which the great master
of life finds in the general way of candour and politeness,

                  —parcentis viribus, atque
    Extenuantis eas consultò—

For, though Truth be not formally delivered in Dialogue, it may
be insinuated; and a capable writer will find means to do this so
effectually as, in discussing both sides of a question, to engage the
reader insensibly on that side, where the Truth lies.

II. But _convenience_ is not the only consideration. The NOVELTY of the
thing, itself, may well recommend it to us.

For, when every other species of composition has been tried, and men
are grown so fastidious as to receive with indifference the best
modern productions, on account of the too common form, into which they
are cast, it may seem an attempt of some merit to revive the only one,
almost, of the ancient models, which hath not yet been made cheap by
vulgar imitation.

I can imagine the reader will conceive some surprise, and, if he be not
a candid one, will perhaps express some disdain, at this pretence to
Novelty, in cultivating the _Dialogue-form_. For what, he will say, has
been more frequently aimed at in our own, and every modern language?
Has not every art, nay, every science, been taught in this way? And, if
the vulgar use of any mode of writing be enough to discredit it, can
there be room even for wit and genius to retrieve the honour of this
trite and hackneyed form?

This, no doubt, may be said; but by those who know little of the
ancient Dialogue, or who have not attended to the true manner in which
the rules of good writing require it to be composed.

We have what are called Dialogues in abundance; and the authors,
for any thing I know, might please themselves with imagining, they
had copied PLATO or CICERO. But in our language at least (and, if I
extended the observation to the other modern ones of most estimation,
I should perhaps do them no wrong) I know of nothing in the way of
Dialogue that deserves to be considered by us with such regard.

There are in English THREE Dialogues, and but Three, that are fit to be
mentioned on this occasion: all of them excellently well composed in
their way, and, it must be owned, by the very best and politest of our
writers. And had that way been a true one, I mean that which antiquity
and good criticism recommend to us, the Public had never been troubled
with this attempt from me, to introduce another.

The Dialogues I mean are, _The Moralists of Lord_ SHAFTESBURY; _Mr._
ADDISON’S _Treatise on Medals_; _and the Minute Philosopher of Bishop_
BERKELEY: and, where is the modesty, it will be said, to attempt the
Dialogue-form, if it has not succeeded in such hands?

The answer is short, and, I hope, not arrogant. These applauded persons
suffered themselves to be misled by modern practice; and with every
ability to excel in this nice and difficult composition, have written
beneath themselves, only because they did not keep up to the ancient
standard.

An essential defect runs through them all. They have taken for their
speakers, not real, but _fictitious_ characters; contrary to the
practice of the old writers; and to the infinite disadvantage of this
mode of writing in every respect.

The love of truth, they say, is so natural to the human mind, that we
expect to find the appearance of it, even in our amusements. In some
indeed, the slenderest shadow of it will suffice: in others, we require
to have the substance presented to us. In all cases, the degree of
probability is to be estimated from the nature of the work. Thus, for
instance, when a writer undertakes to instruct or entertain us in the
way of Dialogue, he obliges himself to keep up to the _idea_, at least,
of what he professes. The conversation may not have _really_ been such
as is represented; but we expect it to have all the _forms_ of reality.
We bring with us a disposition to be deceived (for we know his purpose
is not to recite historically, but to feign probably); but it looks
like too great an insult on our understandings, when the writer stands
upon no ceremony with us, and refuses to be at the expence of a little
art or management to deceive us.

Hence the probabilities, or, what is called the _decorum_, of this
composition. We ask, “Who the persons are, that are going to converse
before us?” “where and when the conversation passed?” and “by what
means the company came together?” If we are let into none of these
particulars, or, rather if a way be not found to satisfy us in all
of them, we take no interest in what remains; and give the speakers,
who in this case are but a sort of Puppets, no more credit, than the
opinion we chance to entertain of their Prompter demands from us.

On the other hand, when _such_ persons are brought into the scene as
are well known to us, and are entitled to our respect, and but so
much address employed in shewing them as may give us a colourable
pretence to suppose them really conversing together, the writer himself
disappears, and is even among the first to fall into his own delusion.
For thus CICERO himself represents the matter:

“This way of discourse,” says he, “which turns on the authority of real
persons, and those the most eminent of former times, is, I know not
how, more interesting than any other: in so much that in reading my
own Dialogue on _old age_, I am sometimes ready to conclude, in good
earnest, it is not I, but CATO himself, who is there speaking[2].”

So complete a deception, as this, requires the hand of a master. But
such CICERO was; and had it been his design to make the highest
encomium of his own Dialogues, he could not, perhaps, have done it so
well by any other circumstance.

But now this advantage is wholly lost by the introduction of
_fictitious persons_. These may do in _Comedy_; nay, they do the best
there, where _character_ only, or chiefly, is designed. In _Dialogue_,
we must have real persons, and those only: for character here is but a
secondary consideration; and there is no other way of giving weight and
authority to the conversation of the piece.

And here, again, CICERO may instruct us; who was so scrupulous on this
head that he would not put his discourse on _old age_ into the mouth
of TITHONUS, although a Greek writer of name had set him the example,
_because_, as he observes, _a fabulous person would have had no great
authority_[3]. What then would he have said of merely fancied and
_ideal_ persons, who have not so much as that shadowy existence, which
the plausibility of a current tale bestows?

When I say that _character is but a secondary consideration_ in
Dialogue, the reader sees I confine myself to that species only, which
was in use among the _ancients_, properly so called; and of which
PLATO and CICERO have left us the best models.

It is true, in later times, a great wit took upon him to extend the
province of Dialogue, and, like another Prometheus[4], (as, by an
equivocal sort of compliment, it seems, was observed of him) created a
new species; the merit of which consists in associating two things, not
naturally allied together, _The severity of Philosophic Dialogue, with
the humour of the Comic_.

But as unnatural as the alliance may seem, this sort of composition has
had its admirers. In particular, ERASMUS was so taken with LUCIAN’S
Dialogue, that he has transfused its highest graces into his own; and
employed those fine arms to better purpose against the Monks, than the
forger of them had done, against the Philosophers.

It must further be confessed, that this innovation of the Greek writer
had some countenance from the genius of the old Socratic Dialogue;
such I mean as it was in the hands of SOCRATES himself[5]; who took
his name of IRONIST from the continued humour and ridicule which runs
through his moral discourses. But, besides that the Athenian’s modest
IRONY was of another taste, and better suited to this decorum of
conversation, than the Syrian’s frontless buffoonery, there was this
further difference in the two cases. SOCRATES employed this method of
ridicule, as the only one by which he could hope to discredit those
mortal foes of reason, the SOPHISTS: LUCIAN, in mere wantonness, to
insult its best friends, the PHILOSOPHERS, and even the parent of
Philosophy, himself. The Sage would have dropped his IRONY, in the
company of the good and wise: The Rhetorician is never more pleased
than in confounding both, by his intemperate SATIRE.

However, there was likeness enough in the features of each _manner_,
to favour LUCIAN’S attempt in compounding his new Dialogue. He was not
displeased, one may suppose, to turn the comic art of SOCRATES against
himself; though he could not but know that the ablest masters of the
Socratic school employed it sparingly; and that, when the illustrious
Roman came to philosophize in the way of Dialogue, he disdained to make
any use of it at all.

In a word, as it was taken up, to serve an occasion, so it was very
properly laid aside with it. And even while the occasion lasted, this
humorous manner was far enough, as I observed, from being pushed to a
Scenic license; the great artists in this way knowing very well, that,
when SOCRATES brought Philosophy from Heaven to Earth, it was not his
purpose to expose her on the stage, but to introduce her into good
company.

And here, to note it by the way, what has been observed of the Ironic
manner of the Socratic Dialogue, is equally true of its _subtle
questioning dialectic genius_. This, too, had its rise from the
circumstances of the time, and the views of its author, who employed it
with much propriety and even elegance to entrap, in their own cobweb
nets, the minute, quibbling captious sophists. How it chanced that
this part of its character did not, also, cease with its use, but was
continued by the successors in that school, and even carried so far as
to provoke the ridicule of the wits, till, at length, it brought on the
just disgrace of the Socratic Dialogue itself, all this is the proper
subject of another inquiry.

Our concern, at present, is with LUCIAN’S Dialogue; whether he were
indeed the inventor of this species, or, after SOCRATES, only the
espouser of it.

The account, given above, that _it unites and incorporates the
several virtues of the Comic and Philosophic manner_, is in LUCIAN’S
own words[6]. Yet his Dialogue does not, as indeed it could not,
correspond exactly to this idea. CICERO thought it no easy matter to
unite _Philosophy with Politeness and Good-humour_[7]; what then would
he have said of incorporating _Philosophy, with Comic Ridicule_?

To do him justice, LUCIAN himself appears sensible enough of the
difficulty. _I have presumed_, says he, _to connect and put together
two things, not very obsequious to my design, nor disposed by any
natural sympathy to bear the society of each other_[8]. And therefore
we find him on all occasions more solicitous for the success of this
hazardous enterprise, than for the credit of his invention. Every body
was ready to acknowledge the novelty of the thing; but he had some
reason to doubt with himself, whether it were gazed at as a monster,
or admired as a just and reasonable form of composition. So that not
being able to resolve this scruple to his satisfaction, he extricates
himself, as usual, from the perplexity, by the force of his comic
humour, and concludes at length, _that he had nothing left for it but
to persevere in the choice he had once made_; that is, to preserve the
credit of his own consistency at least, if he could not prevail to
have his Dialogue accepted by the judicious reader, under the idea[9]
of a consistent _composition_.

The ingenious writer had, surely, no better way to take, in his
distress. For the two excellencies he meant to incorporate in his
Dialogue cannot, in a supreme degree of each, subsist together. The
one must be sacrificed to the other. Either the philosophic part must
give place to the dramatic; or the dramatic must withdraw, or restrain
itself at least, to give room for a just display of the philosophic.

And this, in fact, as I observed, is the case in LUCIAN’S own
Dialogues. They are highly dramatic, in which part his force lay; while
his Philosophy serves only to edge his wit, or simply to introduce
it. They have, usually, for their subject, not a QUESTION DEBATED;
but, a TENET RIDICULED, or a CHARACTER EXPOSED. In this view, they are
doubtless inimitable: I mean when he kept himself, as too frequently he
did not, to such _tenets_ or _characters_, as deserve to be treated in
this free manner.

But after all, the other species, the _serious, philosophic_ Dialogue,
is the noblest and the best. It is the _noblest_, in all views;
for the dignity of its subject, the gravity of its manner, and the
importance of its end. It is the _best_, too; I mean, it excels most in
the very truth and art of composition; as it governs itself entirely by
the rules of decorum, and gives a just and faithful image of what it
would represent: whereas the comic Dialogue, distorting, or, at least,
aggravating the features of its original, pleases at some expence
of probability; and at length attains its end but in part, for want
of _dramatic action_, the only medium through which _humour_ can be
perfectly conveyed.

Thus the serious Dialogue is absolute in itself; and fully obtains its
purpose: the humorous or characteristic, but partially; and is, at
best, the faint copy of a higher species, the _Comic Drama_.

However, the authority of LUCIAN is so great, and the manner itself so
taking, that for these reasons, but chiefly for the sake of variety,
the FIRST of the following Dialogues (and in part too, the SECOND)
pretends to be of this class.

But to return to our proper subject, THE SERIOUS OR PHILOSOPHIC
DIALOGUE.

1. I observed (and the reason now appears) that _character_ is a
subordinate consideration, in this Dialogue. The _manners_ are to be
given indeed, but sparingly, and, as it were, by accident. And this
grace (which so much embellishes a well-composed work) can only be
had by employing REAL, KNOWN, and RESPECTED speakers. Each of these
circumstances, in the choice of a speaker, is important. The _first_,
excites our curiosity: the _second_, affords an easy opportunity of
painting the manners by those slight and careless strokes, which alone
can be employed for this purpose, and which would not sufficiently mark
the characters of unknown or fictitious persons: and the _last_ gives
weight and dignity to the whole composition.

By this means, the dialogue becomes, in a high degree, natural, and,
on that account, affecting: a thousand fine and delicate allusions to
the principles, sentiments, and history of the Dialogists keep their
characters perpetually in view: we have a rule before us, by which
to estimate the pertinence and propriety of what is said: and we are
pleased to bear a part, as it were, in the conversation of such persons.

Thus the old writers of Dialogue charm us, even when their subjects are
unpleasing, and could hardly merit our attention: but when the topics
are of general and intimate concern to the reader, by being discussed
in this form, they create in him the keenest appetite; and are,
perhaps, read with a higher pleasure, than we receive from most other
compositions of literary men.

2. It being now apprehended what _persons_ are most fit to be shewn
in Dialogue, the next inquiry will be, concerning their _style or
manner of expression_. And this, in general, must be suited to the
condition and qualities of the persons themselves: that is, it must be
grave, polite, and something raised above the ordinary pitch or tone
of conversation; for, otherwise, it would not agree to the ideas we
form of the speakers, or to the regard we owe to _real_, _known_, and
_respected_ persons, seriously debating, as the philosophic dialogue
imports in the very terms, on some useful or important subject.

Thus far the case is plain enough. The conclusion flows, of itself,
from the very idea of a philosophic conversation between such men.

But as it appeared that the speaker’s _proper manners_ are to be
given, in this Dialogue, it may be thought (and, I suppose, commonly
is thought) that the speaker’s _proper style or expression_ should be
given, too.

Here the subject begins to be a little nice; and we must distinguish
between the _general cast_ of expression, and its _smaller and more
peculiar features_.

As to the _general cast or manner of speaking_, it may be well to
preserve some resemblance of it; for it results so immediately from
the speaker’s character, and sometimes makes so essential a part of
it, that the _manners_ themselves cannot, otherwise, be sufficiently
expressed.

Accordingly CICERO tells us, that, in his Dialogues of the _complete
Orator_, he had _endeavoured to shadow out_, that is, give the
outline, as it were, of the kind of eloquence, by which his chief
speakers, CRASSUS and ANTONIUS, were severally distinguished[10]. This
attention has certainly no ill effect when the _manners of speaking_,
as here, are sufficiently distinct, and generally known. It was,
besides, essentially necessary in this Dialogue, where the subject
is, of eloquence itself; and where the principal persons appeared,
and were accordingly to be represented, in the light and character of
_speakers_; that is, where their different kinds or manners of speaking
were, of course, to be expressed.

In Dialogues on other subjects, CICERO himself either neglects this
rule, or observes it with less care[11]; and this difference of conduct
is plainly justified, from the reason of the thing.

But now when the question is, of the _smaller features and more
peculiar qualities of style or expression_, it will be found that the
writer of Dialogue is under no obligation, either from the reason of
the thing, or the best authorities, to affect a resemblance of that
kind.

Authorities, I think, there are none, or none at least that deserve
to be much regarded; though I remember what has been observed of an
instance or two of this sort, in some of PLATO’S Dialogues, where his
purpose is, to _expose a character_, not to _debate a philosophic
question_: and for _the impropriety of the thing itself_, it may appear
from the following considerations.

In general, the reason, why _character_ is preserved in this Dialogue,
is, because such speakers, as are introduced in it, cannot be supposed
to converse for any time on a subject of importance without discovering
somethings of their own _peculiar manners_; though the occasion may
not be warming enough to throw them out with that distinctness and
vivacity, which we expect in the progress of a dramatic plot. But as to
the _language of conversation_, it is so much the same between persons
of education and politeness, that, whether the subject be interesting,
or otherwise, all that you can expect is that the _general cast of
expression_ will be somewhat tinctured by the _manners_, which shine
through it; but by no means that the smaller differences, the nicer
peculiarities of style, will be shewn.

Or, we may take the matter thus:

The reason, why the _general cast or kind of expression_ is different
in two speakers, is, because their _characters_ are different, too.
But _character_ has no manner of influence, in the ease and freedom of
conversation, on the _idiomatic differences_ of expression; which flow
not from the _manners_, but from some degree of study and affectation,
and only characterize their written and artificial works.

Thus, for instance, if SALLUST and CICERO had come together in
conversation, the _former_ would certainly have dropped his _new
words and pointed sentences_: and the _latter_ his _numerous oratorial
periods_. All that might be expected to appear, is, that SALLUST’S
expression would be shorter and more compact; CICERO’S more gracious
and flowing, agreeably to the characters of the two men.

But there is a further reason why these _characteristic peculiarities
of style_ must not be exhibited, or must be infinitely restrained at
least, in the sort of composition we are now considering. It is, that
the studied imitation of such peculiarities would be what we call
_mimickry_; and would therefore border upon _ridicule_, the thing of
all others which the genius of this Dialogue most abhors. In Comedy
itself, the most exact writers do not condescend to this minute
imitation. TERENCE’S characters all express themselves, I think, with
equal elegance: even his slaves are made to speak as good Latin, as
their masters. In the serious Dialogue, then, which, from its nature,
is, in a much lower degree, _mimetic_, that minute attention can by
no means be required. It will be sufficient that the speakers express
themselves in _the same manner_, that is, (provided the _general
cast_ of expression be suited to their respective characters) _in the
writer’s own_.

If there be any exception from this rule, it must be, when the
peculiarities of expression are so great, and so notorious, that the
reader could hardly acknowledge the speaker in any other dress, than
that of his own style. Hence it is possible, though CICERO has left us
no example of this sort, that if, in the next age, any one had thought
fit to introduce MÆCENAS into Dialogue, he might perhaps have been
allowed to colour his language with some of those _spruce turns and
negligent affectations_, by which, as a writer, he was so well known.
It is, at least, on this principle that the Author of the following
Dialogues must rest his apology for having taken such liberty, in
_one or two instances, only_: in which, however, he has confined his
imitation to the single purpose of exhibiting some degree of likeness
to their acknowledged manner of expression, without attempting to
expose it in any strong or invidious light. And, after all, if even
this liberty, so cautiously taken, be thought too much, he will not
complain of his critics; since the fault, if it be one, was committed
rather in compliance with what he supposed might be the public
judgment, than with his own.

The reader has now before him a sketch of what I conceive to be the
_character_ of the ancient philosophic Dialogue; which, in one word,
may be said to be, “An imitated, and mannered conversation between
certain real, known, and respected persons, on some useful or serious
subject, in an elegant, and suitably adorned, but not characteristic
style.”

At least, I express, as I can, my notion of CICERO’S Dialogue, which
unites these several characters; and, by such union, has effected, as
it seems to me, all that the nature of this composition requires or
admits.

This, I am sensible, is saying but little, on the subject. But I
pretend not to do justice to CICERO’S DIALOGUES; which are occasionally
set off by that lively, yet chaste colouring of the _manners_, and are,
besides, all over sprinkled with that exquisite grace of, what the
Latin writers call, _urbanity_, (by which, they meant as well what was
most polite in the _air_ of conversation, as in the language of it)
that there is nothing equal to them, in Antiquity itself: and I have
sometimes fancied, that even LIVY’S Dialogues[12], if they had come
down to us, would perhaps have lost something, on a comparison with
these master-pieces of CICERO’S pen.

3. But to this apology for the ancient Dialogue, I suspect it will be
replied, “That though, in the hands of the Greek and Latin writers, it
might, heretofore, have all this grace and merit, yet who shall pretend
to revive it in our days? or, how shall we enter into the spirit of
this composition, for which there is no encouragement, nor so much as
the countenance of example in real life? No man writes well, but from
his own experience and observation: and by whom is the way of dialogue
now practised? or, where do we find such precedents of grave and
continued conversation in modern times?”

A very competent judge, and one too, who was himself, as I have
observed, an adventurer in this class of composition, puts the
objection home in the following words:

“The truth is,” says he, “it would be an abominable falsehood, and
belying of the age, to put so much good sense together in any _one_
conversation, as might make it hold out steadily, and with plain
coherence, for an hour’s time, till any _one_ subject had been
rationally examined[13].”

Nor is this the only difficulty. _Another_ occurs, from the prevailing
manners of modern times, which are over-run with respect, compliment,
and ceremony. “Now put _compliments_,” says the same writer, “put
_ceremony_ into a Dialogue, and see what will be the effect! This is
the plain _dilemma_ against that ancient manner of writing—if we avoid
ceremony, we are unnatural: if we use it, and appear as we naturally
are, as we salute, and meet, and treat one another, we hate the
sight[14].”

These considerations are to the purpose; and shew perhaps in a
mortifying manner, that the modern writers of Dialogue, the very best
of them, cannot aspire to the unrivalled elegance of the ancient;
as being wholly unfurnished of many advantages, to this end, which
they enjoyed. But still the _form_ of writing itself is neither
impracticable, nor unnatural: and there are certain _means_, by which
the disadvantages, complained of, may be lessened at least, if not
entirely removed.

To begin with the LAST. It is very true, that the constraint of
a formal and studied civility is foreign to the genius of this
sort of composition; and it is, also, as true, that somewhat of
this constrained civility is scarce separable from a just copy and
faithful picture of conversation in our days. The reason of which is
to be gathered from the nature of our policies and governments. For
conversation, I mean the serious and manly sort, as well as eloquence,
is most cultivated and thrives best amidst the quality of conditions in
republican and popular states.

And, though this inconvenience be less perceived by us of this free
country than by most others, yet something of it will remain wherever
monarchy, with its consequent train of subordinate and dependent ranks
of men, subsists.

Now the proper remedy in the case is, to bring such men only together
in Dialogue as are of the same rank; or at least to class our speakers
with such care as that any great inequality in that respect may be
compensated by some other; such as the superiority of age, wisdom,
talents, or the like. A Chancellor of _England_ and a Country Justice,
or even a Lord and his Chaplain, could hardly be shewn in Dialogue,
without incurring some ridicule. But a Judge and a Bishop, one would
hope, might be safely brought together; and if a great Philosopher
should enter into debate with a lettered Man of Quality, the indecorum
would not be so violent as to be much resented.

But the influence of modern manners reaches even to names and the
ordinary forms of address. In the Greek and Roman Dialogues, it was
permitted to accost the greatest persons by their obvious and familiar
appellations. ALCIBIADES had no more addition, than SOCRATES: and
BRUTUS and CÆSAR lost nothing of their dignity from being applied to
in those direct terms. The moderns, on the contrary, have their guards
and fences about them; and we hold it an incivility to approach them
without some decent periphrasis, or ceremonial title—

        ——gaudent prænomine molles
    Auriculæ.

It was principally, I believe, for this reason, that modern writers of
Dialogue have had recourse to fictitious names and characters, rather
than venture on the use of real ones: the _former_ absolving them from
this cumbersome ceremony, which, in the case of the _latter_, could
not so properly be laid aside. PALÆMON and PHILANDER, for instance,
are not only well-sounding words; but slide as easily into a sentence,
and as gracefully too, as CICERO and ATTICUS: while the _Mr’s_ and
the _Sirs_, nay his _Grace_, his _Excellency_, or his _Honour_[15],
of modern Dialogue, have not only a formality that hurts the ease of
conversation, but a harshness too, which is somewhat offensive to a
well-tuned Attic or Roman ear.

All this will be allowed; and yet, to speak plainly and with that
freedom which ancient manners indulge, the barbarity of these forms
is not worse than the pedantry of taking such disgust at them. And
there are ways, too, by which the most offensive circumstances in this
account may be so far qualified as to be almost overlooked, or at least
endured. What _these_ are, the capable and intelligent reader or writer
is not to be told; and none but such would easily apprehend.

To come then to the OTHER objection of Lord SHAFTESBURY, which is more
considerable.

It would be a manifest falsehood, he thinks, and directly against
the truth both of art and nature, to engage the moderns in a grave
discourse of any length. And it is true, the great men of our time do
not, like the Senators of ancient _Rome_, spend whole days in learned
debate and formal disputation: yet their meetings, especially in
private parties, with their friends, are not so wholly frivolous, but
that they sometimes discourse seriously, and even pursue a subject of
learning or business, not with coherence only, but with some care. And
will not this be ground enough for a capable writer to go upon, in
reviving the way of Dialogue between such men?

But, to give the most probable air to his fiction, he may find it
necessary to recede from the strict imitation of his originals, in one
instance.

It may be advisable not to take for his speakers, _living persons_; I
mean, persons, however respectable, of his own age. We may fancy of the
dead, what we cannot so readily believe of the living. And thus, by
endeavouring a little to deceive ourselves, we may come to think that
natural, which is not wholly incredible; and may admit the writer’s
invention for a picture, though a studied and flattering one, it may
be, of real life.

In short, it may be a good rule in modern Dialogue, as it was in
ancient Tragedy, to take our subjects, and choose our persons, out
of former times. And, under the prejudice of that opinion which is
readily entertained of such subjects and characters, an artist may
contrive to pass that upon us for _Fact_, which was only ingenious
_Fiction_; and so wind up his piece to the perfection of ancient
Dialogue, without departing too widely from the decorum and truth of
conversation in modern life.

Such at least is the IDEA, which the Author of these Dialogues has
formed to himself of the manner in which this exquisite sort of
composition may be attempted by more successful writers. For to
conceive an excellence, and to copy it, he understands and laments, are
very different things.

  THURCASTON.
  MDCCLXIV.




  MORAL AND POLITICAL

  DIALOGUES.




  DIALOGUE I.

  ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE

  OF THE WORLD.

  BETWEEN

  DR. HENRY MORE,

  AND

  EDMUND WALLER, ESQ.




  DIALOGUE I.

  ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE OF THE WORLD.

  DR. HENRY MORE, EDMUND WALLER, ESQ.


MR. WALLER.

Enough, enough, my friend, on the good old chapter of _Sincerity and
Honour_. Your rhetoric, and not your reasoning, is too much for me.
Believe it, your fine stoical lessons must all give way to a little
common sense, I mean, to a prudent accommodation of ourselves to times
and circumstances; which, whether you will dignify it with the name
of philosophy, or no, is the only method of living with credit in the
world, and even with safety.


DR. MORE.

Accommodation is, no doubt, a good word to stand in the place of
insincerity. But, pray, in which of the great moral masters have you
picked up this term, and, much more, the virtuous practice, it so well
expresses?


MR. WALLER.

I learnt it from the great master of life, EXPERIENCE: A doctor, little
heard of in the schools, but of more authority with men of sense, than
all the solemn talkers of the porch, or cloister, put together.


DR. MORE.

After much reserve, I confess, you begin to express yourself very
clearly. But, good Sir, not to take up your conclusion too hastily,
have the patience to hear—


MR. WALLER.

Have I not, then, heard, and sure with patience enough, your studied
harangues on this subject? You have discoursed it, I must own, very
plausibly. But the impression, which fine words make, is one thing,
and the conviction of reason, another. And, not to waste more time
in fruitless altercation, let ME, if you please, read you a lecture
of morals: not out of ancient books, or the visions of an unpractised
philosophy, but from the schools of business and real life. Such a view
of things will discredit these high nations, and may serve, for the
future, to amend and rectify all your systems.


DR. MORE.

Commend me to a man of the world, for a rectifier of moral
systems!—Yet, if it were only for the pleasure of being let into
the secrets of this new doctrine of _Accommodation_, I am content to
become a _patient_ hearer, in my turn; and the rather, as the day,
which you see, wears apace, will hardly give leave for interruption, or
indeed afford you time enough for the full display of your wit on this
extraordinary subject.


MR. WALLER.

We have day enough before us, for the business in hand. ’Tis true, this
wood-land walk has not the charms, which you lately bestowed on a
certain _philosophical garden_[16]. But the heavens are as clear, and
the air, that blows upon us, as fresh, as in that fine evening which
drew your friends abroad, and engaged them in a longer debate, than
that with which I am now likely to detain you. For, indeed, I have only
to lay before you the result of my own experience and observation. All
my arguments are plain facts, which are soon told, and about which
there can be no dispute. You shall judge for yourself, how far they
will authorize the conclusion I mean to draw from them.

The point, I am bold enough to maintain against you philosophers, is,
briefly, this; “That _sincerity_, or a scrupulous regard to _truth_ in
all our conversation and behaviour, how specious soever it may be in
theory, is a thing impossible in practice; that there is no living in
the world on these terms; and that a man of business must either quit
the scene, or learn to temper the strictness of your discipline with
some reasonable accommodations. It is exactly the dilemma of the poet,

    Vivere si recte nescis, discede peritis;

of all which I presume, as I said, to offer my own experience, as the
shortest and most convincing demonstration.”


DR. MORE.

The subject, I confess, is fairly delivered, and nothing can be juster
than this appeal to experience, provided you do not attempt to delude
yourself or me by throwing false colours upon it.


MR. WALLER.

It will be your business to remonstrate against these arts, if you
discover any such. My intention is to proceed in the way of a direct
and simple recital.

“I was born, as you know, of a good family, and to the inheritance of
this paternal seat[17], with the easy fortune that belongs to it. To
this, I succeeded but too soon by the untimely loss of an excellent
father. His death, however, did not deprive me of those advantages
which are thought to arise from a strict and virtuous education. This
care devolved on my mother, a woman of great prudence, who provided for
my instruction in letters and every other accomplishment. I was, of
myself, enough inclined to books, and was supposed to have some parts
which deserved cultivation. I was accordingly trained in the study of
those writings, which are the admiration of men of elegant minds and
refined morals. I was a tolerable master of the languages, in which
they are composed; and, I may venture to say, was at least imbued with
their notions and principles, if I was not able at that time to catch
the spirit of their composition: all which was confirmed in me, by the
constant attendance and admonitions of the best tutors, and the strict
discipline of your colleges. I mention these things to shew you, that
I was not turned loose into the world, as your complaint of men of
business generally is, unprincipled and uninstructed; and that what
austere men might afterwards take for some degree of libertinism in my
conduct, is not to be charged on the want of a sober or even learned
education.”


DR. MORE.

I understand you mean to take no advantage of that plea, if what
follows be not answerable to so high expectations.


MR. WALLER.

The season was now come, when my rank and fortune, together with
the solicitations of my friends, drew me forth, though reluctantly,
from the college into the world. I was then, indeed, under twenty;
but so practised in the best things, and so enamoured of the moral
lessons which had been taught me, that I carried with me into the last
parliament of king James, not the showy accomplishments of learning
only, but the high enthusiasm of a warm and active virtue. Yet the
vanity, it may be, of a young man, distinguished by some advantages,
and conscious enough of them, was, for a time, the leading principle
with me. In this disposition, it may be supposed, I could not be long
without desiring an introduction to the court. It was not a school of
that virtue I had been used to, yet had some persons in it of eminent
worth and honour. A vein of poetry, which seemed to flow naturally from
me, was that by which I seemed most ambitious to recommend myself[18].
And occasions quickly offered for that purpose. But this was a play of
ingenuity in which the heart had no share. I made complimentary verses
on the great lords and ladies of the court, with as much simplicity
and as little meaning as my bows in the drawing room, and thought it a
fine thing to be taken notice of, as a wit, in the fashionable circles.
In the mean time, the corruptions of a loose disorderly court gave me
great scandal. And the abject flatteries, I observed in some of the
highest stations and gravest characters, filled me with indignation.
As an instance of this, I can never forget the resentment, that fired
my young breast at the conversation you have often heard me say I was
present at, betwixt the old king, and two of his court prelates[19].
And if the prudent and witty turn, the venerable bishop of _Winchester_
gave to the discourse, had not atoned, in some measure, for the rank
offensive servility of the _other_, it had been enough to determine me,
forthwith, to an implacable hatred of kings and courts for ever.


DR. MORE.

It must be owned the provocation was very gross, and the offence taken
at it no more than a symptom of a generous and manly virtue.


MR. WALLER.

It left a deep impression on my mind; yet it did not hinder me from
appearing at court in the first years of the following reign, when the
vanity of a thoughtless muse, rather than any relaxation of my ancient
manners, drew from me, again, some occasional panegyrics on greatness;
which being presented in verse, I thought would hardly be suspected of
flattery.


DR. MORE.

This indulgence of a _thoughtless muse_ (as you call it) was not
without its danger. I am afraid this must pass for the first instance
of your sacrificing to INSINCERITY.


MR. WALLER.

Your fears are too hasty. This was still a trial of my wit: and after
a few wanton circles, as it were to breathe and exercise my muse, I
drew her in from these amusements to a stricter manage and more severe
discipline. The long interval of parliaments now followed; and in this
suspension of business I applied myself to every virtuous pursuit that
could be likely to improve my mind, or purify my morals. Believe me, I
cannot to this day, without pleasure, reflect on the golden hours, I
passed in the society of such accomplished men as FALKLAND, HYDE, and
CHILLINGWORTH. And, for my more retired amusements at this place, you
will judge of the good account I might render of these, when I add,
they were constantly shared with that great prelate, who now, with so
much dignity, fills the throne of _Winchester_[20].


DR. MORE.

This enthusiasm of your’s is catching, and raises in me an incredible
impatience to come at the triumphs of a virtue, trained and perfected
in her best school, the conversations of heroes and sages.


MR. WALLER.

You shall hear. The jealousies, that had alarmed the nation for
twelve years, were now to have a vent given them, by the call of the
parliament in _April 1640_. As the occasion, on which it met, was
in the highest degree interesting, the assembly itself was the most
august, that perhaps had ever deliberated on public councils. There
was a glow of honour, of liberty, and of virtue in all hearts, in all
faces: and yet this fire was tempered with so composed a wisdom, and
so sedate a courage, that it seemed a synod of heroes; and, as some
would then say of us, could only be matched by a senate of old Rome
in its age of highest glory. To this parliament I had the honour to
be deputed, whither I went with high-erected thoughts, and a heart
panting for glory and the true service of my country. The dissolution,
which so unhappily followed, served only to increase this ardour. So
that, on our next meeting in _November_, I went freely and warmly into
the measures of those, who were supposed to mean the best. I voted,
I spoke, I impeached[21]. In a word, I gave a free scope to those
generous thoughts and purposes which had been collecting in me for so
many years, and was in the foremost rank of those, whose pulse beat
highest for liberty, and who were most active for the interest of the
public.


DR. MORE.

This was indeed a triumph, the very memory of which warms you to this
moment. So bright a flame was not easily extinguished.


MR. WALLER.

It continued for some time in all its vigour. High as my notions were
of public liberty, they did not transport me, with that zeal which
prevailed on so many others, to act against the just prerogative of the
crown, and the ancient constitution. I owe it to the conversation and
influence of the excellent society, before-mentioned, that neither the
spirit, the sense, nor, what is more, the relationship and intimate
acquaintance of Mr. HAMPDEN[22], could ever bias me to his deeper
designs, or any irreverence to the unhappy king’s person. Many things
concurred to preserve me in this due mean. The violent tendencies of
many councils on the parliament’s side; many gracious and important
compliances on the king’s; the great examples of some who had most
authority with good men; and, lastly, my own temper, which, in its
highest fervours, always inclined to moderation; these and other
circumstances kept me from the excesses, on either hand, which so few
were able to avoid in that scene of public confusion.


DR. MORE.

This moderation carries with it all the marks of a real and confirmed
virtue.


MR. WALLER.

I rather expected you would have considered it as another _sacrifice
to Insincerity_. Such, I remember, was the language of many at that
time. The enthusiasts on both sides agreed to stigmatize this temper
with the name of _Neutrality_. Yet this treatment did not prevent me,
when the war broke out, from taking a course, which I easily foresaw,
would tend to increase such suspicions; for now, to open a fresh
scene to you, I had assumed, if not new principles, yet new notions of
the manner in which good policy required me to exert my old ones. The
general virtue, or what had the appearance of it at least, had hitherto
made plain-dealing an easy and convenient conduct. But things were now
changed. The minds of all men were on fire: deep designs were laid,
and no practice stuck at that might be proper to advance the execution
of them. In this situation of affairs, what could simple honesty do,
but defeat the purpose and endanger the safety of its master? I now,
first, began to reflect that this was a virtue for other times: at
least, that not to qualify it, in some sort, was, at such a juncture,
not honesty, but imprudence: and when I had once fallen into this train
of thinking, it is wonderful how many things occurred to me to justify
and recommend it. The humour of acting always on one principle was, I
said to myself, like that of sailing with one wind: whereas the expert
mariner wins his way by plying in all directions, as occasions serve,
and making the best of all weathers. Then I considered with myself
the bad policy, in such a conjuncture, of CATO and BRUTUS, and easily
approved in my own mind the more pliant and conciliating method of
CICERO. Those stoics, thought I, ruined themselves and their cause by a
too obstinate adherence to their system. The liberal and more enlarged
conduct of the academic, who took advantage of all winds that blew in
that time of civil dissension, had a chance at least for doing his
country better service. Observation, as well as books, furnish me with
these reflections. I perceived with what difficulty the Lord FALKLAND’S
rigid principles had suffered him to accept an office of the greatest
consequence to the public safety[23]: and I understood to what an
extreme his scruples had carried him in the discharge of it[24]. This,
concluded I, can never be the office of virtue in such a world, and in
such a period. And then that of the poet, so skilled in the knowledge
of life, occurred to me,

                —aut virtus nomen inane est,
    Aut decus et pretium recte petit EXPERIENS vir;

that is, as I explained it, “The man of a ready and dexterous turn in
affairs; one who knows how to take advantage of all circumstances,
and is not restrained, by his bigotry, from varying his conduct, as
occasions serve, and making, as it were, _experiments_ in business.”


DR. MORE.

You poets, I suppose, have an exclusive right to explain one another;
or these words might seem to bear a more natural interpretation.


MR. WALLER.

You will understand from this account, which I have opened so
particularly to you, on what reasons I was induced to alter my plan,
or rather to pursue it with those arts of prudence and address, which
the turn of the times had now rendered necessary. The conclusion
was, I resolved to pursue steadily the king’s, which at the same
time was manifestly the nation’s interest, and yet to keep fair with
the parliament, and the managers on that side; for this appeared
the likeliest way of doing him real service. And yet some officious
scruples, which forced themselves upon me at first, had like to have
fixed me in other measures. In the stream of those who chose to desert
the houses rather than share in the violent counsels that prevailed in
them, the general disgust had also carried me to withdraw myself. But
this start of zeal was soon over. I presently saw, and found means to
satisfy the king, that it would be more for his service that I should
return to the parliament. I therefore resumed my seat, and took leave
(to say the truth, it was not denied me by the house, who had their
own ends to serve by this indulgence[25]) to reason and debate in all
points with great freedom. At the same time my affections to the common
interest were not suspected; for, having no connexion with the court,
nobody thought of charging me with private views; and not forgetting,
besides, to cultivate a good understanding with the persons of chief
credit in the house, the plainness I used could only be taken for what
it was, an honest and parliamentary liberty. This situation was, for a
time, very favourable to me: for the king’s friends regarded me as the
champion of their cause; whilst the prudence of my carriage towards the
leading members secured me, in a good degree, from their jealousy.


DR. MORE.

Your policy, I observe, had now taken a more refined turn. The juncture
of affairs might possibly justify this address: but the ground you
stood upon was slippery; and I own myself alarmed at what may be the
consequence of this solicitous pursuit of popularity.


MR. WALLER.

No exception, I think, can be fairly taken at the methods by which I
pursued it. However, this _popularity_ it was, as you rightly divine,
which drew upon me all the mischiefs that followed. For the application
of all men, disposed to the king’s service, was now made to me. I had
an opportunity, by this means, of knowing the characters and views
of particular persons, and of getting an insight into the true state
of the king’s affairs. And these advantages, in the end, drove me on
the project, which, on the discovery, came to be called my _Plot_: an
event, which, with all its particulars, you understand too well to need
any information from me about it.


DR. MORE.

The story, as it was noised abroad, I am no stranger to: but this being
one of those occasions, as they say, in which both your policy and
virtue were put to the sharpest trial, it would be much to the purpose
you have in view by this recital, to favour me with your own account of
it.


MR. WALLER.

To lead you through all particulars, would not suit with the
brevity you require of me. But something I will say to obviate the
misconceptions you may possibly have entertained of this business[26].
For the plot itself, the utmost of my design was only to form such a
combination among the honest and well-affected of all sorts, as might
have weight enough to incline the houses to a peace, and prevent the
miseries that were too certainly to be apprehended from a civil war. It
was never in my thoughts to surprize the parliament or city by force,
or engage the army in the support and execution of my purpose. But my
design in this affair, though the fury of my enemies, and the fatal
jealousy of the time, would not suffer it to be rightly understood, is
not that which my friends resented, and which most men were disposed
to blame in me. It was my behaviour afterwards, and the obliquity of
some means which I found expedient to my own safety, that exposed me
to so rude a storm of censure. It continues, I know, to beat upon me
even at this distance. But the injustice hath arisen from the force of
vulgar prejudices, and from the want of entering into those enlarged
principles, on which it was necessary for me to proceed in that
juncture.


DR. MORE.

Yet the ill success of this plot itself might have shewn you, what the
design of acting on these _enlarged principles_ was likely to come to.
It was an unlucky experiment, this, you had made in the _new_ arts
of living; and should have been a warning to you, not to proceed in
a path which, at the very entrance of it, had involved you in such
difficulties.


MR. WALLER.

No, it was not the new path, you object to me, but the good old road of
Sincerity, which misled me into those brambles. I, in the simplicity
of my heart, thought it my duty to adhere to the injured king’s
cause, and believed my continuance in parliament the fairest, as well
as the likeliest method, that could be taken to support it. Had I
temporized so far as either to desert my prince, and strike in with
the parliament, or, on the other hand, had left the house and gone with
the seceders to _Oxford_, either way I had been secure. But resolving,
as I did, to hold my principles, and follow my judgment, I fell into
those unhappy circumstances, from which all the dexterity I afterwards
assumed was little enough to deliver me.


DR. MORE.

But if your intentions were so pure, and the methods, by which you
resolved to prosecute them, so blameless, how happened it that any plot
could be worked up of so much danger to your life and person?


MR. WALLER.

This was the very thing I was going to explain to you. My intentions
towards the parliament were fair and honourable: as I retained my seat
there, I could not allow myself in the use of any but parliamentary
methods to promote the cause I had undertaken. And this, as I said,
was the whole purpose of the _combination_, which was made the
pretence to ruin me: for my unhappy project of a reconciliation was
so inextricably confounded with another of more dangerous tendency,
the _commission of array_, sent at that time from _Oxford_, that
nothing, I presently saw, could possibly disentangle so perplexed a
business, or defeat the malice of my enemies, if I attempted, in the
more direct way, to stand on my defence. Presumptions, if not proofs,
they had in abundance: the consternation of all men was great; their
rage, unrelenting; and the general enthusiasm of the time, outrageous.
Consider all this, and see what chance there was for escaping their
injustice, if I had restrained myself to the sole use of those means,
which you men of the cloister magnify so much, under I know not what
names of _Sincerity_ and _Honour_. And, indeed, this late experience,
of what was to be expected from the way of plain dealing, had
determined me, henceforth, to take a different route; and, since I had
drawn these mischiefs on myself by _Sincerity_, to try what a little
management could do towards bringing me out of them.


DR. MORE.

It was not, I perceive, without cause, that the subtlety you had begun
to have recourse to, filled me with apprehensions. Sincerity and
Honour, Mr. WALLER, are plain things, and hold no acquaintance with
this ingenious casuistry.


MR. WALLER.

What, not in such a situation? It should seem then, as if you moralists
conceived a man owed nothing to himself: that _self-preservation_ was
not what God and Nature have made it, the first and most binding of all
laws: that a man’s family, not to say his country, have no interest in
the life of an innocent and deserving citizen; and, in one word, that
_prudence_ is but an empty name, though you give it a place among your
_cardinal virtues_. All this must be concluded before you reject, as
unlawful, the means I was forced upon, at this season, for my defence:
means, I presume to say, so sagely contrived, and, as my very enemies
will own, executed so happily, that I cannot to this day reflect on my
conduct in that affair without satisfaction.


DR. MORE.

Yet it had some consequences which a man of your generosity would a
little startle at.—


MR. WALLER.

I understand you: my friends—But I shall answer that objection in its
place.

Let me at present go on with the particulars of my defence. The
occasion, as you see, was distressful to the last degree. To deny or
defend myself from the charge was a thing impossible. What remained
then but to confess it, and in so frank and ample a manner, as might
bespeak the pity or engage the protection of my accusers? I resolved
to say nothing but the _truth_; and, if ever the _whole_ truth may
be spoken, it is when so alarming an occasion calls for it. Besides,
what had others, who might be affected by the discovery, to complain
of? I disclaimed no part of the guilt myself: nor could any confession
be made, that did not first and chiefly affect me. And if I, who was
principal in the contrivance, had the best chance for escaping by such
confession, what had they, who were only accomplices, to apprehend from
it? Add to this, that the number and credit of the persons, who were
charged with having a share in the design, were, of all others, the
likeliest considerations to prevail with the houses to drop the further
prosecution of it.

Well, the discovery had great effects. But there was no stopping here.
Penitence, as well as confession, is expected from a sinner. I had to
do with hypocrites of the worst sort. What fairer weapons, then, than
hypocrisy and dissimulation? I counterfeited the strongest remorse, and
with a life and spirit that disposed all men to believe, and most to
pity me. My trial was put off in very compassion to my disorder; which,
in appearance, was so great, that some suspected my understanding had
been affected by it. In this contrivance I had two views; to gain time
for my defence, and to keep it off till the fury of my prosecutors was
abated. In this interval, indeed, some of my accomplices suffered. But
how was it possible for me to apprehend that, when, if any, I myself
might expect to have fallen the first victim of their resentment?


DR. MORE.

If this apology satisfy yourself, I need not interrupt your story with
any exceptions.


MR. WALLER.

It was, in truth, the only thing which afflicted me in the course of
this whole business. But time and reflection have reconciled me to
what was, in some sense, occasioned, but certainly not intended, by me.
And it would be a strange morality that should charge a man with the
undesigned consequences of his own actions.


DR. MORE.

And were all the symptoms of a disturbed mind, you made a shew of, then
entirely counterfeit?


MR. WALLER.

As certainly as those of the Roman BRUTUS, who, to tell you the truth,
was my example on that occasion. It was the business of both of us to
elude the malice of our enemies, and reserve ourselves for the future
service of our respective countries.

But all I have told you was only a prelude to a further, and still
more necessary, act of dissimulation. Had the house been left to
itself, it might possibly have absolved me, on the merits of so large
a confession, and so lively a repentance. But I had to do with another
class of men, with holy inquisitors of sordid minds, and sour spirits;
priestly reformers, whose sense was noise, and religion fanaticism,
and that too fermented with the leven of earthly avarice and ambition.
These had great influence both within doors and without, and would
regard what had hitherto passed as nothing, if I went not much further.
To these, having begun in so good a train, I was now to address myself.
I had studied their humours, and understood to a tittle the arts that
were most proper to gain them.

The first step to the countenance and good liking of these restorers of
primitive parity was, I well knew, the most implicit subjection both
of will and understanding. I magnified their gifts, I revered their
sanctity. I debased myself with all imaginable humility: I extolled
them with the grossest flattery.

Having thus succeeded to my wish in drawing the principal of these
saints around me, I advanced further: I sought their instruction,
solicited their advice, and importuned their ghostly consolation.
This brought me into high favour; they regarded me as one, who wished
and deserved to be enlightened: they strove which should impart most
of their lights and revelations to me. I besought them to expound,
and pray, and preach before me: nay, I even preached, and prayed,
and expounded before them. I out-canted the best-gifted of them; and
out-railed the bitterest of all their decriers of an anti-christian
prelacy. In short, it would have moved your laughter or your
indignation to observe, how submissively I demeaned myself to these
spiritual fathers; how I hung on their words, echoed their coarse
sayings, and mimicked their beggarly tones and grimaces.

To complete the farce, I intreated their acceptance of such returns
for their godly instructions, as fortune had enabled me to make
them. I prevailed with them to give leave that so unworthy a person
might be the instrument of conveying earthly accommodations to these
dispensers of heavenly treasures; and it surpasses all belief, with
what an avidity they devoured them! It is true, this last was a serious
consideration: in all other respects, the whole was a perfect comedy;
and of so ridiculous a cast, that, though my situation gave me power of
face to carry it off gravely then, I have never reflected on it since
without laughter.


DR. MORE.

Truly, as you describe it, it was no serious scene. But what I admire
most, is the dexterity of your genius, and the prodigious progress you
had now made in your favourite arts of _accommodation_.


MR. WALLER.

Necessity is the best master. Besides, can you blame me for taking more
than common pains to outdo these miscreants in their own way; I might
say, to excel in an art which surpasses, or at least comprises in it
the essence of all true wisdom? The precept of your admired ANTONINUS,
as you reminded me to-day, is SIMPLIFY YOURSELF[27]. That, I think,
was the quaint expression. It had shewn his reach and mastery in the
trade he professed, much more, if instead of it, he had preached up,
ACCOMMODATE YOURSELF; the grand secret, as long experience has taught
me, _bene beateque vivendi_.

All matters thus prepared, there was now no hazard in playing my
last game. I requested and obtained leave to make my defence before
the parliament. I had acquired a knack in speaking; and had drawn
on myself more credit, than fine words deserve, by a scenical and
specious eloquence. If ever I acquitted myself to my wish, it was on
this occasion. I soothed, I flattered, I alarmed: every topic of art
which my youth had learned, every subject of address which experience
had suggested, every trick and artifice of popular adulation, was
exhausted. All men were prepared by the practices of my saintly
emissaries to hear me with favour; and, which is the first and last
advantage of a speaker, to believe me seriously and conscientiously
affected.

In the end I triumphed; and for a moderate fine obtained leave to
shelter myself from the following storm, which almost desolated this
unhappy country, by retiring into an exile, at that time more desirable
than any employment of those I left behind me.


DR. MORE.

You retired, I think, to _France_, whither, no doubt, you carried with
you all those generous thoughts and consolatory reflexions, which
refresh the spirit of a good man under a consciousness of suffering
virtue.


MR. WALLER.

Why not, if _prudence_ be a virtue? for what, but certain prudential
regards (which in common language and common sense are quite another
thing from vicious compliances) have hitherto, as you have seen,
appeared in my conduct? But be they what they will, they had a very
natural effect, and one which will always attend on so reasonable a
way of proceeding. For, since you press me so much, I shall take leave
to suggest an observation to you, more obvious as well as more candid
than any you seem inclined to make on the circumstances of this long
relation. It is, “that the _pretended_ penitence for my past life, and
the readiness I shewed to acquiesce in the _false_ accounts which the
parliament gave of my plot, saved my life, and procured my liberty;
whilst the _real and true_ discoveries I made to gain credit to _both_,
hurt my reputation.” But such a reflexion might have shocked your
system too much. For it shews that all the benefit, I drew to myself
in this affair, arose from those _prudential maxims_ you condemn; and
that all the injury, I suffered, was owing to the _sincerity_ I still
mixed with them.


DR. MORE.

Seriously, Sir——


MR. WALLER.

I can guess what you would say: but you promised to hear me out,
without interruption.

What remains I shall dispatch in few words, having so fully vindicated
the most obnoxious part of my life, and opened the general principles,
I acted upon, so clearly.

I went, as you said, to _France_; where, instead of the churlish humour
of a malcontent, or the unmanly dejection of a disgraced exile, I
appeared with an ease and gaiety of mind, which made me welcome to the
greatest men of that country. The ruling principle of my philosophy
was, to make the best of every situation. And, as my fortune enabled me
to do it, I lived with hospitality, and even splendour; and indulged
myself in all the delights of an enlarged and elegant conversation.

Such were my amusements for some years; during which time, however, I
preserved the notions of loyalty, which had occasioned my disgrace,
and waited some happier turn of affairs, that might restore me with
honour to my country. But when all hopes of this sort were at an end,
and the government, after the various revolutions which are well
known, seemed fixed and established in the person of one man, it
was not allegiance, but obstinacy, to hold out any longer. I easily
succeeded in my application to be recalled, and was even admitted to
a share in the confidence of the PROTECTOR. This great man was not
without a sensibility of true glory; and, for that reason, was even
ambitious of the honour, which wit and genius are ever ready to confer
on illustrious greatness. Every muse of that time distinguished, and
was distinguished by, him. Mine had improved her voice and accent in a
foreign country: and what nobler occasion to try her happiest strain
than this, of immortalizing a Hero?

    “Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
    And ev’ry conqueror creates a muse;”

as I then said in a panegyric, which my gratitude prompted me to
present to him[28].


DR. MORE.

This panegyric, presented in verse, could hardly, I suppose, be
suspected of flattery!


MR. WALLER.

I expected this; but the occasion, as I said, might have suggested
a fairer interpretation. And why impute as a fault to me, what the
reverend SPRAT, as well as DRYDEN, did not disdain to countenance by
their examples? Besides, as an argument of the unsullied purity of
intention, you might remember, methinks, that I asked no recompence,
and accepted none, for the willing honours my muse paid him.


DR. MORE.

It must be a sordid muse indeed, that submits to a venal prostitution.
And, to do your profession justice, it is not so much avarice, or even
ambition, as a certain gentler passion, the vanity, shall I call it? of
being well with the _great_, that is fatal to you poets.


MR. WALLER.

I can allow for the satire of this reproof, in a man of ancient and
bookish manners. But, to shew my disinterestedness still more, you may
recollect, if you please, that I embalmed his memory, when neither his
favour nor his smile were to be apprehended.


DR. MORE.

In the short reign of his son.—But what then? you made amends for all,
by the congratulation on the happy return of his present majesty. You
know who it was that somebody complimented in these lines:

    “He best can turn, enforce and soften things,
    To praise great conquerors, and flatter kings.”


MR. WALLER.

Was it for me to stem the torrent of a nation’s joys by a froward and
unseasonable silence? Did not HORACE, who fought at _Philippi_, do
as much for AUGUSTUS? And should I, who had suffered for his cause,
not embrace the goodness, and salute the returning fortunes, of so
gracious, so accomplished a master? His majesty himself, as I truly say
of him, in the poem you object to me,

                  “with wisdom fraught,
    Not such as books, but such as practice, taught,”

did me the justice to understand my address after another manner. He,
who had so often been forced by the necessities of his affairs to make
compliances with the time, never resented it from me, a private man
and a poet, that I had made some sacrifices of a like nature. All this
might convince you of the great truth I meant to inculcate by this long
recital, that not a sullen and inflexible _Sincerity_, but a fair and
seasonable _accommodation of one’s self_, to the various exigencies of
the times, is the golden virtue that ought to predominate in a man
of life and business. All the rest, believe me, is the very cant of
philosophy and unexperienced wisdom.


DR. MORE.

Wisdom—and must the sanctity of that name—


MR. WALLER.

Hear me, Sir—no exclamations against the evidence of plain fact. I
have a right to expect another conduct from him, who is grown grey in
the studies of moral science.


DR. MORE.

You learned another lesson in the school of FALKLAND, HYDE, and
CHILLINGWORTH.


MR. WALLER.

Yes, one I was obliged to unlearn. But, since you remind me of that
school, what was the effect of adhering pertinaciously to its false
maxims? To what purpose were the lives of _two_ of them prodigally
thrown away; and the honour, the wisdom, the talents of the _other_,
still left to languish in banishment[29] and obscurity?


DR. MORE.

O! prophane not the glories of immortal, though successless virtue,
with such reproaches.—Those adored names shall preach honour to future
ages, and enthrone the majesty of virtue in the hearts of men, when
wit and parts, and eloquence and poetry, have not a leaf of all their
withered bays to recommend them.


MR. WALLER.

Raptures and chimeras!——Rather judge of the sentiments of future
ages, from the present. Where is the man, (I speak it without
boasting,) that enjoys a fairer fame; who is better received in all
places; who is more listened to in all companies; who reaps the fruits
of a reasonable and practicable virtue in every return of honour, more
unquestionably, than he whose life and principles your outrageous
virtue leads you to undervalue so unworthily? And take it from me as
an oracle, which long age and experience enable me to deliver with all
assurance, “Whoever, in succeeding times, shall form himself on the
plan here given shall meet with the safety, credit, applause, and,
if he chuses, honour and fortune in the world, which may be promised
indeed, but never will be obtained, by any other method.”


DR. MORE.

You have spoken. But hear me now, I conjure you, whilst a poor despised
philosopher—


MR. WALLER.

O! I have marked the emotion this discourse of mine hath awakened in
you. I have seen your impatience: I have watched your eyes when they
sparkled defiance and contradiction to my argument. But your warmth
makes you forget yourself. I gave a patient hearing to all your
eloquence could suggest in this cause. I even favoured your zeal, and
helped to blow up your enthusiasm. The rest fell to my turn; and
besides, the evening, as you see, shuts in upon us. Let us escape, at
least, from its dews, which, in this decline of the year, they say, are
not the most wholesome, into a warm apartment within doors; and then I
shall not be averse, especially when you have taken a few minutes to
recollect yourself, to debate with you what further remains upon this
argument[30].




  DIALOGUE II.

  ON RETIREMENT.

  BETWEEN

  MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY,

  AND

  THE REV. MR. THOMAS SPRAT.




  DIALOGUE II.

  ON RETIREMENT.

  MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY—THE REV. MR. SPRAT.


TO THE EARL OF ST. ALBANS[31].

MY LORD,

The duty I owe your LORDSHIP, as well as my friendship for Mr. COWLEY,
determined me to lose no time in executing the commission you was
pleased to charge me with by Mr. D***. I went early the next morning
to _Barn Elms_[32]; intending to pass the whole day with him, and to
try if what I might be able to suggest on the occasion, together with
the weight of your lordship’s advice, could not divert him from his
strange project of _Retirement_. Your lordship, no doubt, as all his
other friends, had observed his bias that way to be very strong; but
who, that knew his great sense, could have thought of it its carrying
him to so extravagant a resolution? For my own part, I suspected it so
little, that, though he would often talk of retiring, and especially
since your lordship’s favour to him[33], I considered it only as the
usual language of poets, which they take up one after another, and
love to indulge in, as what they suppose becomes their family and
profession. It could never come into my thoughts, that one, who knew
the world so well as Mr. COWLEY, and had lived so long in it, who had
so fair hopes and so noble a patron, could seriously think of quitting
the scene at his years, and all for so fantastic a purpose as that of
growing old in the corner of a country village.

These, my lord, were my sentiments, when your friendly message alarmed
me with the apprehension of there being more in the matter than I had
suspected. Yet still I considered it only as a hasty thought, which
a fit of the spleen, or of the muse it may be, had raised; and which
the free remonstrance of a friend would easily disperse, or prevent at
least from coming to any fixed and settled resolution. But how shall
I express to your lordship the surprise I was in, to find that this
resolution was not only taken, but rooted so deeply in him, that no
arguments, nor even your lordship’s authority, could shake it? I have
ever admired Mr. COWLEY, as a man of the happiest temper and truest
judgment; but, to say the least, there was something so particular, I
had almost said perverse, in what he had to allege for himself on this
occasion, that I cannot think I acquit myself to your lordship, without
laying before you the whole of this extraordinary conversation; and, as
far as my recollection will serve, in the very words in which it passed
betwixt us.

I went, as I told your lordship, pretty early to _Barn Elms_; but my
friend had gotten the start of me by some hours. He was busying himself
with some improvements of his garden, and the fields that lie about
his house. The whole circuit of his domain was not so large, but that
I presently came up with him. “My dear friend,” said he, embracing
me, but with a look of some reserve and disgust, “and is it you then
I have the happiness to see, at length, in my new settlement? Though
I fled hither from the rest of the world, I had no design to get out
of the reach of my friends. And, to be plain with you, I took it a
little amiss from one whose entire affection I had reckoned upon,
that he should leave me to myself for these two whole months, without
discovering an inclination, either from friendship or curiosity, to
know how this retirement agreed with me. What could induce my best
friend to use me so unkindly?”

Surely, said I, you forget the suddenness of your flight, and the
secresy with which the resolution was taken. We supposed you gone only
for a few days, to see to the management of your affairs; and could
not dream of your _rusticating_ thus long, at a time when the town
and court are so busy; when the occasions of your friends and your
own interests seemed to require your speedy return to us. However,
continued I, it doth not displease me to find you so dissatisfied
with this solitude. It looks as if the short experience, you have
had of this recluse life, did not recommend it to you in the manner
you expected. Retirement is a fine thing in imagination, and is apt
to possess you poets with strange visions. But the charm is rarely
lasting; and a short trial, I find, hath served to correct these
fancies. You feel yourself born for society and the world, and, by your
kind complaints of your friend, confess how unnatural it is to deny
yourself the proper delights of a man, the delights of conversation.

Not so fast, interrupted he, if you please, in your conclusions about
the nature of retirement. I never meant to give up my right in the
affections of those few I call my friends. But what has this to do
with the general purpose of retreating from the anxieties of business,
the intrigues of policy, or the impertinencies of conversation? I have
lived but too long in a ceaseless round of these follies. The best part
of my time hath been spent _sub dio_. I have served in all weathers,
and in all climates, but chiefly in the torrid zone of politics, where
the passions of all men are on fire, and where such as have lived the
longest, and are thought the happiest, are scarcely able to reconcile
themselves to the sultry air of the place. But this warfare is now
happily at an end. I have languished these many years for the shade.
Thanks to my Lord ST. ALBANS, and another noble lord you know of, I
have now gained it. And it is not a small matter, I assure you, shall
force me out of this shelter.

Nothing is easier, said I, than for you men of wit to throw a ridicule
upon any thing. It is but applying a quaint figure, or a well-turned
sentence, and the business is done. But indeed, my best friend, it
gives me pain to find you not so much diverting as deceiving yourself
with this unseasonable ingenuity. So long as these sallies of fancy
were employed only to enliven conversation, or furnish matter for an
ode or an epigram, all was very well. But now that you seem disposed
to _act_ upon them, you must excuse me if I take the matter a little
more seriously. To deal plainly with you, I come to tell you my whole
mind on this subject: and, to give what I have to say the greater
consequence with you, I must not conceal from you, that I come
commissioned by the excellent lord you honour so much, and have just
now mentioned, to expostulate in the freest manner with you upon it.

We had continued walking all this time, and were now ascending a
sort of natural terras. It led to a small thicket, in the entrance
of which was a seat that commanded a pleasant view of the country
and the river. Taking me up to it, “Well,” said he, “my good friend,
since your purpose in coming hither is so kind, and my Lord ST. ALBANS
himself doth me the honour to think my private concerns deserving his
particular notice, it becomes me to receive your message with respect,
and to debate the matter, since you press it so home upon me, with all
possible calmness. But let us, if you please, sit down here. You will
find it the most agreeable spot I have to treat you with; and the shade
we have about us will not, I suppose, at this hour, be unwelcome.”

And now, turning himself to me, “Let me hear from you, what there
is in my retreat to this place, which a wise man can have reason to
censure, or which may deserve the disallowance of a friend. I know you
come prepared with every argument which men of the world have at any
time employed against retirement; and I know your ability to give to
each its full force. But look upon this scene before you, and tell me
what inducements I can possibly have to quit it for any thing you can
promise me in exchange? Is there in that vast labyrinth, you call the
world, where so many thousands lose themselves in endless wanderings
and perplexities, any corner where the mind can recollect itself so
perfectly, where it can attend to its own business, and pursue its
proper interests so conveniently, as in this quiet and sequestered
spot? Here the passions subside; or, if they continue to agitate,
do not however transport the mind with those feverish and vexatious
fervours, which distract us in public life. This is the seat of virtue
and of reason; here I can fashion my life by the precepts of duty
and conscience; and here I have leisure to make acquaintance, that
acquaintance which elsewhere is so rarely made, with the ways and works
of God.

Think again, my friend. Doth not the genius of the place seize you? Do
you not perceive a certain serenity steal in upon you? Doth not the
aspect of things around you, the very stillness of this retreat, infuse
a content and satisfaction which the world knows nothing of? Tell me,
in a word, is there not something like enchantment about us? Do you not
find your desires more composed, your purposes more pure, your thoughts
more elevated, and more active, since your entrance into this scene?”

He was proceeding in this strain, with an air of perfect enthusiasm,
when I broke in upon him with asking, “Whether this was what he called
_debating the matter calmly with me_. Surely,” said I, “this is poetry,
or something still more extravagant. You cannot think I come prepared
to encounter you in this way. I own myself no match for you at these
weapons: which indeed are too fine for my handling, and very unsuitable
to my purpose if they were not. The point is not which of us can say
the handsomest things, but the truest, on either side of the question.
It is, as you said, plain argument, and not rhetorical flourishes, much
less poetical raptures, that must decide the matter in debate. Not but
a great deal might be said on my side, and, it may be, with more colour
of truth, had I the command of an eloquence proper to set it off.

I might ask, in my turn, “Where is mighty charm that draws you to this
inglorious solitude, from the duties of business and conversation,
from the proper end and employment of man? How comes it to pass, that
this stillness of a country landscape, this uninstructing, though
agreeable enough, scene of fields and waters, should have greater
beauty in your eye, than _flourishing peopled towns_, the scenes of
industry and art, of public wealth and happiness? Is not the _sublime
countenance_ of man, so one of your acquaintance terms it, a more
delightful object than any of these humble beauties that lie before
us? And are not the human virtues, with all their train of lovely and
beneficial effects in society, better worth contemplating, than the
products of inanimate nature in the field or wood? Where should we seek
for REASON, but in the minds of men tried and polished in the school
of civil conversation? And where hath VIRTUE so much as a being out of
the offices of social life? Look well into yourself, I might say: hath
not indeed the proper genius of solitude affected you! Doth not I know
not what of chagrin and discontent hang about you? Is there not a gloom
upon your mind, which darkens your views of human nature, and damps
those chearful thoughts and sprightly purposes, which friendship and
society inspire?”

You see, Sir, were I but disposed, and as able as you are, to pursue
this way of fancy and declamation, I might conjure up as many frightful
forms in these retired walks, as you have delightful ones. And the
enchantment in good hands would, I am persuaded, have more the
appearance of reality. But this is not the way in which I take upon
myself to contend with you. I would hear, if you please, what reasons,
that deserve to be so called, could determine you to so strange, and,
forgive me if at present I am forced to think it, so unreasonable a
project, as that of devoting your health and years to this monastic
retirement. I would lay before you the arguments, which, I presume,
should move you to quit a hasty, perhaps an unweighted, resolution:
so improper in itself, so alarming to all your friends, so injurious
to your own interest, and, permit me to say, to the public. I would
enforce all this with the mild persuasions of a friend; and with the
wisdom, the authority of a great person, to whose opinion you owe a
deference, and who deserves it too from the entire love and affection
he bears you.”

My dearest friend, replied he, with an earnestness that awed, and a
goodness that melted me, I am not to learn the affection which either
you or my noble friend bear me. I have had too many proofs of it from
both, to suffer me to doubt it. But why will you not allow me to judge
of what is proper to constitute my own happiness? And why must I be
denied the privilege of choosing for myself, in a matter where the
different taste or humour of others makes them so unfit to prescribe
to me? Yet I submit to these unequal terms; and if I cannot justify the
choice I have made, even in the way of serious reason and argument, I
promise to yield myself to your advice and authority. You have taken me
perhaps a little unprepared and unfurnished for this conflict. I have
not marshalled my forces in form, as you seem to have done; and it may
be difficult, on the sudden, to methodize my thoughts in the manner
you may possibly expect from me. But come, said he, I will do my best
in this emergency. You will excuse the rapture which hurried me at
setting out, beyond the bounds which your severer temper requires. The
subject always fires me; and I find it difficult, in entering on this
argument, to restrain those triumphant sallies, which had better have
been reserved for the close of it.

Here he paused a little; and recollecting himself, “But first,” resumed
he, “you will take notice, that I am not at all concerned in the
general question, so much, and, I think, so vainly agitated, “_whether
a life of retirement be preferable to one of action?_” I am not, I
assure you, for unpeopling our cities, and sending their industrious
and useful inhabitants into woods and cloisters. I acknowledge and
admire the improvements of arts, the conveniencies of society, the
policies of government[34]. I have no thought so mad or so silly, as
that of wishing to see the tribes of mankind disbanded, their interests
and connexions dissolved, and themselves turned loose into a single and
solitary existence. I would not even wish to see our courts deserted
of their homagers, though I cannot but be of opinion, that an airing
now and then at their country houses, and that not with the view of
diverting, but recollecting themselves, would prove as useful to their
sense and virtue, as to their estates. But all this, as I said, is so
far from coming into the scheme of my serious wishes, that it does not
so much as enter into my thoughts. Let wealth, and power, and pleasure,
be as eagerly sought after, as they ever will be: let thousands or
millions assemble in vast towns, for the sake of pursuing their several
ends, as it may chance, of profit, vanity, or amusement: All this
is nothing to me, who pretend not to determine for other men, but to
vindicate my own choice of this retirement.

As much as I have been involved in the engagements of business, I
have not lived thus long without looking frequently, and sometimes
attentively into myself. I maintain, then, that to a person so moulded
as I am; of the _temper and turn of mind_, which Nature hath given me;
of _the sort of talents_, with which education or genius hath furnished
me; and, lastly, of the _circumstances_, in which fortune hath placed
me; I say, to a person so charactered and so situated, RETIREMENT is
not only his choice, but his duty; is not only what his inclination
leads him to, but his judgement. And upon these grounds, if you will, I
venture to undertake my own apology to you.”

Your proposal, said I, is fair, and I can have no objection to close
with you upon these terms; only you must take care, my friend, that
you do not mistake or misrepresent your own talents or character;
a miscarriage, which, allow me to say, is not very rare from the
partialities which an indulged humour, too easily taken for nature, is
apt to create in us.

Or what, replied he, if this humour, as you call it, be so rooted as to
become a _second_ nature? Can it, in the instance before us, be worth
the pains of correcting?

I should think so, returned I, in your case. But let me first hear the
judgement you form of yourself, before I trouble you with that which I
and your other friends make of you.

I cannot but think, resumed he, that my situation at present must
appear very ridiculous. I am forced into an _apology_ for my own
conduct, in a very nice affair, which it might become another, rather
than myself, to make for me. In order to this, I am constrained to
reveal to you the very secrets, that is, the foibles and weaknesses,
of my own heart. I am to lay myself open and naked before you. This
would be an unwelcome task to most men. But your friendship, and
the confidence I have in your affection, prevail over all scruples.
Hitherto your friend hath used the common privilege of wearing a
disguise, of masking himself, as the poet makes his hero, in a _cloud_,
which is of use to keep off the too near and curious inspection both of
friends and enemies. But, at your bidding, it falls off, and you are
now to see him in his just proportion and true features.

My best friend, proceeded he with an air of earnestness and
recollection, it is now above forty years that I have lived in this
world: and in all the rational part of that time there hath not, I
believe, a single day passed without an ardent longing for such a
retreat from it, as you see me at length blessed with. You have heard
me repeat some verses, which were made by me so early as the age of
_thirteen_, and in which that inclination is expressed as strongly, as
in any thing I have ever said or written on that subject[35]. Hence you
may guess the proper turn and bias of my nature; which began so soon,
and hath continued thus long, to shew itself in the constant workings
of that passion.

Even in my earliest years at school, you will hardly imagine how uneasy
constraint of every kind was to me, and with what delight I broke away
from the customary sports and pastimes of that age, to saunter the
time away by myself, or with a companion, if I could meet with any
such, of my own humour. The same inclination pursued me to college;
where a private walk, with a book or friend, was beyond any amusement,
which, in that sprightly season of life, I had any acquaintance with.
It is with a fond indulgence my memory even now returns to these past
pleasures. It was in those retired ramblings that a thousand charming
perceptions and bright ideas would stream in upon me. The Muse was
kindest in those hours: and, I know not how, Philosophy herself would
_oftner_ meet me amidst the willows of the CAM, than in the formal
schools of science, within the walls of my college, or in my tutor’s
chamber.

I understand, said I, the true secret of that matter. You had now
contracted an intimacy with the poets, and others of the fanciful
tribe. You was even admitted of their company; and it was but fit you
should adopt their sentiments, and speak their language. Hence those
day-dreams of _shade and silence_, and I know not what visions, which
transport the minds of young men, on their entrance into these regions
of _Parnassus_.

It should seem then, returned he, by your way of expressing it, as if
you thought this passion for _shade and silence_ was only pretended to
on a principle of _fashion_; or, at most, was catched by the lovers of
poetry from each other, in the way of _sympathy_, without nature’s
having any hand at all in the production of it.

Something like that, I told him, was my real sentiment: and that these
agreeable reveries of the old poets had done much hurt by being taken
too seriously. Were HORACE and VIRGIL, think you, as much in earnest
as you appear to be, when they were crying out perpetually on their
favourite theme of _otium_ and _secessus_, “they, who lived and died in
a court?”

I believe, said he, they were, and that the short accounts we have of
their lives shew it, though a perfect dismission from the court was
what they could not obtain, or had not the resolution to insist upon.
But pray, upon your principles, that all this is but the enchantment of
_example_ or _fashion_, how came it to pass, that the first seducers of
the family, the old poets themselves, had fallen into these notions?
They were surely no pretenders. They could only write from the heart.
And methinks it were more candid, as well as more reasonable, to
account for this passion, which hath so constantly shewn itself in
their successors, from the same reason. It is likely indeed, and so
much I can readily allow, that the early reading of the poets might
contribute something to confirm and strengthen my natural bias[36].

But let the matter rest for the present. I would now go on with the
detail of my own life and experience, so proper, as I think, to
convince you that what I am pleading for is the result of nature.

I was saying how agreeably my youth passed in these reveries, if you
will have it so, and especially _inter sylvas academi_:

    Dura sed emovere loco me tempora grato,
    Civilisque rudem belli tulit æstus in arma.

You know the consequence. This civil turmoil drove me from the shelter
of retirement into the heat and bustle of life; from those studies
which, as you say, had enchanted my youth, into business and action
of all sorts. I lived in the world: I conversed familiarly with the
great. A change like this, one would suppose, were enough to undo the
prejudices of education. But the very reverse happened. The further
I engaged, and the longer I continued in this scene, the greater my
impatience was of retiring from it.

But you will say, my old vice was nourished in me by living in the
neighbourhood of books and letters[37]. I was yet in the fairy land
of the Muses; and, under these circumstances, it was no wonder that
neither arms nor business, nor a court, could prevent the mind from
returning to its old bias. All this may be true. And yet, I think,
if that court had contained many such persons as some I knew in
it, neither the distractions of business on the one hand, nor the
blandishments of the Muse on the other, could have disposed me to leave
it. But there were few LORD FALKLANDS—and unhappily my admiration of
that nobleman’s worth and honour[38] created an invincible aversion to
the rest, who had little resemblance of his virtues.

I would not be thought, said I, to detract from so accomplished a
character as that of the Lord FALKLAND; but surely there was something
in his notions of honour—

Not a word, interrupted he eagerly, that may but seem to throw a shade
on a virtue the brightest and purest that hath done honour to these
later ages.—But I turn from a subject that interests me too much, and
would lead me too far. Whatever attractions there might be in such a
place, and in such _friendships_, the iniquity of the times soon forced
me from them. Yet I had the less reason to complain, as my next removal
was into the family of so beneficent a patron as the Lord JERMYN, and
into the court of so accomplished a princess as the QUEEN MOTHER.

My residence, you know, was now for many years in _France_; a country,
which piques itself on all the refinements of civility. Here the world
was to appear to me in its fairest form, and, it was not doubted, would
put on all its charms to wean me from the love of a studious retired
life. I will not say I was disappointed in this expectation. All that
the elegance of polished manners could contribute to make society
attractive, was to be found in this new scene. My situation, besides,
was such, that I came to have a sort of familiarity with greatness.
Yet shall I confess my inmost sentiments of this splendid life to you?
I found it empty, fallacious, and even disgusting. The outside indeed
was fair. But to me, who had an opportunity of looking it through,
nothing could be more deformed and hateful. All was ambition, intrigue,
and falsehood. Every one intent on his own schemes, frequently wicked,
always base and selfish. Great professions of honour, of friendship,
and of duty; but all ending in low views and sordid practices. No
truth, no sincerity: without which, conversation is but words; and the
polish of manners, the idlest foppery.

Surely, interposed I, this picture must be overcharged. Frailties
and imperfections, no doubt, there will be in all societies of men,
especially where there is room for competition in their pursuits of
honour and interest. But your idea of a court is that of a den of
thieves, only better dressed, and more civilized.

That however, said he, is the idea under which truth obliges me to
represent it. Believe me, I have been long enough acquainted with
that country, to give you a pretty exact account of its inhabitants.
Their sole business is to follow the humour of the prince, or of his
favourite, to speak the current language, to serve the present turn,
and to cozen one another. In short, their virtue is, civility; and
their sense, cunning. You will guess now, continued he, how uneasy I
must be in such company; I, who cannot lie, though it were to make a
friend, or ruin an enemy; who have been taught to bear no respect to
any but true wisdom; and, whether it be nature or education, could
never endure (pardon the foolish boast) that hypocrisy should usurp the
honours, and triumph in the spoils of virtue.

Nay further, my good friend, (for I must tell you all I know of myself,
though it expose me ever so much to the charge of folly or even
vanity) I was not born for courts and general conversation. Besides
the unconquerable aversion I have to knaves and fools (though these
last, but that they are commonly knaves too, I could bring myself
to tolerate); besides this uncourtly humour, I have another of so
odd a kind, that I almost want words to express myself intelligibly
to you. It is a sort of capricious delicacy, which occasions a wide
difference in my estimation of those characters, in which the world
makes no distinction. It is not enough to make me converse with ease
and pleasure with a man, that I see no notorious vices, or even observe
some considerable virtues in him. His good qualities must have a
certain grace, and even his sense must be of a certain turn, to give me
a relish of his conversation.

I see you smile at this talk, and am aware how fantastic this
squeamishness must appear to you. But it is with men and manners,
as with the forms and aspects of natural things. A thousand objects
recal ideas, and excite sensations in my mind, which seem to be not
perceived, or not heeded, by other men. The look of a country, the
very shading of a landskip, shall have a sensible effect on me, which
they, who have as good eyes, appear to make no account of. It is just
the same with the characters of men. I conceive a disgust at some,
and a secret regard for others, whom many, I believe, would estimate
just alike. And what is worse, a long and general conversation hath
not been able to cure me of this foible. I question, said he, turning
himself to me, but, if I was called upon to assign the reasons of that
entire affection, which knits me to my best friend, they would be
resolved at last into a something, which they, who love him perhaps as
well, would have no idea of.

He said this in a way that disarmed me, or I had it in my mind to have
rallied him on his doctrine of _occult qualities_ and _unintelligible_
forms. I therefore contented myself with saying, that I must not hear
him go on at this strange rate; and asked him if it was possible he
could suffer himself to be biassed, in an affair of this moment, by
such whimsies?

Those whimsies, resumed he, had a real effect. But consider further,
the endless impertinencies of conversation; the dissipation, and loss
of time; the diversion of the mind from all that is truly useful or
instructive, from what a reasonable man would or should delight in:
add to these, the vexations of business; the slavery of dependence,
the discourtesies of some, the grosser injuries of others; the danger,
or the scorn, to which virtue is continually subject; in short, the
knavery, or folly, or malevolence, of all around you; and tell me,
if any thing but the unhappy times, and a sense of duty, could have
detained a man of my temper and principles so long in a station of life
so very uneasy and disgusting to me.

Nothing is easier, said I, than to exaggerate the inconveniencies of
any situation. The world and the court have doubtless theirs. But you
seem to forget one particular; that the _unhappy times_ you speak of,
and the state of the court, were an excuse for part of the disagreeable
circumstances you have mentioned. The face of things is now altered.
The storm is over. A calm has succeeded. And why should not you take
the benefit of these halcyon days, in which so many others have found
their ease, and even enjoyment?

These halcyon days, returned he, are not, alas! what unexperienced men
are ready to represent them. The same vices, the same follies, prevail
still, and are even multiplied and enflamed by prosperity. A suffering
court, if any, might be expected to be the seedplot of virtues. But,
to satisfy your scruples, I have even made a trial of these happier
times. All I wished to myself from the happiest, was but such a return
for my past services, as might enable me to retire with decency. Such
a return I seem not to have merited. And I care not at this time of day
to waste more of my precious time in deserving a better treatment.

Your day, said I, is not so far spent, as to require this hasty
determination. Besides, if this be all, the world may be apt to censure
your retreat, as the effect of chagrin and disappointment.

His colour rose, as I said this. The world, resumed he, will censure as
it sees fit. I must have leave at length to judge for myself in what so
essentially concerns my own happiness. Though if ever _chagrin_ may be
pleaded as a reason for retirement, perhaps nobody had ever a better
right than I have to plead it. You know what hath happened of late,
to give me a disgust to courts. You know the view I had in my late
comedy[39] and the grounds I had to expect that it would not be ill
taken. But you know too the issue of that attempt. And should I, after
this experience of courtly gratitude, go about to solicit their favours?

But, to let you see that I am swayed by better motives than those of
_chagrin_, I shall not conceal from you what I am proud enough to think
of my TALENTS, as well as temper.

There are but two sorts of men, pursued he, that should think of living
in a court, however it be that we see animals of all sorts, clean and
unclean, enter into it.

The one is of those strong and active spirits that are formed for
business, whose ambition reconciles them to the bustle of life, and
whose capacity fits them for the discharge of its functions. These,
especially if of noble birth and good fortunes, are destined to fill
the first offices in a state; and if, peradventure, they add virtue to
their other parts and qualities, are the blessings of the age they live
in. Some few such there have been in former times; and the present, it
may be, is not wholly without them.

The OTHER sort, are what one may properly enough call, if the phrase
were not somewhat uncourtly, the MOB OF COURTS; they, who have vanity
or avarice without ambition, or ambition without talents. These, by
assiduity, good luck, and the help of their vices (for they would scorn
to earn advancement, if it were to be had, by any worthy practices),
may in time succeed to the lower posts in a government; and together
make up that showey, servile, selfish crowd, we dignify with the name
of COURT.

Now, though I think too justly of myself to believe I am qualified
to enter into the _former_ of these lists, you may conclude, if you
please, that I am too proud to brigue for an admission into the
_latter_. I pretend not to great abilities of any kind; but let me
presume a little in supposing, that I may have some too good to be
thrown away on such company.

Here, my lord, the unusual freedom, and even indecency, of Mr. COWLEY’S
invective against courts, transported me so far, that I could not
forbear turning upon him with some warmth. Surely, said I, my friend
is much changed from what I always conceived of him. This heat of
language, from one of your candour, surprises me equally with the
injustice of it. It is so far from _calm reasoning_, that it wants
but little, methinks, of downright railing. I believe, continued I,
that I think more highly, that is, more justly, of Mr. COWLEY in every
respect, than he allows himself to do. Yet I see not that either his
time, or his talents, would be misemployed in the services he so much
undervalues. Permit me to say, your resentment hath carried you too
far; and that you do not enough consider the friends you left at court,
or the noble lord that wishes your return thither.

I do, said he hastily, consider both. But, with your leave, since I
am forced to defend myself against an ignominious charge, I must do
myself the right to assume what I think belongs to me. I repeat it; I
have long thought my time lost in the poor amusements and vanities of
the great world, and have felt an impatience to get into a quiet scene,
where, slender as my talents are, I might employ them to better purpose.

And think not, proceeded he, that I am carried to this choice by any
thing so frivolous as the idleness of a poetical fancy. Not but the
Muse, which hath been the darling of my youth, may deserve to be the
companion of my riper age. For I am far from renouncing an art, which,
unprofitable as it hath ever been to me, is always entertaining: and
when employed, as I mean it shall be, in other services than those by
which a voluptuous court seems willing to disgrace it, I see not what
there is in this amusement of poetry, for the severest censor of life
and manners to take offence at. Yet still I intend it for an amusement.
My serious occupations will be very different; such as you, my friend,
cannot disapprove, and should encourage. But I have opened to you my
intentions more than once, and need not give you the trouble at this
time to hear me explain them.

You mean, interposed I, to apply yourself to _natural_ and _religious_
inquiries. Your design is commendable; and I would not dissuade you
from it. But what should hinder your pursuing this design as well in
society as in this solitude?

What, at COURT, returned he, where the only object, that all men are in
quest of, is GAIN; and the only deity they acknowledge, FORTUNE? Or
say that such idolatries did not prevail, there, how shall the mind be
calm enough for so sublime inquiries? or where, but in this scene of
genuine nature, is there an opportunity to indulge in them? Here, if
any where, is the observation of the poet verified, DEUS EST QUODCUNQUE
VIDES. Look round, my friend, on this florid earth, on the various
classes of _animals_ that inhabit, and the countless _vegetable_ tribes
that adorn it. Here is the proper school of wisdom,

    And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
    Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
    Sermons in stones, and good in every thing[40].

Infinite are the uses, continued he, which would result from this
method of applying experiment and observation to _Natural Science_.
I have taken occasion, you know, to offer a slight sketch of them to
the Public very lately[41]. But the principal I would draw from it to
myself should be, to inure the mind to just conceptions of the divine
nature; that so, with the better advantage, I might turn myself to
the awful study of his _Word_. And here, my friend, I am sensible how
much I may expect to be animated by your zeal, and enlightened by your
instruction. In the mean time, I pretend to possess some qualities,
which, if rightly applied, may not be unsuitable to so high an
undertaking. I feel myself impelled by an eager curiosity: I have much
patience, and some skill in making experiments. I may even be allowed
to boast of a readiness in the learned languages; and am not without
a tincture of such other studies, as the successful prosecution of
PHYSICS, and still more of DIVINITY, requires. You may further impute
to me, if you please, an ingenuous love of truth, and an ordinary
degree of judgment to discern it.

These, concluded he, are the TALENTS, of which I spoke to you so
proudly; and with the help of these (especially if you allow me _one_
other, the power of _communicating_ what I may chance to learn of
natural or divine things), I might hope to render a better account of
this solitude, than of any employments I could reasonably aspire to, in
the world of men and of business.

He said this with an air of solemnity, which left me a little at a
loss what to reply to him, when he relieved my perplexity by adding,
“but, though there was nothing of all this in the case, and my zeal for
promoting knowledge in this private way were as lightly to be accounted
of, as _that_, which led me to propose the more extensive scheme I
before mentioned, probably will be, yet what should draw me from this
leisure of a learned retirement? For though I please myself with the
prospect of doing some _public_ service by my studies, yet need I blush
to own, to my learned friend, the fondness I should still have for
them, were they only to end in my own _private_ enjoyment? Yes, let me
open my whole soul to you. I have ever delighted in letters, and have
even found them, what the world is well enough content they should be,
their own reward. I doubt, if this language would be understood in all
companies. And let others speak as they find. But to me the year would
drag heavily, and life itself be no life, if it were not quickened by
these ingenuous pleasures.”

Indeed, were it only for the very quiet and indolence of mind, which
retirement promises, why should I be envied this calm in the decline of
a troubled life? But let the Muse speak for me,

    “After long toils and voyages in vain,
    This quiet port let my tost vessel gain;
    Of heav’nly rest this earnest to me lend,
    Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end.”

And what if they, who have not the means of enjoying this rest, submit
to the drudgery of business? Is that a reason for me to continue in it,
who have made my fortune, even to the extent of my wishes? I see you
smile at this boast. But where would you have me stop in my desires; or
what is it you would have me understand by the mysterious language of
_making a fortune_? Is it two hundred a year, or four, or a thousand?
Say, where shall we fix, or what limits will you undertake to prescribe
to the vague and shifting notion of a competency? Or, shall we own
the truth at once, that every thing is a _competency_ which a man is
contented to live upon, and that therefore it varies only, as his
desires are more or less contracted?

To talk at any other rate of a _man’s fortune_, is surely to expose
one’s self to the ridicule, which the philosopher, you know, threw on
the restless humour of king Pyrrhus. ’Tis whim, chimera, madness, or
what you will, except sober reason and common sense. Yet still the
world cries, “What, sit down with a pittance, when the ways of honour
and fortune are open to you? take up with what may barely satisfy, when
you have so fair a chance for affluence, and even superfluity?”

Alas! and will that _affluence_, then, more than satisfy? or can it be
worth the while to labour, for a _superfluity_?

’Tis true the violence of the times, in which it was my fortune to
bear a part, had left me bare and unprovided even of those moderate
accommodations, which my education and breeding might demand, and which
a parent’s piety had indeed bequeathed to me. It was but fitting then
I should strive to repair this loss; and the rather, as my honest
services gave me leave to hope for a speedy reparation. And thus far
I was contented to try my fortune in the court, though at the expence
of much uneasy attendance and solicitation. But, seeing that this
assiduity was without effect, and that the bounty of two excellent
persons[42] hath now set me above the necessity of continuing it, what
madness were it to embark again

    “Fluctibus in mediis et tempestatibus urbis!”

So that if you will needs be urging me with the ceaseless exhortation of

    “I, bone, quo virtus tua te vocat: I pede fausto,
    Grandia laturus meritorum præmia:—”

I must take leave to remind you of the sage reply that was made to
it. It was, you know, by an old soldier, who found himself exactly in
my situation. The purse, which he had lost by one accident, he had
recovered by another. The conclusion was, that he had no mind, in this
different state of affairs, to turn adventurer again, and expose
himself to the same perilous encounters:

    “Post hæc ille catus, quantumvis RUSTICUS, ibit,
    Ibit eo, quo vis QUI ZONAM PERDIDIT, inquit.”

In one word, my friend, I am happy here, as you see me, in my little
farm, which yet is large enough to answer all my real necessities; and
I am not in the humour of him in the fable[43], to fill my head with
visions, and spend a wretched life in quest of the _flying island_.

And now, added he, you have before you in one view the principal
reasons that have determined me to this retreat. I might have enlarged
on each more copiously; but I know to whom I speak: and perhaps to such
a one I might even have spared a good deal of what I have now been
offering, from the several considerations of my TEMPER, TALENTS, and
SITUATION.

Here he stopped. And now, my lord, it came to my turn to take the
lead in this controversy. There was indeed an ample field before me.
And, if the other side of the question afforded most matter for wit
and declamation, mine had all the advantages of good sense and sound
reason. The superiority was so apparent, and my victory over him, in
point of argument, so sure, that I thought it needless and ungenerous
to press him on every article of his defence, in which he had laid
himself open to me.

Your lordship hath, no doubt, observed, with wonder and with pity, the
strange spirit that runs through every part of it: the confined way of
thinking, which hath crept upon him; the cynical severity, he indulges
against courts; the importance he would sometimes assume to his own
character; the peevish turn of mind, that leads him to take offence at
the lighter follies and almost excusable vices of the great; in short,
the resentment, the pique, the chagrin, which one overlooks in the
hopeless suitor, or hungry poet, but which are very unaccountable in
one of Mr. COWLEY’S condition and situation.

Here then, my lord, was a fair occasion for a willing adversary. But
I spared the infirmities of my friend. I judged it best, too, to
keep him in temper, and avoid that heat of altercation, which must
have arisen from touching these indiscretions, as they deserved. Your
lordship sees the reason I had for confining my reply to such parts
of his apology, as bore the fairest shew of argument, and might be
encountered without offence.

When he had ended, therefore, with so formal a recapitulation of his
discourse, I thought it not amiss to follow him in his own train; and,
dissembling the just exceptions I had to his vindication in other
respects, “You have proceeded, said I, in a very distinct method, and
have said as much, I believe, on the subject, as so bad a cause would
admit. But if this indeed be all you have to allege, for so uncommon
a fancy, you must not think it strange, if I pronounce it, without
scruple, very insufficient for your purpose.

For, to give your several pleas a distinct examination, what is that
TEMPER, let me ask, on which you insist so much, but a wayward humour,
which your true judgement should correct and controul by the higher
and more important regards of _duty_? Every man is born with some
prevailing propensity or other, which, if left to itself, and indulged
beyond certain bounds, would grow to be very injurious to himself
and society. There is something, no doubt, amusing in the notion of
_retirement_. The very word implies ease and quiet, and self-enjoyment.
And who doubts, that in the throng and bustle of life, most men are
fond to image to themselves, and even to wish for a scene of more
composure and tranquillity? It is just as natural as that the labourer
should long for his repose at night; or that the soldier, amidst the
dust and heat of a summer’s march, should wish for the conveniencies
of shade and shelter. But what wild work would it make if these so
natural desires should be immediately gratified? if the labourer should
quit his plow, and the soldier his arms, to throw themselves into the
first shade or thicket that offered refreshment? All you have therefore
said on this article can really stand for nothing in the eye of sober
reason, whatever figure it may make in the dress of your eloquence[44].
The inconveniencies of every station are to be endured from the
obligations of duty, and on account of the services one is bound to
render to himself and his country.

True, replied he, if it appeared to be one’s duty, or even interest, to
continue in that station. But what principle of conscience binds me to
a slavish dependence at court? or what interest, public or private, can
be an equivalent for wearing these chains, when I have it in my power
to throw them off, and redeem myself into a state of liberty?

What _Interest_, do you ask? returned I. Why that great and extensive
one, which _society_ hath in an honest and capable man’s continuing to
bear a part in public affairs. For as to inducements of another kind,
I may find occasion hereafter to press them upon you more seasonably.
Consider well with yourself, what would the consequence be, if all
men of honour and ability were to act upon your principles? What a
world would this be, if knaves and fools only had the management in
their hands, and all the virtuous and wise, as it were by common
consent, were to withdraw from it? Nay, the issue would even be fatal
to themselves; and they would presently find it impossible to taste
repose, even in their own sanctuary of retirement.

Small need, replied he, to terrify one’s self with such apprehensions.
The virtuous, at least they who pass for such, will generally have
ambition enough to keep them in the road of public employments. So
long as there are such things as riches and honours, courts will never
be unfurnished of suitors, even from among the tribes of lettered
and virtuous men. The desperately bad, at least, will never have the
field left entirely to themselves. And, after all, the interest of
men in office is, in the main, so providentially connected with some
regard to the rules of honour and conscience, that there is seldom
any danger that matters should come to extremities under the _worst_
administration. And I doubt this is all we are to expect, or at least
to reckon upon with assurance, under the very _best_.

But my answer is more direct. It is not for your little friend to think
of getting a seat in the cabinet-council, or of conducting the great
affairs of the state. He knows himself to be as unfit for those high
trusts, as he is incapable of aspiring to them. Besides, he does not
allow himself to doubt of their being discharged with perfect ability,
by the great persons who now fill them. HE, at least, who occupies
the foremost place of authority, is, by the allowance of all, to be
paralleled with any that the wisest prince hath ever advanced to that
station[45]. And when so consummate a pilot sits at the helm, it seems
a matter of little moment by what hands the vessel of the commonwealth
is navigated.

I could not agree with him in this concluding remark, and much less in
the high-flown encomium which introduced it[46]. But, waving these
lesser matters, I contented myself with observing, “That let him put
what gloss he would on this humour of declining civil business, it must
needs be considered by all unbiassed persons, as highly prejudicial to
public order and government; that, if good men would not be employed,
the bad must; and that, to say the least, the cause of learning and
virtue must suffer exceedingly in the eyes of men, when they see those
very qualities, which alone can render us useful to the world, dispose
us to fly from it.”

For as to the _plea_, continued I, of employing them to better purpose
in the way of _private and solitary_ CONTEMPLATION, I can hold it for
little better than enthusiasm. Several persons, I know, would give
it a worse name, and say, as TACITUS somewhere does, that it serves
only for a specious cover to that love of ease and self-indulgence,
which he will have to be at the bottom of such pretences[47]. But even
with the best construction the matter was capable of, he could never,
I insisted, justify that plea to the understandings of prudent and
knowing men. We allow the obscure pedant to talk high of the dignity
of his office, and magnify, as much as he pleases, the importance of
his speculations. Such an indulgence serves to keep him in humour with
himself, and may be a means to convert a low and plodding genius to
the only use of which it is capable. But for a man of experience in
affairs, and who is qualified to shine in them, to hold this language,
is very extraordinary.

I saw with what impatience he heard me, and therefore took care to
add, “’Tis true, the studies to which you would devote yourself, are
the noblest in the world of science. For _Divinity_, the very name
speaks its elogium. And the countenance which his majesty is pleased,
in his true wisdom, to give to _natural science_, must be thought to
ennoble that branch of learning beyond all others, that are merely
of human consideration. Yet still, my friend, what need of taking
these studies out of the hands of those, to whom they are properly
intrusted? Religion is very safe in the bosom of the national church.
And questions of natural science will doubtless be effectually cleared
and ventilated in the _New Society_[48], and in the schools of our
_Universities_. It could never be his majesty’s intention to thin his
court, for the sake of furnishing students in natural philosophy.”

And can you then, interposed he, in your concern for what you very
improperly call my interests, allow yourself to speak so coolly of the
great interests of natural and divine truth? Is religion a trade to
be confined to the craftsmen? Or, are fellows of colleges and of the
Royal Society, if such we are to have, the only persons concerned to
adore God in the wonders of his creation? Pardon me, my friend: I know
you mean nothing less; but the strange indifference of your phrase
provokes me to this expostulation.

You warm yourself, resumed I, too hastily. My design was only to
suggest, that as there are certain orders of men appointed for the sole
purpose of studying divinity, and advancing philosophy, I did not see
that a man of business was obliged to desert his proper station for the
sake of either.

I suspect, said he, there may be some equivocation wrapped up in
that word _obliged_. All I know is, that I shall spend my time more
innocently, at least; and, I presume to think, more usefully in those
studies, than in that slippery _station_, if it may deserve to be
called one, of court-favour and dependence. And if I extended the
observation to many others, that are fond to take up their residence in
these quarters, I cannot believe I should do them any injustice.

I cannot tell, returned I, against whom this censure is pointed. But
I know there are many of the gravest characters, and even lights and
fathers of the church, who do not consider it as inconsistent, either
with their duty, or the usefulness of their profession, to continue in
that station.

O! mistake me not, replied he: I intended no reflection on any of the
clergy, and much less on the great prelates of the church, for their
attendance in the courts of princes. Theirs is properly an exempt
case. They are the authorized guides and patterns of life. Their great
abilities indeed qualify them, above all others, for serving the cause
of science and religion, by their private studies and meditations.
But they very properly consider too, that part of their duty is to
enlighten the ignorant of all ranks, by their wise and pious discourse,
and to awe and reclaim the wandering of all denominations, by their
example. Hence it is, that I cannot enough admire the zeal of so many
pastors of the church; who, though the slavish manners and libertinism
of a court must be more than ordinarily offensive to men of their
characters, continue to discharge their office so painfully, and yet so
punctually, in that situation.

Here, my lord, observing my friend for once to deliver himself
reasonably, I was encouraged to add, that since he was so just to
maintain the commerce of good and wise churchmen in the great world
to be, as it truly was, a matter of duty, he should also have the
candour to own, that his withdrawing from it was, at least, a work of
_Supererogation_.

It might be so, he said; but, though our church gave no encouragement
to think we merit by such works, he did not know that it condemned and
utterly forbad them.

O! but, returned I, if that be all, and you acknowledge at last that
your _retiring_ is no matter of duty, it will be easy to advance
another step, and demonstrate to you, that such a project is, in your
case, altogether unreasonable[49].

For, notwithstanding all you have said, in the spirit and language
of stoicism, of the comforts of your present SITUATION, will you
seriously undertake to persuade me that they are in any degree
comparable to what you might propose to yourself, by returning to a
life of business? Is the littleness, the obscurity, and pardon me if I
even say, the meanness of this retreat, to be put in competition with
the liberal and even splendid provision, which your friends at court
will easily be able to make for you? Is it nothing, my friend, (for
let us talk common sense, and not bewilder ourselves with the visions
of philosophy) is it nothing to live in a well-furnished house, to
keep a good table, to command an equipage, to have many friends and
dependants, to be courted by inferiors, to be well received by the
great, and to be somebody even in the _presence_?

And what if, in order to compass such things, some little devoirs and
assiduities are expected? Is it not the general practice? And what
every body submits to, can it be ignominious? Is this any thing more
than conforming one’s self to the necessary subordination of society?
Or, what if some time passes in these services, which a present humour
suggests might be more agreeably spent in other amusements? The
recompence cannot be far off; and, in the mean time, the lustre and
very agitation of a life of business, hath somewhat in it sprightly
and amusing. Besides, yours is not the case of one that is entering,
for the first time, on a course of expectation. Your business is half
done. The prince is favourable; and there are of his ministers that
respect and honour you. Your services are well known; your reputation
is fair; your connexions great; and the season inviting. What, with all
these advantages, forego the court in a moping mood, or, as angry men
use, run to moralize in a cloister!

I was proceeding in the warmth of this remonstrance, when, with a
reproachful smile, he turned upon me, and, in a kind of rapture,
repeated the following lines of SPENSER:

    “Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
    What hell it is in suing long to bide:
    To lose good days, that might be better spent;
    To waste long nights in pensive discontent:
    To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
    To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
    To have thy prince’s grace, yet want his peeres[50];
    To have thy askings, yet wait many yeers[51];
    To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
    To eat thy heart through comfortless despaires;
    To faun, to crouche, to wait, to ride, to ronne;
    To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.”

This, said he, is my answer once for all to your long string of
interrogatories. I learnt it of one that had much experience in courts:
and I thought it worth imprinting on my memory, to have it in readiness
on such an occasion. Or, if you would rather have my answer in my
own words, the Muse shall give it you in a little poem, she dictated
very lately[52]. It may shew you perhaps, that, though my nature be
somewhat melancholy, I am not _moping_; and that I can moralize, and
even _complain_, as I have reason to do, without being _angry_.

The look and tone of voice, with which he said this, a little
disconcerted me. But I recovered myself, and was going on to object to
his unreasonable warmth, and the fascination of this wicked poetry,
when he stopped me with saying, “Come, no more of these remonstrances
and upbraidings. I have heard enough of your pleadings in a cause,
which no eloquence can carry against my firm and fixed resolutions.
I have seen, besides, the force you have done to yourself in this
mock combat. Your extreme friendliness hath even tempted you to act a
part which your true sense, and the very decorum of your profession,
I have observed through all your disguises, has rendered painful to
you. I will tell you my whole mind in one word. No inducements of what
the world calls INTEREST, no views of HONOUR, no, nor what the poet
aptly calls, SANCTISSIMA DIVITIARUM MAJESTAS[53], shall make me recede
from the purpose I am bent upon, of consecrating the remainder of a
comfortless distracted life, to the sweets of this obscure retirement.
Believe me, I have weighed it well, with all its inconveniencies.
And I find them such as are nothing to the agonies have long felt
in that troubled scene, to which you would recal me. If it hath any
ingredients, which I cannot so well relish, they are such as my
friends, and, above all, such as you, my best friend, may reconcile to
me. Let me but have the pleasure to see the few, I love and esteem, in
these shades, and I shall not regret their solitude.

And as for my much honoured friend, whose munificence hath placed me
in them, I shall hope to satisfy him in the most effectual manner.
Nothing, you will believe, could give me a pain equal to that of being
suspected of ingratitude towards my best benefactor. It was indeed
with the utmost difficulty, that I constrained myself at last to think
of leaving his service. The truth is, he expostulated with me upon it
pretty roundly; and though my resolution was taken, I left him with
the concern of not being able to give him entire satisfaction. These
repeated instances by you are a fresh proof of his goodness, and do me
an honour I had little reason to expect from him. But his lordship’s
notions of life and mine are very different, as is fitting in persons,
whom fortune hath placed in two such different situations. It becomes
me to bear the most grateful remembrance of his kind intentions; and,
for the rest, I can assure myself, that his equity and nobleness
of mind, will permit an old servant to pursue, at length, his own
inclinations.

However, to repay his goodness as I can, and to testify all imaginable
respect to his judgment, I have purposed to write my own APOLOGY to his
lordship; and to represent to him, in a better manner, than I have done
in this sudden and unpremeditated conversation, the reasons that have
determined me to this resolution. I have even made some progress in the
design, and have digested into several _essays_ the substance of such
reflections as, at different times, have had most weight with me[54].

Hearing him speak in so determined a manner, I was discouraged from
pressing him further with such other considerations, as I had, prepared
on this argument. Only I could not help enforcing, in the warmest
manner, and in terms your lordship would not allow me to use in this
recital, what he himself had owned of your unexampled goodness to
him; and the obligation which, I insisted, that must needs create in
a generous mind, of paying an unreserved obedience to your lordship’s
pleasure. He gave me the hearing very patiently; but contented himself
with repeating his design of justifying himself to your lordship in the
apology he had before promised.

And now, resumed he with an air of alacrity, since you know my whole
mind, and that no remonstrances can move me, confess the whole truth;
acknowledge at last that you have dissembled with me all this while,
and that, in reality, you approve my resolution. I know you do, my
friend, though you struggle hard to conceal it. It cannot be otherwise.
Nature, which linked our hearts together, had formed us in one mould.
We have the same sense of things; the same love of letters and of
virtue. And though I would not solicit one of your years and your
profession to follow me into the shade, yet I know you so well[55],
that you will preserve in the world that equal frame of mind, that
indifference to all earthly things, which I pretend to have carried
with me into this solitude.

Go on, my friend, in this track; and be an example to the churchmen of
our days, that the highest honours of the gown, which I easily foresee
are destined to your abilities, are not incompatible with the strictest
purity of life, and the most heroic sentiments of integrity and honour.
Go, and adorn the dignities which are reserved for you; and remember
only in the heights of prosperity to be what you are, to serve the
world with vigour, yet so as to indulge with me

                      “THE GENEROUS SCORN
    OF THINGS, FOR WHICH WE WERE NOT BORN[56].”

I began to be a little uneasy at his long sermon, when he broke it off
with this couplet. The day by this time was pretty far advanced; and
rising from his seat, he proposed to me to walk into his hermitage (so
he called his house); where, he said, I should see how a philosopher
lived as well as talked. I staid to dine, and spent a good part of
the afternoon with him. We discoursed of various matters; but not a
word more of what had occasioned this visit. Only he shewed me the
_complaining poem_ he had mentioned, and of which, for the pleasure so
fine a composition will give you, I here send your lordship a copy.
His spirits, he said, were enlivened by the face of an old friend; and
indeed I never knew his conversation more easy and chearful[57]; which
yet I could not perfectly enjoy for the regret the ill success of my
negociation had given me.

I returned to town in the evening, ruminating on what had passed, and
resolving to send your lordship an exact account of our conversation.
I particularly made a point of suppressing nothing which Mr. COWLEY
had to say for himself in this debate, however it may sometimes seem
to make against me. The whole hath grown under my pen into a greater
length than I expected. But your Lordship wished to know the bottom of
our friend’s mind; and I thought you would see it more distinctly and
clearly in this way, than in any other. I am, my lord, with the most
profound respect,

  Your Lordship’s most obedient

  and faithful servant,

  T. SPRAT.




  THE

  COMPLAINT[58].

    In a deep vision’s intellectual scene
    Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
        Th’ uncomfortable shade
        Of the black yew’s unlucky green,
    Mixt with the mourning willow’s careful gray,
    Where reverend CAM cuts out his famous way,
    The melancholy COWLEY lay:
      And lo! a Muse appear’d to’s closed sight,
    (The Muses oft in lands of visions play)
    Bodied, array’d, and seen by an internal light:
    A golden harp with silver strings she bore,
    A wonderous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
    In which all colours, and all figures were,
    That nature, or that fancy can create,
      That art can never imitate;
    And with loose pride it wanton’d in the air.
    In such a dress, in such a well-cloath’d dream,
    She us’d of old, near fair ISMENUS’ stream,
    PINDAR her THEBAN favourite to meet;
    A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.


II.

    She touch’d him with her harp, and rais’d him from the ground;
    The shaken strings melodiously resound.
        Art thou return’d at last, said she,
        To this forsaken place and me?
    Thou prodigal, who didst so loosely waste
    Of all thy youthful years, the good estate?
    Art thou return’d here to repent too late;
    And gather husks of learning up at last,
    Now the rich harvest-time of life is past,
        And _Winter_ marches on so fast?
    But when I meant t’adopt thee for my son,
    And did as learn’d a portion thee assign,
    As ever any of the mighty Nine
        Had to her dearest children done;
    When I resolv’d t’exalt thy anointed name,
    Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame[59];
    Thou changeling, thou, bewitch’d with noise and show,
    Would’st into courts and cities from me go;
    Would’st see the world abroad, and have a share
    In all the follies, and the tumults there.
    Thou would’st, forsooth, be something in a state,
    And business thou would’st find, and would’st create:
        Business! the frivolous pretence
    Of humane lusts to shake off innocence:
        Business! the grave impertinence:
    Business! the thing which I of all things hate:
    Business! the contradiction of thy fate.


III.

    Go, renegado, cast up thy account,
        And see to what amount
        Thy foolish gains by quitting me:
    The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty,
    The fruits of thy unlearn’d apostasy.
    Thou thought’st, if once the public storm were past,
    All thy remaining life should sun-shine be;
    Behold, the public storm is spent at last,
    The sovereign is tost at sea no more,
    And thou, with all the noble company,
        Art got at last to shore.
    But whilst thy fellow voyagers, I see,
    All march’d up to possess the promis’d land,
    Thou still alone (alas!) dost gaping stand
    Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand.


IV.

    As a fair morning of the blessed spring,
        After a tedious stormy night;
    Such was the glorious entry of our king:
    Enriching moisture dropp’d on every thing;
    Plenty he sow’d below, and cast about him light.
        But then (alas!) to thee alone,
    One of old GIDEON’S miracles was shown;
    For every tree, and every herb around,
        With pearly dew was crown’d,
    And upon all the quicken’d ground
    The fruitful seed of heaven did brooding lye,
    And nothing but the Muse’s fleece was dry.
        It did all other threats surpass
    When God to his own people said,
    (The men, whom thro’ long wanderings he had led)
        That he would give them ev’n a heaven of brass;
    They look’d up to that heaven in vain,
    That bounteous heaven, which God did not restrain,
    Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.


V.

    The RACHAEL, for which twice seven years and more
    Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
    And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
        Though she contracted was to thee,
        Giv’n to another who had store
    Of fairer, and of richer wives before,
    And not a _Leah_ left, thy recompence to be.
    Go on, twice seven years more thy fortune try,
    Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may
        Give thee, to fling away
    Into the court’s deceitful lottery.
        But think how likely ’tis that thou,
    With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
    Should’st in a hard and barren season thrive,
        Should even able be to live;
    Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
    In the miraculous year, when MANNA rain’d on all.


VI.

    Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
    That seem’d at once to pity and revile,
    And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
        The melancholy COWLEY said:
        Ah, wanton foe, dost thou upbraid
    The ills which thou thyself hast made?
    When, in the cradle, innocent I lay,
    Thou, wicked spirit, stolest me away,
        And my abused soul didst bear
    Into thy new-found words I know not where,
    Thy golden _Indies_ in the air;
        And ever since I strive in vain
    My ravish’d freedom to regain:
    Still I rebel, still thou dost reign,
    Lo, still in verse against thee I complain.
        There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
    Which if the earth but once, it ever breeds;
        No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
        No useful plant can keep alive;
    The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
    Make all my art and labour fruitless now;
    Where once such Fairies dance no grass doth ever grow.


VII.

    When my new mind had no infusion known,
    Thou gav’st so deep a tincture of thine own,
        That ever since I vainly try
        To wash away the inherent dye:
    Long work perhaps may spoil thy colours quite,
    But never will reduce the native white;
        To all the ports of honour and of gain,
        I often steer my course in vain,
    Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
    Thou slack’nest all my nerves of industry,
        By making them so oft to be
    The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsie.
    Whoever this world’s happiness would see,
        Must as entirely cast off thee,
        As they who only heaven desire,
        Do from the world retire.
    This was my error, this my gross mistake,
    Myself a demy-votary to make.
    Thus with SAPPHIRA, and her husband’s fate,
    (A fault which I like them am taught too late)
    For all that I gave up, I nothing gain,
    And perish for the part which I retain.


VIII.

    Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,
        The court, and better king, t’ accuse;
    The heaven under which I live is fair;
    The fertile soil will a full harvest bear;
    Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
    Mak’st me sit still and sing, when I should plough;
    When I but think, how many a tedious year
        Our patient sov’reign did attend
        His long misfortunes fatal end;
    How chearfully, and how exempt from fear,
    On the Great Sovereign’s will he did depend,
    I ought to be accurst, if I refuse
    To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
    Kings have long hands (they say) and though I be
    So distant, they may reach at length to me.
        However, of all princes, thou
    Should’st not reproach rewards for being small or slow;
    Thou, who rewardest but with popular breath,
        And that too after death.




  DIALOGUE III.

  ON THE

  GOLDEN AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  BETWEEN

  THE HON. ROBERT DIGBY,

  DR. ARBUTHNOT,

  AND

  MR. ADDISON.




  DIALOGUE III.

  ON THE AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.


It happened, in the summer of the year 1716, that Dr. ARBUTHNOT and Mr.
ADDISON had occasion to take a journey together into _Warwickshire_.
Mr. DIGBY, who had received intelligence of their motions, and was then
at _Coleshill_, contrived to give them the meeting at _Warwick_; where
they intended to pass a day or two, in visiting the curiosities of
that fine town, and the more remarkable of these remains of antiquity
that are to be seen in its neighbourhood. These were matter of high
entertainment to all of them; to Dr. ARBUTHNOT, for the pleasure of
recollecting the ancient times; to Mr. ADDISON, on account of some
political reflexions, he was fond of indulging on such occasions; and
to Mr. DIGBY, from an ingenuous curiosity, and the love of seeing and
observing whatever was most remarkable, whether in the past ages, or
the present.

Amongst other things that amused them, they were much taken with the
great church at _Warwick_. They entertained themselves with the several
histories, which it’s many old monuments recalled to their memory[60].
The famous inscription of Sir FULK GREVIL occasioned some reflexions;
especially to Mr. DIGBY, who had used to be much affected with the
fame and fortunes of the accomplished Sir PHILIP SIDNEY. The glory
of the house of WARWICK was, also, an ample field of meditation. But
what chanced to take their attention most, was the monument of the
great earl of LEICESTER. It recorded his titles at full length, and
was, besides, richly decorated with sculpture, displaying the various
ensigns and trophies of his greatness. The pride of this minister had
never appeared to them so conspicuous, as in the legends and ornaments
of his tomb-stone; which had not only outlived his family, but seemed
to assure itself of immortality, by taking refuge, as it were, at the
foot of the altar.

These funeral honours engaged them in some common reflexions on the
folly of such expedients to perpetuate human grandeur; but at the same
time, as is the usual effect of these things, struck their imaginations
very strongly. They readily apprehended what must have been the state
of this mighty favourite in his lifetime, from what they saw of it in
this proud memorial, which continued in a manner to insult posterity
so many years after his death. But understanding that the fragments at
least of his supreme glory, when it was flourishing at its height, were
still to be seen at KENELWORTH, which they knew could be at no great
distance, they resolved to visit them the next day, and indulge to the
utmost the several reflexions which such scenes are apt to inspire.
On enquiry, they found it was not more than five or six miles to the
castle; so that, by starting early in the morning, they might easily
return to dinner at _Warwick_. They kept to their appointment so well,
that they got to _Kenelworth_ in good time, and had even two or three
hours on their hands to spend, in taking an exact view of the place.

It was luckily one of those fine days, which our travellers would most
have wished for, and which indeed are most agreeable in this season. It
was clear enough to afford a distinct prospect of the country, and to
set the objects, they wanted to take a view of, in a good light; and
yet was so conveniently clouded as to check the heat of the sun, and
make the exercise of walking, of which they were likely to have a good
deal, perfectly easy to them.

When they alighted from the coach, the first object that presented
itself was the principal GATE-WAY of the Castle. It had been converted
into a farm-house, and was indeed the only part of these vast ruins
that was inhabited. On their entrance into the _inner-court_, they were
struck with the sight of many mouldering towers, which preserved a
sort of magnificence even in their ruins. They amused themselves with
observing the vast compass of the whole, with marking the uses, and
tracing the dimensions, of the several parts. All which it was easy
for them to do, by the very distinct traces that remained of them, and
especially by means of DUGDALE’S plans and descriptions, which they
had taken care to consult.

After rambling about for some time, they clambered up a heap of ruins,
which lay on the west side the court: and thence came to a broken
tower, which, when they had mounted some steps, led them out into a
path-way on the tops of the walls. From this eminence they had a very
distinct view of the several parts they had before contemplated; of the
_gardens_ on the north-side; of the _winding meadow_ that encompassed
the walls of the castle, on the west and south; and had, besides, the
command of the country round about them for many miles. The prospect of
so many antique towers falling into rubbish, contrasted to the various
beauties of the landscape, struck them with admiration, and kept them
silent for some time.

At length recovering himself, I perceive, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, we are
all of us not a little affected with the sight of these ruins. They
even create a melancholy in me; and yet a melancholy of so delightful
a kind, that I would not exchange it, methinks, for any brisker
sensation. The experience of this effect hath often led me to enquire,
how it is that the mind, even while it laments, finds so great a
pleasure in visiting these scenes of desolation. Is it, continued he,
from the pure love of antiquity, and the amusing train of reflexions
into which such remains of ancient magnificence naturally lead us?

I know not, returned Mr. ADDISON, what pain it may give you to
contemplate these triumphs of time and fortune. For my part, I am
not sensible of the mixt sensation you speak of. I feel a pleasure
indeed; but it is sincere, and, as I conceive, may be easily accounted
for. ’Tis nothing more, I believe, than a fiction of the imagination,
which makes me think I am taking a revenge on the once prosperous and
overshadowing height, PRÆUMBRANS FASTIGIUM, as somebody expresses it,
of inordinate Greatness. It is certain, continued he, this theatre of a
great statesman’s pride, the delight of many of our princes, and which
boasts of having given entertainment to one of them in a manner so
splendid, as to claim a remembrance, even in the annals of our country,
would now, in its present state, administer ample matter for much
insulting reflexion.

“Where, one might ask, are the tilts and tournaments, the princely
shows and sports, which were once so proudly celebrated within these
walls? Where are the pageants, the studied devices and emblems of
curious invention, that set the court at a gaze, and even transported
the high soul of our ELIZABETH? Where now, pursued he, (pointing to
that which was formerly a canal, but at present is only a meadow with
a small rivulet running through it) where is the floating island, the
blaze of torches that eclipsed the day, the lady of the lake, the
silken nymphs her attendants, with all the other fantastic exhibitions
surpassing even the whimsies of the wildest romance? What now is become
of the revelry of feasting? of the minstrelsy, that took the ear so
delightfully as it babbled along the valley, or floated on the surface
of this lake? See there the smokeless kitchens, stretching to a length
that might give room for the sacrifice of a hecatomb; the vaulted
hall, which mirth and jollity have set so often in an uproar; the
rooms of state, and the presence-chamber: what are they now but void
and tenantless ruins, clasped with ivy, open to wind and weather, and
representing to the eye nothing but the ribs and carcase, as it were,
of their former state? And see, said he, that proud gate-way, once the
mansion of a surly porter[61], who, partaking of the pride of his
lord, made the crowds wait, and refused admittance, perhaps, to nobles
whom fear or interest drew to these walls, to pay their homage to their
master: see it now the residence of a poor tenant, who turns the key
but to let himself out to his daily labour, to admit him to a short
meal, and secure his nightly slumbers. Yet, in this humble state, it
hath had the fortune to outlive the glory of the rest, and hath even
drawn to itself the whole of that little note and credit which time
hath continued to this once pompous building. For, while the castle
itself is crumbled into shapeless ruins, and is prophaned, as we there
see, by the vilest uses, this outwork of greatness is left entire,
sheltered and closed in from bird and beast, and even affords some
decent room in which the _human face divine_ is not ashamed to shew
itself.”

While Mr. ADDISON went on in this vein, his two friends stood looking
on each other; as not conceiving what might be the cause of his
expressing himself with a vehemence, so uncommon, and not suited to his
natural temper. When the fit was over, I confess, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT,
this is no bad topic for a moralist to declaim upon. And, though it
be a trite one, we know how capable it is of being adorned by him
who, on a late occasion, could meditate so finely on the TOMBS AT
WESTMINSTER[62]. But surely, proceeded he, you warm yourself in this
contemplation, beyond what the subject requires of you. The vanity
of human greatness is seen in so many instances, that I wonder to
hear you harangue on this with so peculiar an exultation. There is
no travelling ten miles together in any part of the kingdom without
stumbling on some ruin, which, though perhaps not so considerable
as this before us, would furnish occasion, however, for the same
reflexions. There would be no end of moralizing over every broken
tower, or shattered fabric, which calls to mind the short-lived glories
of our ancestors.

True, said Mr. ADDISON; and, if the short continuance of these
glories were the only circumstance, I might well have spared the
exultation, you speak of, in this triumph over the shattered remnants
of _Kenelworth_. But there is something else that fires me on the
occasion. It brings to mind the fraud, the rapine, the insolence, of
the potent minister, who vainly thought to immortalize his ill-gotten
glory by this proud monument. Nay, further, it awakens an indignation
against the prosperous tyranny of those wretched times, and creates
a generous pleasure in reflecting on the happiness we enjoy under a
juster and more equal government. Believe me, I never see the remains
of that greatness which arose in the past ages on the ruins of public
freedom and private property, but I congratulate with myself on living
at a time, when the meanest subject is as free and independent as
those royal minions; and when his property, whatever it be, is as
secure from oppression, as that of the first minister. And I own
this congratulation is not the less sincere for considering that the
instance before us is taken from the reign of the virgin queen, which
it hath been the fashion to cry up above that of any other of our
princes[63]. I desire no other confutation of so strange unthankful
a preference, than the sight of this vast castle, together with the
recollection of those means by which its master arrived at his enormous
greatness.

Your indignation then, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, is not so much of the
moral, as _political_ kind[64]. But is not the conclusion a little too
hasty, when, from the instance of one overgrown favourite, you infer
the general infelicity of the time, in which he flourished? I am not,
I assure you, one of those unthankful men who forget the blessings
they enjoy under a prince of more justice and moderation than queen
ELIZABETH, and under a better constitution of government than prevailed
in the days of our forefathers. Yet, setting aside some particular
dishonours of that reign (of which, let the tyranny of _Leicester_,
if you will, be one), I see not but the acknowledged virtues of that
princess, and the wisdom of her government, may be a proper foundation
for all the honours that posterity have ever paid to her.

Were I even disposed to agree with you, returned Mr. ADDISON, I should
not have the less reason for triumphing, as I do, on the present state
of our government. For, if such abuses could creep in, and be suffered
for so many years under so great a princess, what was there not to fear
(as what, indeed, did not the subject actually feel) under some of her
successors? But, to speak my mind frankly, I see no sufficient grounds
for the excessive prejudice, that hath somehow taken place, in favour
of the GOLDEN REIGN, as it is called, OF ELIZABETH. I find neither the
wisdom, nor the virtue in it, that can entitle it to a preference
before all other ages.

On the contrary, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I never contemplate the monuments
of that time, without a silent admiration of the virtues that adorned
it. Heroes and sages crowd in upon my memory. Nay, the very people were
of a character above what we are acquainted with in our days. I could
almost fancy, the soil itself were another face, and, as you poets
imagine on some occasions, that our ancestors lived under a brighter
sun and happier climate than we can boast of.

To be sure! said Mr. ADDISON, smiling: or, why not affirm, in the
proper language of romance, that the women of those days were all
chaste, and the men valiant? But cannot you suspect at least that
there is some enchantment in the case, and that your love of antiquity
may possibly operate in more instances than those of your favourite
_Greeks_ and _Romans_? Tell me honestly, pursued he, hath not this
distance of a century and a half a little imposed upon you? Do not
these broken towers, which moved you just now to so compassionate a
lamentation over them, dispose you to a greater fondness for the times
in which they arose, than can be fairly justified?

I will not deny, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but we are often very generous
to the past times, and unjust enough to the present. But I think there
is little of this illusion in the case before us. And, since you call
my attention to these noble ruins, let me own to you, that they do
indeed excite in me a veneration for the times of which they present
so striking a memorial. But surely not without reason. For there is
scarce an object in view, that doth not revive the memory of some
distinguishing character of that age, which may justify such veneration.

Alas! interrupted Mr. ADDISON, and what can these objects call to mind
but the memory of barbarous manners and a despotic government?

For the _government_, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I do not well conceive how
any conclusion about that can be drawn from this fabric. The MANNERS I
was thinking of; and I see them strongly expressed in many parts of it.
But whether barbarous or not, I could almost take upon me to dispute
with you. And why, indeed, since you allowed yourself to declaim on
the vices, so apparent, as you suppose, in this monument of antiquity,
may not I have leave to consider it in another point of view, and
present to you the virtues which, to my eye at least, are full as
discernible?

You cannot, continued he, turn your eyes on any part of these ruins,
without encountering some memorial of the virtue, industry, or
ingenuity, of our ancestors.

Look there, said he, on that fine room (pointing to the HALL, that
lay just beneath them); and tell me if you can help respecting the
HOSPITALITY which so much distinguished the palaces of the great in
those simpler ages. You gave an invidious turn to this circumstance
when you chose to consider it only in the light of wasteful expence
and prodigality. But no virtue is privileged from an ill name. And, on
second thoughts, I persuade myself, it will appear you have injured
this, by so uncandid an appellation. Can it deserve this censure,
that the lord of this princely castle threw open his doors and spread
his table for the reception of his friends, his followers, and even
for the royal entertainment of his sovereign? Is any expence more
proper than that which tends to conciliate[65] friendships, spread
the interests of society, and knit mankind together by a generous
communication in these advantages of wealth and fortune? The arts of
a refined sequestered luxury were then unknown. The same bell, that
called the great man to his table, invited the neighbourhood all
around, and proclaimed a holiday to the whole country[66]. Who does not
feel the decorum, and understand the benefits of this magnificence? The
pre-eminence of rank and fortune was nobly sustained: the subordination
of society preserved: and yet the envy, that is so apt to attend the
great, happily avoided. Hence this weight and influence of the old
nobility, who engaged the love, as well as commanded the veneration, of
the people. In the mean time, rural industry flourished: private luxury
was discouraged: and in both ways that frugal simplicity of life, our
country’s grace and ornament in those days, was preserved and promoted.

It would spoil your panegyric, I doubt, said Mr. ADDISON, to observe
the factious use, that was made of this magnificence, and the tendency
it had to support the pride and insolence of the old nobility. The
interest of the great, I am afraid, was but another name for the
slavery of the people[67].

I see it, Dr. ARBUTHNOT said, in a different light; and so did our
princes themselves, who could not but be well acquainted with the
proper effects of that interest. They considered the weight of the
nobility, as a counterpoise to their own sovereignty. It was on this
account they had used all means to lessen their influence. But the
consequence was beside their expectation. The authority of the crown
fell with it: and, which was still less expected by political men, the
liberty of the people, after it had wantoned for a time, sunk under the
general oppression. It was then discovered, but a little of the latest,
that public freedom throve best, when it wound itself about the stock
of the ancient nobility. In truth, it was the defect, not the excess,
of patrician influence, that made way for the miseries of the next
century.

You see then it is not without cause that I lay a stress, even in a
political view, on this popular hospitality of the great in the former
ages[68].

But, lest you think I sit too long at the table, let us go on to the
TILTYARD, which lies just before us; that school of fortitude and
honour to our generous forefathers. A younger fancy, than mine, would
be apt to kindle at the sight. And our sprightlier friend here, I
dare say, has already taken fire at the remembrance of the gallant
exercises, which were celebrated in that quarter.

Mr. DIGBY owned, he had a secret veneration for the manly games of that
time, which he had seen so triumphantly set forth in the old poets and
romancers.

Right, said Mr. ADDISON; it is precisely in that circumstance that the
enchantment consists. Some of our best wits have taken a deal of idle
pains to ennoble a very barbarous entertainment, and recommend it to
us under the specious name of gallantry and honour. But Mr. DIGBY sees
through the cheat. Not that I doubt, continued he, but the Doctor,
now he is in the vein of panegyric, will lay a mighty stress on these
barbarities; and perhaps compare them with the exercises in the _Roman_
Circus, or the _Olympic_ Barriers.

And why not? interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT. The tendency of all three was
the same; to invigorate the faculties both of mind and body; to give
strength, grace, and dexterity, to the limbs; and fire the mind with a
generous emulation of the manly and martial virtues.

Why truly, said Mr. ADDISON, I shall not deny that all _three_, as you
observe, were much of the same merit. And, now your hand is in for this
sort of encomium, do not forget to celebrate the sublime taste of our
forefathers for _bear-baiting_[69], as well as _tilting_; and tell us
too, how gloriously the mob of those days, as well as their betters,
used to belabour one another.

I confess, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, the softness of our manners makes it
difficult to speak on this subject without incurring the ridicule,
you appear so willing to employ against me. But you must not think
to discredit these gymnastics by a little raillery, which has its
foundation only in modern prejudices. For it is no secret that the
gravest and politest men of antiquity were of my mind. You will hardly
suspect PLATO of incivility, either in his notions or manners. And
need I remind you how much he insists on the gymnastic discipline;
without which he could not have formed, or at least have supported, his
Republic?

It was upon this principle, I suppose then, said Mr. DIGBY, or perhaps
in imitation of his _Græcian_ master, that our MILTON laid so great a
stress on this discipline in his TRACTATE OF EDUCATION. And before him,
in the very time you speak of, ASCHAM, I observe, took no small pains
to much the same purpose in his TOXOPHILUS.

It is very clear, resumed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, from these instances, and many
more that might be given, that the ancients were not singular in their
notions on this subject. But, since you have drawn me into a grave
defence of these exercises, let me further own to you that I think the
_Gothic_ Tilts and Tournaments exceeded, both in use and elegance, even
the _Græcian_ gymnastics[70]. They were a more direct image of war,
than any of the games at _Olympia_. And if _Xenophon_ could be so
lavish in his praises on the _Persian_ practice of hunting, because it
had some resemblance to the exercise of arms, what would he not have
said of an institution, which has all the forms of a real combat?

But there was an elegance, too, in the conduct of the tournament, that
might reconcile it even to modern delicacy. For, besides the splendor
of the shew; the dexterity, with which these exercises were performed;
and the fancy, that appeared in their accoutrement, dresses, and
devices; the whole contest was ennobled with an air of gallantry, that
must have had a great effect in refining the manners of the combatants.
And yet this gallantry had no ill influence on morals; for, as you
insulted me just now, it was the odd humour of those days for the women
to pride themselves in their chastity[71], as well as the men in their
valour.

In short, I consider the _Tournay_, as the best school of civility
as well as heroism. “High-erected thoughts, seated in a heart of
courtesy,” as an old writer[72] well expresses it, was the proper
character of such as had been trained in this discipline.

No wonder then, pursued he, the poets and romance-writers took so much
pains to immortalize these trials of manhood. It was but what PINDAR
and HOMER himself, those ancient masters of romance, had done before
them. And how could it be otherwise? The shew itself, as I said,
had something very taking in it; whilst every graceful attitude of
person, with every generous movement of the mind, afforded the finest
materials for description. And I am even ready to believe, that
what we hear censured in their writings, as false, incredible, and
fantastic, was frequently but a just copy of life, and that there was
more of truth and reality[73] in their representations, than we are
apt to imagine. Their notions of honour and gallantry were carried to
an elevation[74], which, in these degenerate days, hurts the credit
of their story; just as I have met with men that have doubted whether
the virtues of the REGULI and the SCIPIOS of ancient fame were not the
offspring of pure fancy.

Nay now, Dr. ARBUTHNOT, said Mr. ADDISON, you grow quite extravagant.
What you, who are used to be so quick at espying all abuses in science,
and defects in good taste, turn advocate for these fopperies! Mr. DIGBY
and I shall begin to think you banter us, in this apology for the
ancient gymnastics, and are only preparing a chapter for the facetious
memoirs[75], you sometimes promise us.

Never more in earnest, assure you, replied the Doctor. I know what you
have to object to these pictures of life and manners. But, if they
will not bear examining as copies, they may deserve to be imitated as
models. And their use, methinks, might atone for some defects in the
article of probability.

For my part, I consider the legends of ancient chivalry in a very
serious light,

    As _niches_, fill’d with statues to invite
    Young valours forth—[76]

as BEN JONSON, a valorous hardy poet, and who, himself, would have made
a good knight-errant, justly says of them. For, it is certain, they had
this effect. The youth, in general, were fired with the love of martial
exercises. They were early formed to habits of fatigue and enterprise.
And, together with this warlike spirit, the profession of chivalry was
favourable to every other virtue. Affability, courtesy, generosity,
veracity, these were the qualifications most pretended to by the men of
arms, in the days of pure and uncorrupted chivalry. We do not perhaps,
ourselves, know, at this distance of time, how much we are indebted to
the force of this singular institution. But this I may presume to say,
that the men, among whom it arose and flourished most, had prodigious
obligations to it. No policy, even of an ancient legislator, could
have contrived a better expedient to cultivate the manners and tame
the spirits of a rude and ignorant people. I could almost fancy it
providentially introduced among the northern nations, to break the
fierceness of their natures, and prevent that brutal savageness and
ferocity of character, which must otherwise have grown upon them in the
darker ages.

Nay, the generous sentiments, it inspired, perhaps contributed very
much to awaken an emulation of a different kind; and to bring on
those days of light and knowledge which have disposed us, somewhat
unthankfully, to vilify and defame it. This is certain, that the first
essays of wit and poetry, those harbingers of returning day to every
species of good letters, were made in the bosom of chivalry, and amidst
the assemblies of noble dames, and courteous knights. And we may even
observe, that the best of our modern princes, such as have been most
admired for their personal virtues, and have been most concerned
in restoring all the arts of civility and politeness, have been
passionately addicted to the feats of ancient prowess. In the number
of these, need I remind you of the courts of FRANCIS I, and HENRY IV,
to say nothing of our own EDWARDS and HENRYS, and that mirrour of all
their virtues in one, our renowned and almost romantic ELIZABETH[77]?

But you think I push the argument too far. And less than this may
dispose you to conceive with reverence of the scene before us, which
must ever be regarded as a nursery of brave men, a very seed-plot
of warriors and heroes. I consider the successes at the barriers as
preludes to future conquests in the field. And, as whimsical a figure
as a young tilter may make in your eye, who will say that the virtue
was not formed here, that triumphed at AXELL, and bled at ZUTPHEN?

We shall very readily, replied Mr. ADDISON, acknowledge the bravery
and other virtues of the young hero, whose fortunes you hint at. He
was, in truth, to speak the language of that time, the very flower of
knighthood, and contributed more than any body else, by his pen, as
well as sword, to throw a lustre on the profession of chivalry. But
the thing itself, however adorned by his wit and recommended by his
manners, was barbarous; the offspring of _Gothic_ fierceness; and shews
the times, which favoured it so much, to have scarcely emerged from
their original rudeness and brutality. You may celebrate, as loudly
as you please, the deeds of these wonder-working knights. Alas, what
affinity have such prodigies to our life, and manners? The old poet,
you quoted just now with approbation, shall tell us the difference:

    These were bold stories of our _Arthur’s_ age:
    But here are other acts, another stage
    And scene appears; it is not since as then;
    No giants, dwarfs, or monsters here, but MEN[78].

Or, if you want a higher authority, we should not, methinks, on such an
occasion, forget the admirable CERVANTES, whose ridicule hath brought
eternal dishonour on the profession of knight-errantry.

With your leave, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I have reason to except
against both your authorities. At best, they do but condemn the
_abuses_ of chivalry, and the madness of continuing the old romantic
spirit in times when, from a change of manners and policy, it was no
longer in season. Adventures, we will say, were of course to cease,
when giants and monsters disappeared. And yet have they totally
disappeared, and have giants and monsters been no where heard of out
of the castles and forests of our old romancers. ’Tis odds, methinks,
but, in the sense of ELIZABETH’S good subjects, PHILIP II. might be a
_giant_ at least: and, without a little of this adventurous spirit,
it may be a question whether all her enchanters, I mean her BURLEIGHS
and WALSINGHAMS, would have proved a match for him. I mention this the
rather to shew you, how little obligation his countrymen have to your
CERVANTES for laughing away the remains of that prowess, which was the
best support of the _Spanish_ monarchy.

As if, said Mr. ADDISON, the prowess of any people were only to be kept
alive by their running mad. But let the case of the _Spaniards_ be what
it will, surely we, of this country, have little obligation to the
spirit of chivalry, if it were only that it produced, or encouraged
at least, and hath now entailed upon us, the curse of duelling; which
even yet domineers in the fashionable world, in spite of all that
wit, and reason, and religion itself, have done to subdue it. ’Tis
true, at present this law of arms is appealed to only in the case some
high point of nice and mysterious honour. But in the happier days you
celebrate, it was called in aid, on common occasions. Even questions of
right and property, you know, were determined at the barriers[79]: and
brute force was allowed the most equitable, as well as shortest, way of
deciding all disputes both concerning a man’s estate and honour.

You might observe too, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that this was the way
in which those fiercer disputes concerning a mistress, or a kingdom,
were frequently decided. And, if this sort of decision, in such cases,
were still in use among Christian princes, you might call it perhaps
a barbarous custom: but would it be ever the worse, do you think, for
their good subjects?

Perhaps it would not, returned Mr. ADDISON, in some instances. And
yet will you affirm, that those _good subjects_ were in any enviable
situation, under their fighting masters? After all, allowing you to put
the best construction you can on these usages of our forefathers,

                          “all we find
    Is, that they did their work and din’d.”

And though such feats may argue a sound athletic constitution, you must
excuse me, if I am not forward to entertain any high notions of their
civility.

Their civility, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, is another consideration. The HALL
and TILT-YARD are certainly good proofs of what they are alleged for,
the hospitality and bravery of our ancestors. But it hath not been
maintained, that these were their only virtues. On the contrary, it
seems to me, that every flower of humanity, every elegance of art and
genius, was cultivated amongst them. For an instance, need we look any
further than the LAKE, which in the flourishing times of this castle
was so famous, and which we even now trace in the winding bed of that
fine meadow?

I do not understand you, replied Mr. ADDISON. I can easily imagine what
an embellishment that lake must have been to the castle; but am at a
loss to conceive what flowers of wit and ingenuity, to use your own
ænigmatical language, could be raised or so much as watered by it.

And, have you then, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, so soon forgotten the large
description, you gave us just now, of the shows and pageants displayed
on this lake? And can any thing better declare the art, invention, and
ingenuity, of their conductors? Is not this canal as good a memorial of
the ardour and success with which the finer exercises of the mind were
pursued in that time, as the tilt-yard, we have now left, is of the
address and dexterity shewn in those of the body?

I remember, said Mr. ADDISON, that many of the shows, intended for the
queen’s entertainment at this place, were exhibited on that canal. But
as to any art or beauty of contrivance—

“You see none, I suppose.”

Why truly none, resumed Mr. ADDISON. To me they seemed but well enough
suited to the other barbarities of the time. “The Lady of the Lake and
her train of Nereids,” was not that the principal? And can it pass for
any thing better than a jumble of _Gothic_ romance and pagan fable?
a barbarous modern conceit, varnished over with a little classical
pedantry?

And is that the best word you can afford, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to
these ingenious devices? The business was, to welcome the Queen
to this palace, and at the same time to celebrate the honours of
her government. And what more decent way of complimenting a great
Prince, than through the veil of fiction? or what so elegant way of
entertaining a learned Prince, as by working up that fiction out of the
old poetical story? And if something of the _Gothic_ romance adhered
to these classical fictions, it was not for any barbarous pleasure,
that was taken in this patchwork, but that the artist found means to
incorporate them with the highest grace and ingenuity. For what, in
other words, was the _Lady of the Lake_ (the particular that gives
most offence to your delicacy), but the presiding nymph of the stream,
on which these shews were presented? And, if the contrivance was to
give us this nymph under a name that romance had made familiar, what
was this but taking advantage of a popular prejudice to introduce his
fiction with more address and probability?

But see the propriety of the scene itself, for the designer’s purpose,
and the exact decorum with which these fanciful personages were brought
in upon it. It was not enough, that the pagan deities were summoned to
pay their homage to the queen. They were the deities of the fount and
ocean, the watery nymphs and demi-gods: and these were to play their
part in their own element. Could any preparation be more artful for
the panegyric designed on the naval glory of that reign? Or, could any
representation be more grateful to the queen of the ocean, as ELIZABETH
was then called, than such as expressed her sovereignty in those
regions? Hence the sea-green Nereids, the Tritons, and Neptune himself,
were the proper actors in the drama. And the opportunity of this
spacious lake gave the easiest introduction and most natural appearance
to the whole scenery. Let me add too, in further commendation of the
taste which was shewn in these agreeable fancies, that the attributes
and dresses of the deities themselves were studied with care; and the
most learned poets of the time employed to make them speak and act in
character. So that an old _Greek_ or _Roman_ might have applauded the
contrivance, and have almost fancied himself assisting at a religious
ceremony in his own country.

And, to shew you that all this propriety was intended by the designer
himself, and not imagined at pleasure by his encomiast; I remember,
that when, some years after, the earl of HERTFORD had the honour to
receive the queen at his seat in _Hampshire_, because he had no such
canal as this in readiness on the occasion, he set on a vast number of
hands to hollow a bason in his park for that purpose. With so great
diligence and so exact a decorum were these entertainments conducted!

Did not I tell you, interposed Mr. ADDISON, addressing himself to Mr.
DIGBY, to what an extravagance the Doctor’s admiration of the ancient
times would carry him? Could you have expected all this harangue
on the art, elegance, and decorum of THE PRINCELY PLEASURES OF
KENELWORTH[80]? And must not it divert you to see the unformed genius
of that age tricked out in the graces of _Roman_ or even _Attic_
politeness?

Mr. DIGBY acknowledged, it was very generous in the Doctor to represent
in so fair a light the amusements of the ruder ages. But I was
thinking, said he, to what cause it could possibly be owing, that these
pagan fancies had acquired so general a consideration in the days of
ELIZABETH.

The general passion for these fancies, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, was a
natural consequence of the revival of learning. The first books, that
came into vogue, were the poets. And nothing could be more amusing to
rude minds, just opening to a taste of letters, than the fabulous story
of the pagan gods, which is constantly interwoven in every piece of
ancient poetry. Hence the imitative arts of _sculpture_, _painting_,
and _poetry_, were immediately employed in these pagan exhibitions. But
this was not all. The first artists in every kind were of _Italy_; and
it was but natural for them to act these fables over again on the very
spot that had first produced them. These too were the masters to the
rest of _Europe_. So that _fashion_ concurred with the other prejudices
of the time, to recommend this practice to the learned.

From the men of art and literature the enthusiasm spread itself to
the great; whose supreme delight it was to see the wonders of the
old poetical story brought forth, and realized, as it were, before
them[81]. And what, in truth, could they do better? For, if I were not
a little afraid of your raillery, I should desire to know what courtly
amusements even of our time are comparable to the shows and masques,
which were the delight and improvement of the court of ELIZABETH.
I say, the _improvement_; for, besides that these shows were not
in the number of the INERUDITÆ VOLUPTATES, so justly characterized
and condemned by a wise ancient, they were even highly useful and
instructive. These devices, composed out of the poetical history, were
not only the vehicles of compliment to the great on certain solemn
occasions, but of the soundest moral lessons, which were artfully
thrown in, and recommended to them by the charm of poetry and numbers.
Nay, some of these masques were moral dramas in form, where the virtues
and vices were impersonated. We know the cast of their composition by
what we see of these fictions in the next reign; and have reason to
conceive of them with reverence when we find the names of FLETCHER and
JONSON[82] to some of them. I say nothing of JONES and LAWES, though
all the elegance of their respective arts was called in to assist the
poet in the contrivance and execution of these entertainments.

And, now the poets have fallen in my way, let me further observe,
that the manifest superiority of this class of writers in ELIZABETH’S
reign, and that of her successor, over all others who have succeeded to
them, is, among other reasons, to be ascribed to the taste which then
prevailed for these moral representations. This taught them to animate
and impersonate every thing. Rude minds, you will say, naturally give
into this practice. Without doubt. But art and genius do not disdain to
cultivate and improve it. Hence it is, that we find in the phraseology
and mode of thinking of that time, and of that time only, the essence
of the truest and sublimest poetry.

Without doubt, Mr. ADDISON said, the poetry of that time is of a better
taste than could well have been expected from its barbarism in other
instances. But such prodigies as SHAKESPEAR and SPENSER would do great
things in any age, and under every disadvantage.

Most certainly they would, returned Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but not the things
that you admire so much in these immortal writers. And, if you will
excuse the intermixture of a little philosophy in these ramblings, I
will attempt to account for it.

There is, I think, in the revolutions of taste and language, a certain
point, which is more favourable to the purposes of poetry, than any
other. It may be difficult to fix this point with exactness. But we
shall hardly mistake in supposing it lies somewhere between the rude
essays of uncorrected fancy, on the one hand, and the refinements of
reason and science, on the other.

And such appears to have been the condition of our language in the
age of ELIZABETH. It was pure, strong, and perspicuous, without
affectation. At the same time, the high figurative manner, which fits
a language so peculiarly for the uses of the poet, had not yet been
controlled by the prosaic genius of philosophy and logic. Indeed, this
character had been struck so deeply into the _English_ tongue, that
it was not to be removed by any ordinary improvements in either: the
reason of which might be, the delight which was taken by the _English_
very early in their old MYSTERIES and MORALITIES; and the continuance
of the same spirit in succeeding times, by means of their MASQUES and
TRIUMPHS. And something like this, I observe, attended the progress of
the _Greek_ and _Roman_ poetry; which was the _truest_ poetry, on the
clown’s maxim in SHAKESPEAR, because it was _the most feigning_[83]. It
had its rise, you know, like ours, from religion: and pagan religion,
of all others, was the properest to introduce and encourage a spirit of
allegory and moral fiction. Hence we easily account for the allegoric
cast of their old dramas, which have a great resemblance to our ancient
moralities. NECESSITY is brought in as a _person of the drama_, in one
of ÆSCHYLUS’S plays; and DEATH in one of EURIPIDES: to say nothing
of many shadowy persons in the comedies of ARISTOPHANES. The truth
is, the pagan religion _deified_ every thing, and delivered these
deities into the hand of their painters, sculptors, and poets. In like
manner, Christian superstition, or, if you will, modern barbarism,
_impersonated_ every thing; and these persons, in proper form,
subsisted for some time on the stage, and almost to our days, in the
masques. Hence the picturesque style of our old poetry; which looks so
fanciful in SPENSER, and which SHAKESPEAR’S genius hath carried to the
utmost sublimity.

I will not deny, said Mr. ADDISON, but there may be something in this
deduction of the causes, by which you account for the strength and
grandeur of the _English_ poetry, unpolished as it still was in the
hands of ELIZABETH’S great poets. But for the masques themselves—

You forget, I believe, _one_, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, which does
your favourite poet, MILTON, almost as much honour, as his _Paradise
Lost_.—But I have no mind to engage in a further vindication of
these fancies. I only conclude that the taste of the age, the state
of letters, the genius of the _English_ tongue, was such as gave a
manliness to their compositions of all sorts, and even an elegance to
those of the lighter forms, which we might do well to emulate, and not
deride, in this æra of politeness.

But I am aware, as you say, I have been transported too far. My design
was only to hint to you, in opposition to your invective against the
memory of the old times, awakened in us by the sight of this castle,
that what you object to is capable of a much fairer interpretation.
You have a proof of it, in two or three instances; in their festivals,
their exercises, and their poetical fictions: or, to express myself in
the classical forms, you have seen by this view of their CONVIVIAL,
GYMNASTIC, and MUSICAL character, that the times of ELIZABETH may pass
for golden, notwithstanding what a fondness for this age of baser metal
may incline us to represent it.

In the mean time, these smaller matters have drawn me aside from
my main purpose. What surprised me most, pursued he, was to hear
you speak so slightly, I would not call it by a worse name, of the
GOVERNMENT of ELIZABETH. Of the manners and tastes of different ages,
different persons, according to their views of things, will judge very
differently. But plain facts speak so strongly in favour of the policy
of that reign, and the superior talents of the sovereign, that I could
not but take it for the wantonness of opposition in you to espouse the
contrary opinion. And, now I am warmed by this slight skirmish, I am
even bold enough to dare you to a defence of it; if, indeed, you were
serious in advancing that strange paradox. At least, I could wish to
hear upon what grounds you would justify so severe an attack on the
reverend administration of that reign, supported by the wisdom of such
men as CECIL and WALSINGHAM, under the direction of so accomplished a
princess as our ELIZABETH. Your manner of defending even the wrong side
of the question will, at least, be entertaining. And, I think, I may
answer for our young friend, that his curiosity will lead him to join
me in this request to you.

Mr. ADDISON said, He did not expect to be called to so severe an
account for what had escaped him on this subject. But, though I was
ever so willing, continued he, to oblige you, this is no time or place
for entering on such a controversy. We have not yet compleated the
round of these buildings. And I would fain, methinks, make the circuit
of that pleasant meadow. Besides its having been once, in another
form, the scene of those shows you described so largely to us, it will
deserve to be visited for the sake of the many fine views which, as we
wind along it, we may promise to ourselves of these ruins.

You forget my bad legs, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT smiling; otherwise, I
suppose, we can neither of us have any dislike to your proposal. But,
as you please: let us descend from these heights. We may resume the
conversation, as we walk along: and especially, as you propose, when we
get down into that valley.




  DIALOGUE IV.

  ON THE

  GOLDEN AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  BETWEEN

  THE HON. ROBERT DIGBY,

  DR. ARBUTHNOT,

  AND

  MR. ADDISON.




  DIALOGUE IV.

  ON THE AGE OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

  MR. DIGBY, DR. ARBUTHNOT, MR. ADDISON.


But do you consider, said Mr. ADDISON, as they descended into the
valley, what an invidious task you are going to impose upon me? One
cannot call in question a common opinion in any indifferent matter,
without the appearance of some degree of perverseness. But to do it in
a case of this importance, where the greatest authorities stand in the
way, and the glory of one of our princes is concerned, will, I doubt,
be liable to the imputation of something worse than singularity. For,
besides that you will be apt to upbraid me, in the words of the poet,

                Nullum memorabile nomen
    Fœmineâ in pœnâ est, nec habet victoria laudem,

such a liberty of censure is usually taken for an argument, not of
discourtesy or presumption only, but of ill-nature. At best, the
attempt to arraign the virtues and government of ELIZABETH will appear
but like the idleness of the old sophists, who, you know, were never so
well pleased as when they were controverting some acknowledged fact, or
assaulting some established character.

That censure might be just enough, Dr. ARBUTHNOT said, of the old
sophists, who had nothing in view but the credit of their own skill
in the arts of disputation. But in this friendly debate, which
means nothing more than private amusement, I see no colour for such
apprehensions.

But what shall we say, interposed Mr. ADDISON, to another difficulty?
The subject is very large; and it seems no easy matter to reduce
it into any distinct order. Besides, my business is not so much to
advance any thing of my own, as to object to what others have advanced
concerning the fame and virtues of ELIZABETH. And to this end, I must
desire to know the particulars on which you are disposed to lay the
greatest stress, and indeed to have some plan of the subject delivered
in to me, which may serve, as it were, for the groundwork of the whole
conversation.

I must not presume, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to prescribe the order in
which your attack on the great queen shall be conducted. The subject,
indeed, is large. But this common route of history is well known to all
of us. To that, then, you may well enough refer, without being at the
trouble, before you go to work, of laying foundations. Or, if you will
needs have a basis to build upon, what if I just run over the several
circumstances which I conceive to make most for the credit of that
reign? A sketch of this sort, I suppose, will answer all the ends of
the plan, you seem to require of me.

Mr. ADDISON agreed to this proposal; which he thought would be of use
to shorten the debate, or at least to render the progress of it more
clear and intelligible.

In few words then, resumed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, the reasons, that have
principally determined me to an admiration of the government and
character of queen ELIZABETH, are such as these: “That she came to the
crown with all possible disadvantages; which yet, by the prudence and
vigour of her counsels, she entirely overcame: that she triumphed over
the greatest foreign and domestic dangers: that she humbled the most
formidable power in _Europe_ by her arms; and composed, or checked at
least, by the firmness of her administration, TWO, the most implacable
and fiery factions at home: that she kept down the rebellious spirit
of _Ireland_, and eluded the constant intrigues of her restless
neighbours, the _Scots_: that she fixed our religious establishment on
solid grounds; and countenanced, or rather conducted, the Protestant
cause abroad: that she made her civil authority respected by her
subjects; and raised the military glory of the nation, both by sea and
land, to the greatest height: that she employed the ablest servants,
and enacted the wisest laws: by all which means it came to pass that
she lived in a constant good understanding with her parliaments, was
idolized by her people, and admired and envied by all the rest of the
world.”

Alas, said Mr. ADDISON, I shall never be able to follow you through
all the particulars of this encomium: and, to say the truth, it would
be to little purpose; since the wisdom of her policy, in all these
instances of her government, can only be estimated from a careful
perusal of the histories of that time; too numerous and contradictory
to be compared and adjusted in this conversation. All I can do,
continued he, after taking a moment or two to recollect himself, is
to abate the force of this panegyric by some general observations of
the CIRCUMSTANCES and GENIUS of that time; and then to consider the
personal QUALITIES of the queen, which are thought to reflect so great
a lustre on her government.

As you please, Dr. ARBUTHNOT replied. We shall hardly lose ourselves in
this beaten field of history. And, besides, as your undertaking is so
adventurous, it is but reasonable you should have the choice of your
own method.

You are in the common opinion, I perceive, resumed Mr. ADDISON, that
ELIZABETH’S government was attended with all possible disadvantages.
On the contrary, it appears to me that the security and even splendour
of her reign is chiefly to be accounted for from the fortunate
CIRCUMSTANCES of her situation.

Of these the FIRST, that demands our notice, is the great affair of
religion.

The principles of PROTESTANTISM had now for many years been working
among the people. They had grown to that head in the short reign of
EDWARD VI. that the bloody severities of his successor served only to
exasperate the zeal, with which these principles had been embraced
and promoted. ELIZABETH, coming to the crown at this juncture, was
determined, as well by interest as inclination, to take the side of
the new religion. I say by _interest_, as well as inclination. And,
I think, I have reason for the assertion. For though the persons in
power, and the clergy throughout the kingdom, were generally professed
papists; yet they were most of them such as had conformed in king
EDWARD’S days, and were not therefore much to be feared for any tie,
their _profession_ could really have on their consciences. Whereas,
on the other hand, it was easy to see, from many symptoms, that the
general bent of the nation was towards Protestantism; and that,
too, followed with a spirit, which must in the end prevail over all
opposition. Under these circumstances, then, it was natural for the
queen, if she had not been otherwise led by her principles, and the
interest of her title, to favour the Reformation.

The truth is, she came into it herself so heartily, and provided so
effectually for its establishment, that we are not to wonder she
became the idol of the Reformed, at the same time that the papal power
through all _Europe_ was confederated against her. The enthusiasm
of her Protestant subjects was prodigious. It was raised by other
considerations; but confirmed in all orders of the state by the ease
they felt in their deliverance from the tyranny of the church; and in
the great especially, by the sweets they tasted in their enjoyment
of the church-revenues. It was, in short, one of those extraordinary
conjunctures, in which the public danger becomes the public security;
when religion and policy, conscience and interest, unite their powers
to support the authority of the prince, and to give fidelity, vigour,
and activity to the obedience of the subject.

And thus it was, continued he, that so warm and unconquerable a zeal
appeared in defence of the queen against all attempts of her enemies.
Her people were so thoroughly Protestant, as to think no expence of
her government too great, provided they could but be secured from
relapsing into Popery. And her parliaments were disposed to wave all
disputes about the stretch of her prerogative, from a sense of their
own and the common danger.

In magnifying this advantage of the zeal and union of ELIZABETH’S
good subjects, you forgot, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that two restless and
inveterate factions were contending, all her lifetime, within her own
kingdom.

I am so far from forgetting that circumstance, returned Mr. ADDISON,
that I esteem it ANOTHER of the great advantages of her situation.

The contrary tendencies of those factions in some respects defeated
each other. But the principal use of them was, that, by means of their
practices, some domestic plot, or foreign alarm, was always at hand,
to quicken the zeal and inflame the loyalty of her people. But to be a
little more particular about the factions of her reign.

The PAPIST was, in truth, the only one she had reason to be alarmed at.
The PURITAN had but just begun to shew himself, though indeed with that
ferocity of air and feature, which signified clearly enough what spirit
he was of, and what, in good time, he was likely to come to. Yet even
he was kept in tolerable humour, by a certain commodious policy of the
queen; which was, so to divide her regards betwixt the Church and the
Puritans, as made it the interest of both to keep well with her. ’Tis
true, these last felt the weight of her resentment sometimes, when they
ventured too saucily to oppose themselves to the establishment. But
this was rarely, and by halves: and, when checked with the most rigour,
they had the satisfaction to see their patrons continue in the highest
places at court, and, what is more, in the highest degree of personal
favour.

And what doth all this shew, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, but that she
managed so well as to disarm a furious faction, or rather make it serve
against the bent of its nature, to the wise ends of her government?

As to any wise ends of government, I see none, replied Mr. ADDISON,
deserving to be so called, that were answered by her uncertain conduct
towards the Puritans. For she neither restrained them with that
severity, which might perhaps have prevented their growth, at first;
nor shewed them that entire indulgence, which might have disabled
their fury afterwards. It is true, this temporizing conduct was well
enough adapted to prevent disturbances in her own time. But large
materials were laid in for that terrible combustion, which was soon to
break forth under one of her successors.

And so, instead of imputing the disasters that followed, said Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, to the ill-government of the STUARTS, you are willing to lay
the whole guilt of them on this last and greatest of the TUDORS. This
is a new way of defending that royal house; and, methinks, they owe you
no small acknowledgments for it. I confess, it never occurred to me to
make that apology for them.

Though I would not undertake, said Mr. ADDISON, to make their apology
from this, or any other, circumstance; I do indeed believe that part
of the difficulties the house of STUART had to encounter, were brought
upon them by this wretched policy of their predecessor. But, waving
this consideration, I desire you will take notice of what I chiefly
insist upon, “That the ease and security of ELIZABETH’S administration
was even favoured by the turbulent practices and clashing views of her
domestic factions.” The PURITAN was an instrument, in her hands, of
controuling the church, and of balancing the power of her ministers:
besides that this sort of people were, of all others, the most
inveterate against the common enemy. And for the PAPISTS themselves
(not to insist that, of course, they would be strictly watched, and
that they were not, perhaps, so considerable as to create any immediate
danger[84]), the general abhorrence both of their principles and
designs had the greatest effect in uniting more closely, and cementing,
as it were, the affections of the rest of her subjects. So that,
whether within or without, the common danger, as I expressed it, was
the common safety.

Still, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I must think this a very extraordinary
conclusion. I have no idea of the security of the great queen,
surrounded, as she was, by her domestic and foreign enemies.

Her foreign enemies, returned Mr. ADDISON, were less formidable than
they appear at first view. And I even make the condition of the
neighbouring powers on the Continent, in her time, a THIRD instance of
the signal advantages of her situation.

It is true, if a perfect union had subsisted between the Catholic
princes, the papal thunders would have carried terror with them. But,
as it was, they were powerless and ineffectual. The civil wars of
_France_, and its constant jealousy of _Spain_, left the queen but
little to apprehend from that quarter. The _Spanish_ empire, indeed,
was vast, and under the direction of a bigoted vindictive prince. But
the administration was odious and corrupt in every part. So that wise
men saw there was more of bulk than of force in that unwieldy monarchy.
And the successful struggles of a handful of its subjects, inflamed by
the love of liberty, and made furious by oppression, proclaimed its
weakness to all the world.

It may be true, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that the queen had less to
fear from the princes on the Continent, than is sometimes represented.
But you forget, in this survey of the public dangers, the distractions
of IRELAND, and the restless intrigues of her near neighbours, the
SCOTS: both of them assisted by _Spain_; and these last under the
peculiar influence and direction of the GUISES.

You shall have my opinion, returned Mr. ADDISON, in few words.

For the IRISH distractions, it was not the queen’s intention, or
certainly it was not her fortune, to compose them: I mean, during the
greatest part of her reign; for we are now speaking of the general
tenor of her policy. Towards the close of it, indeed, she made some
vigorous attempts to break the spirits of those savages. And it was
high time she should. For, through her faint proceedings against them,
they had grown to that insolence, as to think of setting up for an
independency on _England_. Nay, the presumption of that arch-rebel
TYRONE, countenanced and abetted by _Spain_, seemed to threaten
the queen with still further mischiefs. The extreme dishonour and
even peril of this situation roused her old age, at length, to the
resolution of taking some effectual measures. The preparation was
great, and suitable to the undertaking. It must, further, be owned, it
succeeded: but so late, that she herself did not live to see the full
effect of it. However, this success is reckoned among the glories of
her reign. In the mean time, it is not considered that nothing but her
ill policy, in suffering the disorders of that country to gather to a
head, made way for this glory. I call it her _ill policy_, for unless
it were rather owing to her excessive frugality[85] one can hardly help
thinking she designed to perpetuate the _Irish_ distractions. At least,
it was agreeable to a favourite maxim of hers, to check, and not to
suppress them. And I think it clear, from the manner of prosecuting the
war, that, till this last alarm, she never was in earnest about putting
an end to it.

SCOTLAND, indeed, demanded a more serious attention. Yet the weak
distracted counsels of that court—a minor king—a captive queen—and
the unsettled state of _France_ itself, which defeated in a good degree
the malice of the GUISES—were favourable circumstances.

But to be fair with you (for I would appear in the light of a
reasonable objector, not a captious wrangler); I allow her policy in
this instance to have been considerable. She kept a watchful eye on the
side of _Scotland_. And, though many circumstances concurred to favour
her designs, it must be owned they were not carried without much care
and some wisdom.

I understand the value of this concession, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT. It
must have been no common degree of both, that extorted it from you.

I decline entering further, said Mr. ADDISON, into the public
transactions of that reign; if it were only that, at this distance of
time, it may be no easy matter to determine any thing of the policy,
with which they were conducted. Only give me leave to add, as a FOURTH
instance of the favourable circumstances of the time, “That the
prerogative was then in its height, and that a patient people allowed
the queen to use it on all occasions.” Hence the apparent vigour and
firmness of her administration: and hence the opportunity (which is so
rarely found in our country) of directing the whole strength of the
nation to any end of government, which the glory of the prince or the
public interest required.

What you impute to the high strain of prerogative, returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, might rather be accounted for from the ability of her
government, and the wise means she took to support it. The principal
of these was, by employing the GREATEST MEN in the several departments
of her administration. Every kind of merit was encouraged by her
smile[86], or rewarded by her bounty. Virtue, she knew, would
thrive best on its native stock, a generous emulation. This she
promoted by all means; by her royal countenance, by a temperate and
judicious praise, by the wisest distribution of her preferments. Hence
would naturally arise that confidence in the queen’s counsels and
undertakings, which the servile awe of her prerogative could never have
occasioned.

This is the true account of the loyalty, obedience, and fidelity,
by which her servants were distinguished. And thus, in fact, it was
that, throughout her kingdom, there was every where that reverence of
authority[87], that sense of honour, that conscience of duty, in a
word, that gracious simplicity of manners, which renders the age of
ELIZABETH truly GOLDEN: as presenting the fairest picture of humanity,
that is to be met with in the accounts of any people.

It is true, as you say, interposed Mr. ADDISON, that _this picture is a
fair one_. But of what is it a copy? Of the GENIUS of the time, or of
the queen’s virtues? You shall judge for yourself, after I have laid
before you TWO remarkable events of that age, which could not but have
the greatest effect on the public manners; I mean, THE REFORMATION OF
RELIGION, and what was introductory of it, THE RESTORATION OF LETTERS.
From these, as their proper sources, I would derive the ability and
fidelity of ELIZABETH’S good subjects.

The passion for LETTERS was extreme. The novelty of these studies, the
artifices that had been used to keep men from them, their apparent
uses, and, perhaps, some confused notion of a certain diviner virtue
than really belongs to them; these causes concurred to excite a
curiosity in all, and determined those, who had leisure, as well as
curiosity, to make themselves acquainted with the _Greek_ and _Roman_
learning. The ecclesiastics, who, for obvious reasons, would be the
first and most earnest in their application to letters, were not
the only persons transported with this zeal. The gentry and nobility
themselves were seized with it. A competent knowledge of the old
writers was looked upon as essential to a gentleman’s education. So
that _Greek_ and _Latin_ became as fashionable at court in those days,
as _French_ is in ours. ELIZABETH herself, which I wonder you did not
put me in mind of, was well skilled in both[88]; they say, employed her
leisure in making some fine translations out of either language. It
is easy to see what effect this general attention to letters must have
on the minds of the liberal and well-educated. And it was a happiness
peculiar to that age, that learning, though cultivated with such zeal,
had not as yet degenerated into pedantry: I mean, that, in those
stirring and active times, it was cultivated, not so much for show, as
use; and was not followed, as it soon came to be, to the exclusion of
other generous and manly applications.

Consider, too, the effects, which the alterations in RELIGION had
produced. As they had been lately made, as their importance was great,
and as the benefits of the change had been earned at the expence of
much blood and labour: all these considerations begot a zeal for
religion, which hardly ever appears under other circumstances. This
zeal had an immediate and very sensible effect on the morals of the
Reformed. It improved them in every instance; especially as it produced
a cheerful submission to the government, which had rescued them from
their former slavery, and was still their only support against the
returning dangers of superstition. Thus religion, acting with all its
power, and that, too, heightened by gratitude and even self-interest,
bound obedience on the minds of men with the strongest ties[89]. And
luckily for the queen, this obedience was further secured to her
by the high uncontroverted notions of royalty, which, at that time,
obtained amongst the people.

Lay all this together; and then tell me where is the wonder that a
people, now emerging out of ignorance; uncorrupted by wealth, and
therefore undebauched by luxury; trained to obedience, and nurtured
in simplicity; but, above all, caught with the love of learning and
religion, while neither of them was worn for fashion-sake, or, what
is worse, perverted to the ends of vanity or ambition; where, say, is
the wonder that such a people should present so bright a picture of
manner’s to their admiring panegyrist?

To be fair with you; it was one of those conjunctures, in which the
active virtues are called forth, and rewarded. The dangers of the time
had roused the spirit, and brought out all the force and genius, of
the nation. A sort of enthusiasm had fired every man with the ambition
of exerting the full strength of his faculties, which way soever they
pointed, whether to the field, the closet, or the cabinet. Hence such
a crop of soldiers, scholars, and statesmen had sprung up, as have
rarely been seen to flourish together in any country. And as all owed
their duty, it was the fashion of the times for all to bring their
pretensions, to the court. So that, where the multitude of candidates
was so great, it had been strange indeed, if an ordinary discretion
had not furnished the queen with able servants of all sorts; and the
rather, as her occasions loudly called upon her to employ the ablest.

I was waiting, said Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to see to what conclusion this
career of your eloquence would at length drive you. And it hath
happened in this case, as in most others where a favourite point is to
be carried, that a zeal for it is indulged, though at the expence of
some other of more importance. Rather than admit the personal virtues
of the queen, you fill her court, nay, her kingdom, with heroes and
sages: and so have paid a higher compliment to her reign, than I had
intended.

To her _reign_, if you will, replied Mr. ADDISON, so far as regards the
qualities and dispositions of her subjects: for I will not lessen the
merit of this concession with you, by insisting, as I might, that their
_manners_, respectable as they were, were debased by the contrary,
yet very consistent, vices of servility and insolence[90]; and their
virtues of every kind deformed by, barbarism. But, for the queen’s own
merit in the choice of her servants, I must take leave to declare my
sentiments to you very plainly. It may be true, that she possessed a
good degree of sagacity in discerning the natures and talents of men.
It was the virtue by which, her admirers tell us, she was principally
distinguished. Yet, that the high fame of this virtue hath been owing
to the felicity of the times, abounding in all sorts of merit, rather
than to her own judgment, I think clear from this circumstance, “That
some of the most deserving of those days, in their several professions,
had not the fortune to attract the queen’s grace, in the proportion
they might have expected.” I say nothing of poor SPENSER. Who has any
concern for a poet[91]? But if merit alone had determined her majesty’s
choice, it will hardly at this day admit a dispute, that the immortal
HOOKER and BACON[92], at least, had ranked in another class than that,
in which this great discerner of spirits thought fit to leave them.

And her character; continued he, in every other respect is just as
equivocal. For having touched one part of it, I now turn from these
general considerations on the circumstances and genius of the time,
to our more immediate subject, the PERSONAL QUALITIES of ELIZABETH.
Hitherto we have stood aloof from the queen’s person. But there is no
proceeding a step further in this debate, unless you allow me a little
more liberty. May I then be permitted to draw the veil of ELIZABETH’S
court, and, by the lights which history holds out to us, contemplate
the mysteries, that were celebrated in that awful sanctuary?

After so reverend a preface, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, I think you may
be indulged in this liberty. And the rather, as I am not apprehensive
that the honour of the illustrious queen is likely to suffer by it. The
secrets of her cabinet-council, it may be, are not to be scanned by the
profane. But it will be no presumption to step into the drawing-room.

Yet I may be tempted, said Mr. ADDISON, to use a freedom in this survey
of her majesty, that would not have been granted to her most favoured
courtiers. As far as I can judge of her character, as displayed in that
solemn scene of her court, she had some apparent VIRTUES, but more
genuine VICES; which yet, in the public eye, had equally the fortune to
reflect a lustre on her government.

Her gracious affability, her love of her people, her zeal for the
national glory; were not these her more obvious and specious qualities?
Yet I doubt they were not so much the proper effects of her nature, as
her policy; a set of spurious virtues, begotten by the very necessity
of her affairs.

For her AFFABILITY, she saw there was no way of being secure amidst
the dangers of all sorts, with which she was surrounded; but by
ingratiating herself with the body of the people. And, though in her
nature she was as little inclined to this condescension as any of her
successors, yet the expediency of this measure compelled her to save
appearances. And it must be owned, she did it with grace, and even
acted her part with spirit. Possibly the consideration of her being a
female actor, was no disadvantage to her.

But, when she had made this sacrifice to interest, her proper temper
shewed itself clearly enough in the treatment of her nobles, and of all
that came within the verge of the court. Her caprice, and jealousy,
and haughtiness, appeared in a thousand instances. She took offence so
easily, and forgave so difficultly, that even her principal ministers
could hardly keep their ground, and were often obliged to redeem her
favour by the lowest submissions. When nothing else would do, they
sickened, and were even at death’s door: from which peril, however, she
would sometimes relieve them; but not till she had exacted from them,
in the way of penance, a course of the most mortifying humiliations.
Nay, the very ladies of her court had no way to maintain their credit
with her, but by, submitting patiently to the last indignities.

It is allowed, from the instances you have in view, returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT, that her nature was something high and imperious. But these
sallies of passion might well enough consist with her general character
of affability.

Hardly, as I conceive, answered Mr. ADDISON, if you reflect that
these sallies, or rather habits of passion, were the daily terror and
vexation of all about her. Her very minions seemed raised for no other
purpose, than the exercise of her ill-humour. They were encouraged, by
her smile, to presume on the royal countenance, and then beaten down
again in punishment of that presumption. But, to say the truth, the
slavish temper of the time was favourable to such exertions of female
caprice and tyranny. Her imperious father, all whose virtues, she
inherited, had taught her a sure way to quell the spirit of her nobles.
They had been long used to stand in awe of the royal frown. And the
people were pleased to find their betters ruled with so high a hand,
at a time when they themselves were addressed with every expression of
respect, and even flattery.

She even carried this mockery so far, that, as HARRINGTON observes
well, “she converted her reign, through the perpetual love-tricks
that passed between her and her people, into a kind of romance.” And
though that political projector, in prosecution of his favourite
notion, supposes the queen to have been determined to these intrigues
by observing, that the weight of property was fallen into the popular
scale; yet we need look no further for an account of this proceeding,
than the inherent haughtiness of her temper. She gratified the
insolence of her nature, in neglecting, or rather beating down, her
nobility, whose greatness might seem to challenge respect: while the
court, she paid to the people, revolted her pride less, as passing only
upon herself, as well as others, for a voluntary act of affability.
Just as we every day see very proud men carry it with much loftiness
towards their equals, or those who and raised to some nearness of
degree to themselves; at the same time that they affect a sort of
courtesy to such, as are confessedly beneath them.

You see, then, what her boasted affability comes to. She gave good
words to her people, whom it concerned her to be well with, and whom
her pride itself allowed her to _manage_: she insulted her nobles, whom
she had in her power, and whose abasement flattered the idea, she doted
upon, of her own superiority and importance[93].

Let the queen’s manner of treating her subjects be what it would, Dr.
ARBUTHNOT said, it appears to have given no offence in those days,
when the sincerity of her intentions was never questioned. Her whole
life is a convincing argument; that she bore the most entire affection
to her people.

HER LOVE OF HER PEOPLE, returned Mr. ADDISON hastily, is with me a very
questionable virtue. For what account shall we give of the multitude of
penal statutes, passed in her reign? Or, because you will say, there
was some colour for these; what excuse shall we make for her frequent
grants of monopolies, so ruinous to the public wealth and happiness,
and so perpetually complained of by her parliaments? You will say,
she recalled them. She did so. But not till the general indignation
had, in a manner, forced her to recall them. If by her _people_, be
meant those of the poorer and baser sort only, it may be allowed, she
seemed on all occasions willing to spare them. But for those of better
rank and fortune, she had no such consideration. On the other hand,
she contrived in many ways to pillage and distress them. It was the
tameness of that time, to submit to every imposition of the sovereign.
She had only to command her gentry on any service she thought fit, and
they durst not decline it. How many of her wealthiest and best subjects
did she impoverish by these means (though under colour, you may be
sure, of her high favour); and sometimes by her very visits! I will not
be certain, added he, that her visit to this pompous castle of her own
LEICESTER, had any other intention.

But what, above all, are we to think of her vow of celibacy, and her
obstinate refusal to settle the succession, though at the constant
hazard of the public peace and safety?

You are hard put to it, I perceive, interrupted. Dr. ARBUTHNOT, to
impeach the character of the queen in this instance, when a few penal
laws, necessary to the support of her crown in that time of danger; one
wrong measure of her government, and that corrected; the ordinary use
of her prerogative; and even her virginity; are made crimes of. But I
am curious to hear what you have to object to her ZEAL FOR THE ENGLISH
GLORY, carried so high in her reign; and the single point, as it seems
to me, to which all her measures and all her counsels were directed.

The _English_ glory, Mr. ADDISON said, may, perhaps, mean the state and
independency of the crown. And then, indeed, I have little to object.
But, in any other sense of the word, I have sometimes presumed to
question with myself, if it had not been better consulted, by more
effectual assistance of the Reformed on the Continent; by a more
vigorous prosecution of the war against _Spain_[94]; as I hinted
before, by a more complete reduction of _Ireland_. But say, we are
no judges of those high matters. What glory accrued to the _English_
name, by the insidious dealing with the queen of _Scots_; by the
vindictive proceedings against the duke of _Norfolk_; by the merciless
persecutions of the unhappy earl of _Essex_? The same spirit, you see,
continued from the beginning of this reign to the end of it. And the
observation is the better worth attending to, because some have excused
the queen’s treatment of ESSEX by saying, “That her nature, in that
decline of life, was somewhat clouded by apprehensions; as the horizon,
they observe, in the evening of the brightest day, is apt to be
obscured by vapours[95].” As if this fanciful simile, which illustrates
perhaps, could excuse, the perverseness of the queen’s temper; or, as
if that could deserve to pass for an incident of age, which operated
through life; and so declares itself to have been the proper result of
her nature.

You promised, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT, not to pry too closely into
the secrets of the cabinet. And such I must needs esteem the points
to be, which you have mentioned. But enough of these beaten topics.
I would rather attend you in the survey you promised to take of her
court, and of the princely qualities that adorned it. It is from what
passes in the inside of his palace, rather than from some questionable
public acts, that the real character of a prince is best determined.
And there, methinks, you have a scene opened to you, that deserves your
applause. Nothing appears but what is truly royal. Nobody knew better,
than ELIZABETH, how to support the decorum of her rank. She presided
in that high orb with the dignity of a great queen. In all emergencies
of danger, she shewed a firmness, and, on all occasions of ceremony,
a magnificence, that commanded respect and admiration. Her very
diversions were tempered with a severity becoming her sex and place,
and which made her court, even in its lightest and gayest humours, a
school of virtue.

These are the points, concluded he, I could wish you to speak to. The
rest may be left to the judgment of the historian, or rather to the
curiosity of the nice and critical politician.

You shall be obeyed, Mr. ADDISON said. I thought it not amiss to
take off the glare of those applauded qualities, which have dazzled
the public at a distance, by shewing that they were either feigned
or over-rated. But I come now to unmask the real character of this
renowned princess. I shall paint her freely indeed, but truly as she
appears to me. And, to speak my mind at once; I think it is not so
much to her virtues, which at best were equivocal, as to her very
VICES, that we are to impute the popular admiration of her character
and government.

I before took notice of the high, indecent PASSION, she discovered
towards her courtiers. This fierceness of temper in the softer sex was
taken for heroism; and, falling in with the slavish principles of the
age, begot a degree of reverence in her subjects, which a more equal,
that is a more becoming, deportment would not have produced. Hence, she
was better served than most of our princes, only because she was more
feared; in other words, because she less deserved to be so. But high as
she would often carry herself in this unprincely, I had almost said,
unwomanly, treatment of her servants; awing the men by her oaths, and
her women by blows; it is still to be remembered, that she had a great
deal of natural TIMIDITY in her constitution.

What! interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT hastily, the magnanimous ELIZABETH
a coward? I should as soon have expected that charge against CÆSAR
himself, or your own MARLBOROUGH.

I distinguish, Mr. ADDISON said, betwixt a parade of courage, put on to
serve a turn, and keep her people in spirits, and that true greatness
of mind, which, in one word, we call _magnanimity_. For this last,
I repeat it, she either had it not, or not in the degree in which
it has been ascribed to her. On the contrary, I see a littleness,
a pusillanimity, in her conduct on a thousand occasions. Hence it
was, that both to her people and such of the neighbouring states as
she stood in awe of, she used an excessive hypocrisy, which, in the
language of the court, you may be sure, was called policy. To the
_Hollanders_, indeed, she could talk big; and it was not her humour to
manage those over whom she had gained an ascendant. This has procured
her, with many, the commendation of a princely magnanimity. But, on the
other hand, when discontents were apprehended from her subjects, or
when _France_ was to be diverted from any designs against her, no art
was forgotten that might cajole their spirits with all the professions
of cordiality and affection. Then she was _wedded_, that was the tender
word, to her people: and then the interest of religion itself was
sacrificed by this Protestant queen to her newly-perverted brother on
the Continent.

Her foible, in this respect, was no secret to her ministers. But, above
all, it was practised upon most successfully by the Lord BURGHLEY; “for
whom, as I have seem it observed, it was as necessary that there should
be treasons, as for the state that they should be prevented[96].” Hence
it was, that he was perpetually raising her fears, by the discovery
of some plot, or, when that was wanting, by the proposal of some
law for her greater security. In short, he was for ever finding, or
making, or suggesting, dangers. The queen, though she would look big
(for indeed she was an excellent actress), startled at the shadows of
those dangers, the slightest rumours. And to this convenient timidity
of his mistress, so constantly alarmed, and relieved in turn by this
wily minister, was owing, in a good degree, that long and unrivalled
interest, he held in her favour.

Still, further, to this constitutional _fear_ (which might be forgiven
to her sex, if it had not been so strangely mixed with a more than
masculine ferocity in other instances) must be ascribed those favourite
maxims of policy, which ran through her whole government. Never was
prince more attached to the Machiavelian doctrine, DIVIDE ET IMPERA,
than our ELIZABETH[97]. It made the soul of her policies, domestic
and foreign. She countenanced the two prevailing factions of the time.
The Churchmen and Puritans divided her favour so equally, that her
favourites were sure to be the chiefs of the contending parties. Nay,
her court was a constant scene of cabals and personal animosities. She
gave a secret, and sometimes an open, countenance to these jealousies.
The same principle directed all her foreign[98] negociations.

And are you not aware, interrupted Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that this objected
policy is the very topic that I, and every other admirer of the
queen, would employ in commendation of her great ability in the art
of government? It has been the fate of too many of our princes (and
perhaps some late examples might be given) to be governed, and even
insulted, by a prevailing party of their own subjects. ELIZABETH was
superior to such attempts. She had no bye-ends to pursue. She frankly
threw herself on her people. And, secure in their affection, could
defeat at pleasure, or even divert herself with, the intrigues of this
or that aspiring faction.

We understand you, Mr. ADDISON replied; but when two parties are
contending within a state, and one of them only in its true interest,
the policy is a little extraordinary that should incline the sovereign
to discourage _this_, from the poor ambition of controuling _that_, or,
as you put it still worse, from the dangerous humour of playing with
_both_ parties. I say nothing of later times. I only ask; if it was
indifferent, whether the counsels of the CECILS or of LEICESTER were
predominant in that reign? But I mentioned these things before, and I
touch them again now, only to shew you, that this conduct, however it
may be varnished over by the name of wisdom, had too much the air of
fearful womanish intrigue, to consist with that heroical firmness and
intrepidity so commonly ascribed to queen ELIZABETH[99].

And what if, after all, I should admit, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, that, in
the composition of a woman’s courage, at least, there might be some
scruples of discretion? Is there any advantage, worth contending for,
you could draw from such a concession? Or, because you would be thought
serious, I will put the matter more gravely. The arts of prudence,
you arraign so severely, could not be taken for pusillanimity. They
certainly were not, in her own time; for she was not the less esteemed
or revered by all the nations of _Europe_ on account of them. The most
you can fairly conclude is, that she knew how to unite address with
bravery, and that, on occasion, she could _dissemble_ her high spirit.
The difficulties of her situation obliged her to this management.

Rather say at once, returned Mr. ADDISON, that the constant
dissimulation, for which she was so famous, was assumed to supply
the want of a better thing, which had rendered all those arts as
unnecessary as they were ignoble.

But _haughtiness_ and _timidity_, pursued he, were not the only vices
that turned to good account in the queen’s hands. She was frugal
beyond all bounds of decorum in a prince, or rather AVARICIOUS beyond
all reasonable excuse from the public wants and the state of her
revenue. Nothing is more certain than this fact, from the allowance
both of friends and enemies. It seems as if, in this respect, her
father’s example had not been sufficient; and that, to complete her
character, she had incorporated with many of his, the leading vice of
her grandfather.

Here Dr. ARBUTHNOT could not contain himself; and the castle happening
at that time, from the point where they stood, to present the most
superb prospect, “Look there, said he, on the striking, though small,
remnants of that grandeur you just now magnified so much; and tell me
if, in your conscience, you can believe such grants are the signs,
or were the effects, of avarice. For you are not to learn, that this
palace before us is not the only one in the kingdom, which bears the
memory of the queen’s bounty to her servants.”

Mr. ADDISON seemed a little struck with the earnestness of this
address: “It is true, said he, the queen’s fondness for one or two of
her favourites made her sometimes lavish of her grants; especially
of what cost her nothing, and did not, it seems, offend the delicacy
of her scruples; I mean, of the _church-lands_. But at the same time
her treasury was shut against her ambassadors and foreign ministers;
who complain of nothing more frequently than the slenderness of their
appointments, and the small and slow remittances that were made
to them. This frugality (for I must not call it by a worse name)
distressed the public service on many occasions[100]; and would have
done it on more, if the zeal of her trusty servants had not been
content to carry it on at the expence of their own fortunes. How many
instances might be given of this, if ONE were not more than sufficient,
and which all posterity will remember with indignation!

You speak of WALSINGHAM, interposed Dr. ARBUTHNOT. But were it not more
candid to impute the poverty of that minister to his own generous
contempt of riches, which he had doubtless many, fair occasions of
procuring to himself, than to any designed neglect of him by his
mistress?

The candour, returned Mr. ADDISON, must be very extraordinary, that
can find an excuse for the queen in a circumstance that doubles her
disgrace. But be it as you pretend. The uncommon moderation of the
man shall be a cover to the queen’s parsimony. It was not, we will
say, for this wise princess to provoke an appetite for wealth in her
servants: it was enough that she gratified it, on proper occasions,
where she found it already raised. And in this proceeding, no doubt,
she was governed by a tender regard, for their honour, as well as her
own interest. For how is her great secretary ennobled, by filling a
place in the short list of those worthies, who, having lived and died
in the service of their countries, have left not so much as a pittance
behind them, to carry them to their graves! All this is very well. But
when she had indulged this humour in one or two of her favourites,
and suffered them, for example’s sake, to ascend to these heights of
honour, it was going, methinks, a little too far, to expect the same
delicacy of virtue in all her courtiers. Yet it was not her fault, if
most of them did not reap this fame of illustrious poverty, as well as
WALSINGHAM. She dealt by them, indeed, as if she had ranked poverty, as
well as celibacy, among the cardinal virtues.

In the mean time, I would not deny that she had a princely fondness for
shew and appearance. She took a pride in the brilliancy of her court.
She delighted in the large trains of her nobility. She required to be
royally entertained by them. And she thought her honour concerned in
the figure they made in foreign courts, and in the wars. But, if she
loved this pomp, she little cared to furnish the expence of it. She
considered in good earnest (as some have observed, who would have the
observation pass for a compliment[101]) _the purses of her subjects
as her own_; and seemed to reckon on their being always open to her on
any occasion of service, or even ceremony. She carried this matter so
far, that the very expences of her wars were rather defrayed out of the
private purses of her nobility, than the public treasury. As if she had
taken it for a part of her _prerogative_ to impoverish her nobles at
pleasure; or rather, as if she had a mind to have it thought that one
of their _privileges_ was, to be allowed to ruin themselves from a zeal
to her service.

But the queen’s avarice, proceeded he, did not only appear from her
excessive parsimony in the management of the public treasure, but from
her rapacity in getting what she could from particulars into her privy
purse. Hence it was that all offices, and even personal favours, were
in a manner set to sale. For it was a rule with her majesty, to grant
no suit but for a reasonable consideration. So that whoever pretended
to any place of profit or honour was sure to send a jewel, or other
rich present beforehand, to prepare her mind for the entertainment
of his petition. And to what other purpose was it that she kept her
offices so long vacant, but to give more persons an opportunity of
winning a preference in her favour; which for the most part inclined
to those who had appeared, in this interval, to deserve it best? Nay,
the slightest disgust, which she frequently took on very frivolous
occasions, could not be got over but by the reconciling means of some
valuable or well fancied present. And, what was most grievous, she
sometimes accepted the present, without remitting the offence.

I remember a ridiculous instance of this sort. When the Lady LEICESTER
wanted to obtain the pardon of her unfortunate son, the Lord ESSEX, she
presented the queen with an exceeding rich gown, to the value of above
an hundred pounds. She was well pleased with the gift, but thought no
more of the pardon. We need not, after this, wonder at what is said of
her majesty’s leaving a prodigious quantity of jewels and plate behind
her, and even a _crowded wardrobe_. For so prevalent was this thrifty
humour in the queen’s highness, that she could not persuade herself to
part with so much, as a cast-gown to any of her servants[102].

You allow yourself to be very gay, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, on this
foible of the great queen. But one thing you forget, that it never
biased her judgment so far as to prevent a fit choice of her servants
on all occasions[103]. And, as to her wary management of the public
revenue, which you take a pleasure to exaggerate, this, methinks, is
a venial fault in a prince, who could not, in her circumstances; have
provided for the expences of government, but by the nicest and most
attentive economy.

I understand, said Mr. ADDISON, the full force of that consideration;
and believe it was that _attention_ principally, which occasioned the
popularity of her reign, and the high esteem, in which the wisdom of
her government is held to this day. The bulk of her subjects were, no
doubt, highly pleased to find themselves spared on all occasions of
expence. And it served at the same time, to gratify their natural envy
of the great, to find, that _their_ fortunes were first and principally
sacrificed to the public service. Nay, I am not sure that the very
rapacity of her nature, in the sale of her offices, was any objection
with the people at large, or even the lower gentry of the kingdom.
For these, having no pretensions themselves to those offices, would
be well enough pleased to see them not _bestowed_ on their betters,
but dearly purchased by them. And then this traffic at court furnished
the inferior gentry with a pretence for making the most of their
magistracies. This practice at least must have been very notorious
amongst them, when a facetious member of the lower house could define
a justice of peace to be, “A living creature, that for half a dozen of
chickens, will dispense with a whole dozen of penal statutes[104].”
But, however this be, the queen’s ends, in every view, were abundantly
answered. She enriched herself: she gained the affections of the
people, and depressed and weakened the nobility. And by all these ways
she effectually provided for, what she had ever most at heart, her own
supreme and uncontrolled authority.

And is that to be wondered at in a great prince? returned Dr.
ARBUTHNOT. Or, to take the matter in the light you place it, what if
the queen had so much of her sex[105] and family in her disposition, as
to like well enough to have her own way, is this such a crime as you
would make of it? If she loved power, it was not to make a wanton or
oppressive use of it. And if all princes knew as well to bound their
own wills, as she did, we should not much complain of their impatience
to be under the control of their subjects.

I am sorry, said Mr. ADDISON, that the acts of her reign will not allow
me to come into this opinion of her moderation. On the other hand, her
government appears to me, in many instances, OPPRESSIVE, and highly
prejudicial to the ancient rights and privileges of her people. For
what other construction can we make of her frequent interposition
to restrain the counsels of their representatives in parliament:
threatening some, imprisoning others, and silencing all with the
thunder of her prerogative? Or, when she had suffered their counsels to
ripen into bills, what shall we say of her high and mighty rejection of
them, and that not in single and extraordinary cases, but in matters
of ordinary course, and by dozens? I pass by other instances. But was
her _moderation_ seen in dilapidating the revenues of the church; of
that church, which she took under the wing of her supremacy, and would
be thought to have sheltered from all its enemies[106]. The honest
archbishop PARKER, I have heard, ventured to remonstrate against this
abuse, the cognizance of which came so directly within his province.
But to what effect, may be gathered, not only from the continuance
of these depredations, but her severe reprehension of another of her
bishops, whom she threatened with an oath to UNFROCK—that was her
majesty’s own word—if he did not immediately give way to her princely
extortions.

It may be hardly worth while to take notice of smaller matters. But
who does not resent her capricious tyranny, in disgracing such of
her servants as presumed to deviate, on any pretence, from her good
pleasure; nay, such as gave an implicit obedience to her will, if it
stood with her interest to disgrace them? Something, I know, may be
said to excuse the proceedings against the queen of _Scots_. But the
fate of DAVISON will reflect eternal dishonour on the policy, with
which that measure was conducted.

I run over these things hastily, continued Mr. ADDISON, and in no
great order: but you will see what to conclude from these hints; which
taken together, I believe, may furnish a proper answer to the most
considerable parts of your apology.

To sum it up in few words. Those two great events of her time, THE
ESTABLISHMENT OF THE REFORMATION, and THE TRIUMPH OVER THE POWER OF
SPAIN, cast an uncommon lustre on the reign of ELIZABETH. Posterity,
dazzled with these obvious successes, went into an excessive admiration
of her personal virtues. And what has served to brighten them the more,
is the place in which we chance to find her, between the bigot queen on
the one hand, and the pedant king on the other. No wonder then that, on
the first glance, her government should appear able, and even glorious.
Yet, in looking into particulars, we find that much is to be attributed
to fortune, as well as skill; and that her glory is even lessened by
considerations, which, on a careless view, may seem to augment it.
The difficulties, she had to encounter, were great. Yet these very
difficulties, of themselves, created the proper means to surmount
them. They sharpened the wits, inflamed the spirits, and united the
affections, of a whole people. The name of her great enemy on the
continent, at that time, carried terror with it. Yet his power was, in
reality, much less than it appeared. The _Spanish_ empire was corrupt
and weak, and tottered under its own weight. But this was a secret
even to the _Spaniard_ himself. In the mean time, the confidence,
which the opinion of great strength inspires, was a favourable
circumstance. It occasioned a remissness and neglect of counsel
on one side, in proportion as it raised the utmost vigilance and
circumspection on the other. But this was not all. The religious feuds
in the Low Countries—the civil wars in _France_—the distractions of
_Scotland_—all concurred to advance the fortunes of ELIZABETH. Yet all
had, perhaps, been too little in that grand crisis of her fate, and, as
it fell out, of her glory, if the conspiring elements themselves had
not fought for her.

Such is the natural account of her foreign triumphs. Her domestic
successes admit as easy a solution. Those external dangers themselves,
the genius of the time, the state of religious parties, nay, the very
factions of her court, all of them directly, or by the slightest
application of her policy, administered to her greatness. Such was the
condition of the times, that it forced her to assume the resemblance,
at least, of some popular _virtues_: and so singular her fortune, that
her very _vices_ became as respectable, perhaps more useful to her
reputation, than her virtues. She was vigilant in her counsels; careful
in the choice of her servants; courteous and condescending to her
subjects. She appeared to have an extreme tenderness for the interests,
and an extreme zeal for the honour, of the nation. This was the bright
side of her character; and it shone the brighter from the constant and
imminent dangers, to which she was exposed. On the other hand, she was
choleric, and imperious; jealous, timid, and avaricious: oppressive,
as far as she durst; in many cases capricious, in some tyrannical.
Yet these vices, some of them sharpened and refined her policy, and
the rest, operating chiefly towards her courtiers and dependents,
strengthened her authority, and rooted her more firmly in the hearts
of the people. The mingled splendour of these qualities, good and bad
(for even her worst had the luck, when seen but on one side, or in
well-disposed lights to look like good ones) so far dazzled the eyes
of all, that they did not, or would not, see many outrageous acts of
tyranny and oppression.

And thus it hath come to pass that, with some ability, more cunning,
and little real virtue, the name of ELIZABETH is, by the concurrence
of many accidental causes, become the most revered of any in the long
roll of our princes. How little she merited this honour, may appear
from this slight sketch of her character and government. Yet, when all
proper abatement is made in both, I will not deny her to have been
a great, that is, a _fortunate_, queen; in this, perhaps, the most
fortunate, that she has attained to so unrivalled a glory with so few
pretensions to deserve it.

And so, replied Dr. ARBUTHNOT, you have concluded your invective in
full form, and rounded it, as the ancient orators used to do, with
all the advantage of a peroration. But, setting aside this trick of
eloquence, which is apt indeed to confound a plain man, unused to such
artifices, I see not but you have left the argument much as you took
it up; and that I may still have leave to retain my former reverence
for the good old times of queen ELIZABETH. It is true, she had some
foibles. You have spared, I believe, none of them. But, to make amends
for these defects, let but the history of her reign speak for her, I
mean in its own artless language, neither corrupted by flattery, nor
tortured by invidious glosses; and we must ever conceive of her, I
will not say as the most faultless, perhaps not the most virtuous,
but surely the most able, and, from the splendour of some leading
qualities, the most glorious of our _English_ monarchs.

To give you my notion of her in few Words.—For the dispute, I find,
must end, as most others usually do, in the simple representation of
our own notions.—She was discreet, frugal, provident, and sagacious;
intent on the pursuit of her great ends, _the establishment of
religion_, and _the security and honour of her people_: prudent in
the choice of the best _means_ to effect them, the employment of able
servants, and the management of the public revenue; dexterous at
improving all advantages which her own wisdom or the circumstances
of the times gave her: fearless and intrepid in the execution of
great designs, yet careful to unite the deepest foresight with her
magnanimity. If she seemed AVARICIOUS, let it be considered that the
nicest frugality was but necessary in her situation: if IMPERIOUS,
that a female government needed to be made respectable by a shew
of authority: and if at any time OPPRESSIVE, that the _English_
constitution, as it then stood, as well as her own nature, had a good
deal of that bias.

In a word, let it be remembered, that she had the honour of
ruling[107], perhaps of forming, the wisest, the bravest, the most,
virtuous people, that have adorned any age or country; and that she
advanced the glory of the _English_ name and that of her own dignity to
a height, which has no parallel in the annals of our nation.

Mr. DIGBY, who had been very attentive to the course of this debate,
was a little disappointed with the conclusion of it. He thought to have
settled his judgment of this reign by the information his two friends
should afford him. But he found himself rather perplexed by their
altercations, than convinced by them. He owned, however, the pleasure
they had given him; and said, he had profited so much at least by the
occasion, that, for the future, he should conceive with something less
reverence of the great queen, and should proceed with less prejudice to
form his opinion of her character and administration.

Mr. ADDISON did not appear quite satisfied with this sceptical
conclusion; and was going to enforce some things, which he thought had
been touched too slightly, when Dr. ARBUTHNOT took notice that their
walk was now at an end; the path, they had taken, having by this time
brought them round again to the walls of the castle. Besides, he said,
he found himself much wearied with this exercise; though the warmth
of debate, and the opportunities he took of resting himself at times,
had kept him from complaining of it. He proposed, therefore, getting
into the coach as soon as possible; where, though the conversation was
in some sort resumed, there was nothing material enough advanced on
either side to make it necessary for me to continue this recital any
further.




  DIALOGUE V.

  ON THE

  CONSTITUTION

  OF THE

  ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.

  BETWEEN

  SIR JOHN MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS,

  AND

  BISHOP BURNET.




  DIALOGUE V.

  ON THE CONSTITUTION OF THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT.

  SIR JOHN MAYNARD, MR. SOMERS, BISHOP BURNET[108].


TO DR. TILLOTSON.

Though the principles of nature and common sense do fully authorise
resistance to the civil magistrate in extreme cases, and of course
justify the late Revolution to every candid and dispassionate man; yet
I am sensible, my excellent friend, there are many prejudices which
hinder the glorious proceedings in that affair from being seen in
their true light. The principal of them, indeed, are founded on false
systems of policy, and those tied down on the consciences of men by
wrong notions of religion. And such as these, no doubt, through the
experience of a better government, and a juster turn of thinking, which
may be expected to prevail in our times, will gradually fall away of
themselves.

But there is another set of notions on this subject, not so easy to be
discredited, and which are likely to keep their hold on the minds even
of the more sober and considerate sort of men. For whatever advantage
the cause of liberty may receive from general reasonings on the origin
and nature of civil government, the greater part of our countrymen will
consider, and perhaps rightly, the inquiry into the constitution of
_their_ own government, as a question of FACT; that must be tried by
authorities and precedents only; and decided at last by the evidence of
historical testimony, not by the conclusions of philosophy or political
speculation.

Now, though we are agreed that this way of managing the controversy
must, when fully and fairly pursued, be much in favour of the new
settlement, yet neither, I think, is it for every man’s handling, nor
is the evidence resulting from it of a nature to compel our assent. The
argument is formed on a vast variety of particulars, to be collected
only from a large and intimate acquaintance with the antiquities,
laws, and usages of the kingdom. Our printed histories are not only
very short and imperfect; but the original records, which the curious
have in their possession, are either so obscure or so scanty, that a
willing adversary hath always in readiness some objection, or some
cavil at least, to oppose to the evidence that may be drawn from them.
Besides, appearances, even in the plainest and most unquestioned parts
of our history, are sometimes so contradictory; arising either from
the tyranny of the prince, the neglect of the people, or some other
circumstance of the times; and, to crown all, the question itself hath
been so involved by the disputations of prejudiced and designing men;
that the more intelligent inquirer is almost at a loss to determine for
himself, on which side the force of evidence lies.

On this account I have frequently thought with myself, that a right
good CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY of _England_ would be the noblest service
that any man, duly qualified for the execution of such a work, could
render to his country. For though, as I said, the subject be obscure in
itself, and perplexed by the subtilties which contending parties have
invented for the support of their several schemes; yet, from all I have
been able to observe in the course of my own reading, or conversation,
there is little doubt but that the form of the _English_ government
hath, at all times, been FREE. So that, if such a history were drawn up
with sufficient care out of our authentic papers and public monuments,
it would not only be matter of entertainment to the curious, but
the greatest security to every _Englishman_ of his religions and
civil rights. For what can be conceived, more likely to preserve and
perpetuate these rights, than the standing evidence which such a work
would afford, of the genuine spirit and temper of the constitution? Of
the principles of freedom[109], on which it was formed, and on which
it hath been continually and uniformly conducted? Our youth, who at
present amuse themselves with little more than the military part of our
annals, would then have an easy opportunity of seeing to the bottom of
all our civil and domestic broils. They would know on what pretences
the PREROGATIVE of our kings hath sometimes aspired to exalt itself
above controul; and would learn to revere the magnanimity of their
forefathers, who as constantly succeeded in their endeavours to reduce
it within the ancient limits and boundaries of the LAW. In a word,
they would no longer rest on the surface and outside, as it were, of
the _English_ affairs, but would penetrate the interior parts of our
constitution; and furnish themselves with a competent degree of civil
and political wisdom; the most solid fruit that can be gathered from
the knowledge and experience of past times.

And I am ready to think that such a provision as this, for the
instruction of the _English_ youth, may be the more requisite, on
account of that limited indeed, yet awful form of government, under
which we live. For, besides the name, and other ensigns of majesty, in
common with those who wear the most despotic crown, the whole execution
of our laws, and the active part of government, is in the hands of the
prince. And this pre-eminence gives him so respectable a figure in the
eyes of his subjects, and presents him so constantly, and with such
lustre of authority, to their minds, that it is no wonder they are
sometimes disposed to advance him, from the rank of first magistrate of
a free people, into that of supreme and sole arbiter of the laws.

So that, unless these prejudices are corrected by the knowledge of our
constitutional history, there is constant reason to apprehend, not only
that the royal authority may stretch itself beyond due bounds; but may
grow, at length, into that enormous tyranny, from which this nation
hath been at other times so happily, and now of late so wonderfully,
redeemed.

But I suffer myself to be carried by these reflexions much further than
I designed. I would only say to you, that, having sometimes reflected
very seriously on this subject, it was with the highest pleasure I
heard it discoursed of the other day by two of the most accomplished
lawyers of our age: the venerable Sir JOHN MAYNARD, who, for a long
course of years, hath maintained the full credit and dignity of his
profession; and Mr. SOMERS, who, though a young man, is rising apace,
and with proportionable merits, into all the honours of it.

I was very attentive, as you may suppose, to the progress of this
remarkable conversation; and, as I had the honour to bear a full share
in it myself, I may the rather undertake to give you a particular
account of it. I know the pleasure it will give you to see a subject,
you have much at heart, and which we have frequently talked over in the
late times, thoroughly, canvassed, and cleared up; as I think it must
be, to your entire satisfaction.

It was within a day or two after that great event, so pleasing to
all true _Englishmen_, THE CORONATION OF THEIR MAJESTIES[110], that
Mr. SOMERS and I went; as we sometimes used, to pass an evening with
our excellent friend, my Lord Commissioner[111]. I shall not need
to attempt his character to you, who know him so well. It is enough
to say, that his faculties and spirits are, even in this maturity of
age, in great vigour. And it seems as if this joyful Revolution, so
agreeable to his hopes and principles, had given a fresh spring and
elasticity to both.

The conversation of course turned on the late august ceremony; the
mention of which awakened a sort of rapture in the good old man, which
made him overflow in his meditations upon it. Seeing us in admiration
of the zeal which transported him, “Bear with me, said he, my young
friends. Age, you know, hath its privilege. And it may be, I use it
somewhat unreasonably. But I, who have seen the prize of liberty
contending for through half a century, to find it obtained at last
by a method so sure, and yet so unexpected, do you think it possible
that I should contain myself on such an occasion? Oh, if ye had lived
with me in those days, when such mighty struggles were made for public
freedom, when so many wise counsels miscarried, and so many generous
enterprises concluded but in the confirmation of lawless tyranny; if,
I say, ye had lived in those days, and now at length were able to
contrast with me, to the tragedies that were then acted, this safe,
this bloodless, this complete deliverance: I am mistaken, if the
youngest of you could reprove me for this joy, which makes me think I
can never say enough on so delightful a subject.


BP. BURNET.

Reprove you, my lord? Alas! we are neither of us so unexperienced in
what hath passed of late in these kingdoms, as not to rejoice with you
to the utmost for this astonishing deliverance. You know I might boast
of being among the first that wished for, I will not say projected, the
measures by which it hath been accomplished. And for Mr. SOMERS, the
church of _England_ will tell——


MR. SOMERS.

I confess, my warmest wishes have ever gone along with those who
conducted this noble enterprise. And I pretend to as sincere a
pleasure as any man, in the completion of it. Yet, if we were not
unreasonable at such a time, I might be tempted to mention one
circumstance, which, I know not how, a little abates the joy of these
triumphant gratulations.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Is not the settlement then to your mind? Or hath any precaution been
neglected, which you think necessary for the more effectual security of
our liberties?


MR. SOMERS.

Not that. I think the provision for the people’s right as ample as
needs be desired. Or, if any further restrictions on the crown be
thought proper, it will now be easy for the people, in a regular
parliamentary way, to effect it. What I mean is a consideration of much
more importance.


BP. BURNET.

The pretended prince of WALES, you think, will be raising some
disturbance, or alarm at least, to the new government. I believe,
I may take upon me to give you perfect satisfaction upon that
subject[112].


MR. SOMERS.

Still your conjectures fall short or wide of my meaning. Our new
MAGNA CHARTA, as I love to call the _Declaration of Rights_, seems
a sufficient barrier against any future encroachments of the CROWN.
And I think, the pretended prince of WALES, whatever be determined of
his birth, a mere phantom, that may amuse, and perhaps disquiet, the
weaker sort for a while; but, if left to itself[113], will soon vanish
out of the minds of the PEOPLE. Not but I allow that even so thin a
pretence as this may, some time or other, be conjured up to disturb the
government. But it must be, when a certain set of principles are called
in aid to support it. And, to save you the further trouble of guessing,
I shall freely tell you, what those _principles_ are.—You will see, in
them, the ground of my present fears and apprehensions.

It might be imagined that so necessary a Revolution, as that which hath
taken place, would sufficiently approve itself to all reasonable men.
And it appears, in fact, to have done so, now that the public injuries
are fresh, and the general resentment of them strong and lively. But it
too often happens, that when the evil is once removed, it is presently
forgotten: and in matters of government especially, where the people
rarely think till they are made to feel, when the grievance is taken
away, the false system easily returns, and sometimes with redoubled
force, which had given birth to it.


BP. BURNET.

One can readily admit the principles. But the conclusion, you propose
to draw from them—


MR. SOMERS.

This very important one, “That, if the late change of government was
brought about, and can be defended only, on the principles of liberty;
the settlement, introduced by it, can be thought secure no longer than
while those principles are rightly understood, and generally admitted.”


BP. BURNET.

But what reason is there to apprehend that these principles, so
commonly professed and publickly avowed, will not continue to be kept
up in full vigour?


MR. SOMERS.

Because, I doubt, they are so commonly and publickly avowed, only to
serve a present turn; and not because they come from the heart, or are
entertained on any just ground of conviction.


BP. BURNET.

Very likely: and considering the pains that have been taken to possess
the minds of men with other notions of government, the wonder is, how
they came to be entertained at all. Yet surely the experience of better
times may be expected to do much. Men will of course think more justly
on these subjects in proportion as they find themselves more happy. And
thus the principles, which, as you say, were first pretended to out of
necessity, will be followed out of choice, and bound upon them by the
conclusions of their own reason.


MR. SOMERS.

I wish your lordship be not too sanguine in these expectations. It is
not to be conceived how insensible the people are to the blessings they
enjoy, and how easily they forget their past miseries. So that, if
their principles have not taken deep root, I would not answer for their
continuing much longer than it served their purpose to make a shew of
them.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

I must confess, that all my experience of mankind inclines me to this
opinion. I could relate to you some strange instances of the sort
Mr. SOMERS hints at. But after all, Sir, you do not indulge these
apprehensions, on account of the general fickleness of human nature.
You have some more particular reasons for concluding that the system
of liberty, which hath worked such wonders of late, is not likely to
maintain its ground amongst us.


MR. SOMERS.

I have: and I was going to explain those reasons, if my lord of
SALISBURY had not a little diverted me from the pursuit of them.

It is very notorious from the common discourse of men even on this
great occasion (and I wish it had not appeared too evidently in the
debates of the houses), that very many of us have but crude notions
of the form of government under which we live, and which hath been
transmitted to us from our forefathers. I have met with persons of
no mean rank, and supposed to be well seen in the history of the
kingdom, who speak a very strange language. They allow, indeed, that
something was to be done in the perilous circumstances into which we
had fallen. But, when they come to explain themselves, it is in a way
that leaves us no _right_ to do any thing; at least, not what it was
found expedient for the nation to do at this juncture. For they contend
in so many words, “that the crown of _England is absolute_; that the
form of government is an _entire and simple monarchy_; and that so it
hath continued to be in every period of it down to the Abdication:
that the CONQUEST, at least, to ascend no higher, invested the FIRST
WILLIAM in absolute dominion; that from him it devolved of course
upon his successors; and that all the pretended rights of the people,
the GREAT CHARTERS of ancient and modern date, were mere usurpations
on the prince, extorted from him by the necessity of his affairs,
and revocable at his pleasure: nay, they insinuate that parliaments
themselves were the creatures of his will; that their privileges were
all derived from the sovereign’s grant; and that they made no part in
the original frame and texture of the _English_ government.

In support of this extraordinary system, they refer us to the constant
tenor of our history. They speak of the Conqueror, as proprietary of
the whole kingdom: which accordingly, they say, he parcelled out, as
he saw fit, in grants to his _Norman_ and _English_ subjects: that,
through his partial consideration of the church, and an excessive
liberality to his favoured servants, this distribution was so ill made,
as to give occasion to all the broils and contentions that followed:
that the churchmen began their unnatural claim of independency on the
crown; in which attempt they were soon followed by the encroaching
and too powerful barons: that, in these struggles, many flowers of
the crown were rudely torn from it, till a sort of truce was made,
and the rebellious humour somewhat composed, by the extorted articles
of RUNNING-MEDE: that these confusions, however, were afterwards
renewed, and even increased, by the contests of the two houses of YORK
and LANCASTER: but that, upon the union of the roses in the person
of HENRY VII, these commotions were finally appeased, and the crown
restored to its ancient dignity and lustre: that, indeed, the usage of
parliaments, with some other forms of popular administration, which
had been permitted in the former irregular reigns, was continued; but
of the mere grace of the prince, and without any consequence to his
prerogative: that succeeding kings, and even HENRY himself, considered
themselves as possessed of an imperial crown; and that, though they
might sometimes condescend to take the advice, they were absolutely
above the control, of the people: in short, that the law itself was
but the will of the prince, declared in parliament; or rather solemnly
received and attested there, for the better information and more
entire obedience of the subject.

This they deliver as a just and fair account of the _English_
government; the genius of which, they say, is absolute and despotic in
the highest degree; as much so, at least, as that of any other monarchy
in _Europe_. They ask, with an air of insult, what restraint our HENRY
VIII, and our admired ELIZABETH, would ever suffer to be put on their
prerogative; and they mention with derision the fancy of dating the
high pretensions of the crown from the accession of the STUART family.
They affirm, that JAMES I, and his son, aimed only to continue the
government on the footing on which they had received it; that their
notions of it were authorized by constant fact; by the evidence of our
histories; by the language of parliaments; by the concurrent sense of
every order of men amongst us: and that what followed in the middle of
this century was the mere effect of POPULAR, as many former disorders
had been of PATRICIAN, violence. In a word, they conclude with saying,
that the old government revived again at the RESTORATION, just as, in
like circumstances, it had done before at the UNION of the two houses:
that, in truth, the voluntary desertion of the late king have given a
colour to the innovation of the present year; but that, till this new
settlement was made, the _English_ constitution, as implying something
different from pure monarchy, was an unintelligible notion, or rather a
mere whimsy, that had not the least foundation in truth or history.”

This is a summary of the doctrines, which, I doubt, are too current
amongst us. I do not speak of the bigoted adherents to the late king;
but of many cooler and more disinterested men, whose _religious_
principles, as I suppose (for it appears it could not be their
_political_), had engaged them to concur in the new settlement. You
will judge, then, if there be not reason to apprehend much mischief
from the prevalence and propagation of such a system: a system, which,
as being, in the language of the patrons of it, founded upon _fact_,
is the more likely to impose upon the people; and, as referring to
the practice of ancient times, is not for every man’s confutation.
I repeat it, therefore; if this notion of the despotic form of our
government become general, I tremble to think what effect it may
hereafter produce on the minds of men; especially when joined to that
false tenderness, which the people of _England_ are so apt to entertain
for their princes, even the worst of them, under misfortune. I might
further observe, that this prerogative system hath a direct tendency
to produce, as well as heighten, this compassion to the sovereign. And
I make no scruple to lay it before you with all its circumstances,
because I know to whom I speak, and that I could not have wished for a
better opportunity of hearing it confuted.


BP. BURNET.

I must own, though I was somewhat unwilling to give way to such
melancholy apprehensions at this time, I think with Mr. SOMERS, there
is but too much reason to entertain them. For my own part, I am apt
to look no further for the _right_ of the legislature to settle the
government in their own way, than their own free votes and resolutions.
For, being used to consider all political power as coming originally
from the people, it seems to me but fitting that they should dispose
of that power for their own use, in what hands, and under what
conditions, they please. Yet, as much regard is due to established
forms and ancient prescription, I think the matter of _fact_ of great
consequence; and, if the people in general should once conceive of
it according to this representation, I should be very anxious for
the issue of so dangerous an opinion. I must needs, therefore, join
very entirely with Mr. SOMERS, in wishing to hear the whole subject
canvassed, or rather finally determined, as it must be, if Sir JOHN
MAYNARD will do us the pleasure to acquaint us what his sentiments are
upon it.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Truly, my good friends, you have opened a very notable cause, and in
good form. Only, methinks, a little less solemnity, if you had so
pleased, might have better suited the occasion. Why, I could almost
laugh, to hear you talk of feats and dangers from a phantom of your
own raising. I certainly believe the common proverb belies us; and
that old age is not that dastardly thing it hath been represented.
For, instead of being terrified by this conceit of a prescriptive
right in our sovereigns to tyrannize over the subject, I am ready
to think the contrary so evident from the constant course of our
history, that the simplest of the people are in no hazard of falling
into the delusion. I should rather have apprehended mischief from other
quarters; from the influence of certain speculative points, which
have been to successfully propagated of late; and chiefly from those
pernicious glosses, which too many of my order have made on the letter
or the law, and too many of yours, my lord of SALISBURY, on that of
the gospel. Trust me, if the matter once came to a question of FACT,
and the inquiry be only concerning ancient form and precedent, the
decision will be in our favour. And for yourselves, I assure myself,
this decision is already made. But since you are willing to put me upon
the task, and we have leisure enough for such an amusement, I shall
very readily undertake it. And the rather, as I have more than once in
my life had occasion to go to the bottom of this inquiry; and now very
lately have taken a pleasure to reflect on the general evidence which
history affords of our free constitution, and to review the scattered
hints and passages I had formerly set down for my private satisfaction.

“I understand the question to be, not under what _form_ the government
hath appeared at some particular conjunctures, but what we may conclude
it to have been from the general current and tenor of our histories.
More particularly, I conceive, you would ask, not whether the
_administration_ hath not at some seasons been DESPOTIC, but whether
the _genius_ of the government hath not at all times been FREE. Or, if
you do not think the terms, in which I propose the question, strict
enough, you will do well to state it in your own way, that hereafter we
may have no dispute about it.


BP. BURNET.

I suppose, the question, as here put, is determinate enough for our
purpose.—Or, have you, Mr. SOMERS, any exceptions to make to it?


MR. SOMERS.

I believe we understand each other perfectly well; the question being
only this, “Whether there be any ground in history, to conclude that
the prince hath a constitutional claim to absolute uncontrolable
dominion; or, whether the liberty of the subject be not essential
to every different form, under which the _English_ government hath
appeared?”


SIR J. MAYNARD.

You expect of me then to shew, in opposition to the scheme just now
delivered by you, that neither from the original constitution of the
government, nor from the various forms (for they have, indeed, been
various) under which it hath been administered, is there any reason
to infer, that the _English_ monarchy is, or of right ought to be,
despotic and unlimited.

Now this I take to be the easiest of all undertakings; so very easy,
that I could trust a plain man to determine the matter for himself
by the light that offers itself to him from the slightest of our
histories. ’Tis true, the deeper his researches go, his conviction
will be the clearer; as any one may see by dipping into my friend NAT.
BACON’S discourses; where our free constitution is set forth with that
evidence, as must for ever have silenced the patrons of the other
side, if he had not allowed himself to strain some things beyond what
the truth, or indeed his cause, required. But, saving to myself the
benefit of his elaborate work, I think it sufficient to take notice,
that the system of liberty is supported even by that short sketch of
our history, which Mr. SOMERS hath laid before us; and in spite of the
disguises, with which, as he tells us, the enemies of liberty have
endeavoured to cloak it.

You do not, I am sure, expect from me, that I should go back to the
elder and more remote parts of our history; that I should take upon
me to investigate the scheme of government, which hath prevailed in
this kingdom from the time that the _Roman_ power departed from us; or
that I should even lay myself out in delineating, as many have done,
the plan of the _Saxon_ constitution: though such an attempt might not
be unpleasing, nor altogether without its use, as the _principles_
of the _Saxon_ policy, and in some respects the _form_ of it, have
been constantly kept up in every succeeding period of the _English_
monarchy. I content myself with observing, that the spirit of liberty
was predominant in those times: and, for proof of it, appeal at present
only to one single circumstance, which you will think remarkable. Our
_Saxon_ ancestors conceived so little of government, by the will of the
magistrate, without fixed laws, that LAGA, or LEAGA, which in their
language first and properly signified the same as LAW with us, was
transferred[114] very naturally (for language always conforms itself
to the genius, temper, and manners of a nation) to signify a country,
district, or province; these good people having no notion of any
inhabited country not governed by laws. Thus DÆNA-LAGA; MERKENA-LAGA;
and WESTSEXENA-LAGA, were not only used in their laws and history to
signify the _laws_ of the _Danes_, _Mercians_, and _West-Saxons_, but
the _countries_ likewise. Of which usage I could produce to you many
instances, if I did not presume that, for so small a matter as this,
my mere word might be taken.

You see then how fully the spirit of liberty possessed the very
language of our _Saxon_ forefathers. And it might well do so; for it
was of the essence of the _German_ constitutions; a just notion of
which (so uniform was the genius of the brave people that planned them)
may be gathered, you know, from what the _Roman_ historians, and, above
all, from what TACITUS hath recorded of them.

But I forbear so common a topic: and, besides, I think myself acquitted
of this task, by the prudent method, which the defenders of the regal
power have themselves taken in conducting this controversy. For, as
conscious of the testimony which the _Saxon_ times are ready to bear
against them, they are wise enough to lay the foundation of their
system in the CONQUEST. They look, no higher than that event for the
origin of the _constitution_, and think they have a notable advantage
over us in deducing their notion of the _English_ government from
the form it took in the hands of the _Norman_ invader. But is it not
pleasant to hear these men calumniate the improvements that have been
made from time to time in the plan of our civil constitution with
the name of _usurpations_, when they are not ashamed to erect the
_constitution_ itself on what _they_ must esteem, at least, a great and
manifest usurpation?


BP. BURNET.

CONQUEST, I suppose, in their opinion, gives _right_. And since
an inquiry into the origin of a constitution requires that we fix
_somewhere_, considering the vast alterations introduced by the
Conquest, and that we have never pretended to reject, but only to
improve and complete, the duke of NORMANDY’S establishment; I believe
it may be as proper to set out from that æra as from any other.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Your lordship does not imagine that I am about to excuse myself from
closing with them, even on their own terms. I intended that question
only as a reproach to the persons we have to deal with; who, when
a successful event makes, or but seems to make, for their idol of
an absolute monarchy, call it a regular establishment: whereas a
revolution brought about by the justest means, if the cause of liberty
receive an advantage by it, shall be reviled by the name of usurpation.
But let them employ what names they please, provided their facts be
well grounded. We will allow them to dignify the _Norman_ settlement
with the title of CONSTITUTION. What follows? That _despotism_ was of
the essence of that constitution? So they tell us indeed; but without
one word of proof, for the assertion. For what! do they think the
name of conquest, or even the _thing_, implies an absolute unlimited
dominion? Have they forgotten that WILLIAM’S claim to the crown was,
not _conquest_ (though it enabled him to support his claim), but
_testamentary succession_: a title very much in the taste of that
time[115], and extremely reverenced by our _Saxon_ ancestors? That,
even waving this specious claim, he condescended to accept the crown,
as a free gift; and by his coronation-oath submitted himself to the
same terms of administration, as his predecessors? And that, in one
word, he confirmed the _Saxon_ laws, at least before he had been many
years in possession of his new dignity[116].

Is there any thing in all this that favours the notion of his erecting
himself, by the sole virtue of his victory at _Hastings_, into an
absolute lord of the conquered country? Is it not certain that he bound
himself, as far as oaths and declarations could bind him, to govern
according to law; that he could neither touch the honours nor estates
of his subjects but by legal trial; and that even the many forfeitures
in his reign are an evidence of his proceeding in that method?

Still we are told “of his parcelling out the whole land, upon his own
terms, to his followers;” and are insulted “with his famous institution
of feudal tenures.” But what if the _former_ of these assertions
be foreign to the purpose at least, if not false; and the _latter_
subversive of the very system it is brought to establish? I think, I
have reason for putting both these questions. For, what if he parcelled
out most, or all, of the lands of _England_ to his followers? The fact
has been much disputed. But be it, as they pretend, that the property
of all the soil in the kingdom had changed hands: What is that to
us, who claim under our _Norman_, as well as _Saxon_, ancestors?
For the question, you see, is about the form of government settled
in this nation at the time of the Conquest. And they argue with us,
from a supposed act of tyranny in the Conqueror, in order to come at
that settlement. The _Saxons_, methinks, might be injured, oppressed,
enslaved; and yet the constitution, transmitted to us through his own
_Normans_, be perfectly free.

But their _other_ allegation is still more unfortunate. “He instituted,
they say, the feudal law.” True. But the feudal law, and absolute
dominion, are two things; and, what is more, perfectly incompatible.

I take upon me to say, that I shall make out this point in the clearest
manner. In the mean time, it may help us to understand the nature of
the feudal establishment, to consider the practice of succeeding times.
What that was, our adversaries themselves, if you please, shall inform
us. Mr. SOMERS hath told their story very fairly; which yet amounts
only to this, “That, throughout the _Norman_ and _Plantagenet_ lines,
there was one perpetual contest between the prince and his feudatories
for law and liberty:” an evident proof of the light in which our
forefathers regarded the _Norman_ constitution. In the competition
of the two ROSES, and perhaps before, they lost sight indeed of this
prize. But no sooner was the public tranquillity restored, and the
contending claims united in HENRY VII. than the old spirit revived.
A legal constitution became the constant object of the people; and,
though not always avowed, was, in effect, as constantly submitted to by
the sovereign.

It may be true, perhaps, that the ability of _one_ prince[117], the
imperious carriage of _another_[118], and the generous intrigues of a
_third_[119]; but, above all, the condition of the times, and a sense
of former miseries, kept down the spirit of liberty for some reigns,
or diminished, at least, the force and vigour of its operations. But
a passive subjection was never acknowledged, certainly never demanded
as a matter of right, till ELIZABETH now and then, and King JAMES, by
talking continually in this strain, awakened the national jealousy;
which proved so uneasy to himself, and, in the end, so fatal to his
family.

I cannot allow myself to mention these things more in detail to you,
who have so perfect a knowledge of them. One thing only I insist upon,
that, without connecting the system of liberty with that of prerogative
in our notion of the _English_ government, the tenor of our history is
perfectly unintelligible; and that no consistent account can be given
of it, but on the supposition of a LEGAL LIMITED CONSTITUTION.


MR. SOMERS.

Yet that constitution, it will be thought, was at least ill defined,
which could give occasion to so many fierce disputes, and those carried
on through so long a tract of time, between the crown and the subject.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

The fault, if there was one, lay in the original plan of the
constitution itself; as you will clearly see when I have opened the
nature of it, that is, when I have explained the genius, views, and
consequences of the FEUDAL POLICY. It must, however, be affirmed, that
this policy was founded in the principles of freedom, and was, in
truth, excellently adapted to an active, fierce, and military people;
such as were all those to whom these western parts of _Europe_ have
been indebted for their civil constitutions. But betwixt the burdensome
services imposed on the subject by this tenure, or which it gave at
least the pretence of exacting from him, and the too great restraint
which an unequal and disproportioned allotment of feuds to the greater
barons laid on the sovereign; but above all, by narrowing the plan of
liberty too much; and, while it seemed to provide for the dependency
of the prince on one part of his subjects, by leaving both him and
them in a condition to exercise an arbitrary dominion over all others:
hence it came to pass that the feudal policy naturally produced the
struggles and convulsions, you spoke of, till it was seen in the end to
be altogether unsuited to the circumstances of a rich, civilized, and
commercial people. The event was, that the inconveniences, perceived in
this form of government, gradually made way for the introduction of a
better; which was not, however, so properly a new form, as the old one
amended and set right; cleared of its mischiefs and inconsistencies,
but conducted on the same principles as the former, and pursuing the
same end, though by different methods.

It is commonly said, “That the feudal tenures were introduced at the
Conquest.” But how are we to understand this assertion? Certainly, not
as if the whole system of military services had been created by the
Conqueror; for they were essential to all the _Gothic_ or _German_
constitutions. We may suppose then, that they were only new-modelled
by this great prince. And who can doubt that the form, which was now
given to them, would be copied from that which the _Norman_ had seen
established in his own country? It would be copied then from the proper
FEUDAL FORM; the essence of which consisted in the perpetuity of the
feud[120]; whereas these military tenures had been elsewhere temporary
only, or revocable at the will of the lord.

But to enter fully into the idea of the feudal constitution; to see
at what time, and in what manner, it was introduced: above all, to
comprehend the reasons that occasioned this great change; it will be
convenient to look back to the estate of _France_, and especially of
_Normandy_, where this constitution had, for some years, taken place
before it was transferred to us at the Conquest.

Under the first princes of the _Carlovingian_ line, the lands of
_France_ were of two kinds, ALLODIAL, and BENEFICIARY. The allodial,
were estates of inheritance; the persons possessing them, were called
HOMMES LIBRES. The beneficiary, were held by grants from the crown. The
persons holding immediately under the emperor, were called LEUDES; the
sub-tenants, VASSALS.

Further, the allodial lands were alienable, as well as hereditary.
The beneficiary were properly neither. They were held for life, or a
term of years, at the will of the lord, and reverted to him on the
expiration of the term for which they were granted.

I do not stay to explain these institutions minutely. It is of more
importance to see the alterations that were afterwards made in them.
And the FIRST will be thought a strange one.

The possessors of allodial lands, in _France_, were desirous to have
them changed into _tenures_. They who held of the crown _in capite_
were entitled to some distinctions and privileges, which the allodial
lords wished to obtain; and therefore many of them surrendered their
lands to the emperor, and received them again of him, in the way of
_tenure_. This practice had taken place occasionally from the earliest
times: but under CHARLES the Bald, it became almost general; and
_free-men_ not only chose to hold of the emperor, but of other lords.
This last was first allowed, in consequence of a treaty between the
three brothers, after the battle of _Fontenay_ in 847.

But these _free-men_ were not so ill-advised as to make their estates
precarious, or to accept a life estate instead of an inheritance.
It was requisite they should hold for a perpetuity. And this I take
to have been the true origin of hereditary feuds. Most probably, in
those dangerous times, little people could not be safe without a lord
to protect them: and the price of this protection was the change of
propriety into tenure.

The SECOND change was by a law made under the same emperor in the year
877, the last of his reign. It was then enacted, that beneficiary
estates held under the crown should descend to the sons of the present
possessors: yet not, as I conceive, to the eldest son; but to him whom
the emperor should chuse; nor did this law affect the estates only, but
_offices_, which had hitherto been also beneficiary; and so the sons of
counts, marquises, _&c._ (which were all names of offices, not titles
of honour) were to succeed to the authority of their fathers, and to
the benefice annexed to it. The new feuds, created in allodial lands,
had, I suppose, made the emperor’s tenants desirous of holding on the
same terms; and the weakness of the reigning prince enabled them to
succeed in this first step, which prepared the way for a revolution of
still more importance. For,

The THIRD change, by which the inheritance of beneficiary lands and
offices was extended to perpetuity, and the possession rendered
almost independent of the crown, was not, we may be sure, effected at
once, but by degrees. The family of CHARLEMAGNE lost the empire: they
resisted with great difficulty the incursions of the _Normans_; and,
in the year 911, _Normandy_ was granted to them as an hereditary fee.
The great lords made their advantage of the public calamities; they
defended the king on what terms they pleased; if not complied with
in their demands, they refused their assistance in the most critical
conjunctures: and before the accession of HUGH CAPET, had entirely
shaken off their dependence on the crown. For it is, I think, a vulgar
mistake to say, that this great revolution was the effect of HUGH’S
policy. On the contrary, the independence of the nobles, already
acquired, was, as it seems to me, the cause of his success. The prince
had no authority left, but over his own demesnes; which were less
considerable than the possessions of some of his nobles. HUGH had one
of the largest fiefs: and for this reason, his usurpation added to the
power of the crown, instead of lessening it, as is commonly imagined.
But to bring back the feuds of the other nobles to their former
precarious condition was a thing impossible: his authority was partly
supported by superior wisdom, and partly by superior strength, his
vassals being more numerous than those of any other lord.

I cannot tell if these foreigners, when they adopted the feudal plan,
were immediately aware of all the consequences of it. An hereditary
tenure was, doubtless, a prodigious acquisition; yet the advantage
was something counter-balanced by the great number of impositions
which the nature of the change brought with it. These impositions
are what, in respect of the lord, are called his FRUITS of tenure;
such as WARDSHIP, MARRIAGE, RELIEF, and other services: and were
the necessary consequence of the king’s parting with his arbitrary
disposal of these tenures. For now that the right of inheritance was
in the tenant, it seemed but reasonable, and, without this provision,
the feudal policy could not have obtained its end, that the prince,
in these several ways, should secure to himself the honour, safety,
and defence, which the very nature of the constitution implied and
intended. Hence hereditary feuds were very reasonably clogged with the
obligations. I have mentioned; which, though trifling in comparison
with the disadvantages of a precarious tenure, were yet at least some
check on the independency acquired. However, these services, which were
due to the king under the new model, were also due to the tenant in
chief from those who held of him by the like tenure. And so the barons,
or great proprietaries of land, considering more perhaps the subjection
of their own vassals, than that by which themselves were bound to their
sovereign, reckoned these burdens as nothing, with respect to what they
had gained by an hereditary succession.

The example of these _French_ feudataries, we may suppose, would be
catching. We accordingly find it followed, in due time, in _Germany_;
where CONRAD II.[121] granted the like privilege of _successive_
tenures, and at the pressing instance of his tenants.

I thought it material to remind you of these things; because they prove
the feudal institution on the continent to have been favourable to the
cause of liberty; and because it will abate our wonder to find it so
readily accepted and submitted to here in _England_.


MR. SOMERS.

The account you have given, and, I dare say, very truly, of the origin
of feuds in _France_ and _Germany_, is such as shews them to have
been an extension of the people’s liberty. There is no question that
hereditary alienable estates have vastly the preference to beneficiary.
But the case, I suspect, was different with us in _England_. The great
offices of state, indeed, in this country, as well as in _France_, were
beneficiary. But, if I do not mistake, the lands of the _English_,
except only the church-lands, were all allodial. And I cannot think it
could be for the benefit of the _English_ to change their old _Saxon_
possessions, subject only to the famous triple obligation, for these
new and burdensome tenures.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Strange as it may appear, we have yet seen that the _French_ did not
scruple to make that exchange even of their allodial estates. But to
be fair, there was a great difference, as you well observe, in the
circumstances of the two people. All the lands in _England_ were, I
believe, allodial, in the _Saxon_ times: while a very considerable
proportion of those in _France_ were beneficiary.

Another difference, also, in the state of the two countries, is worth
observing. In _France_, the allodial lands (though considerable in
quantity) were divided into small portions. In _England_, they seem
to have been in few hands; the greater part possessed by the King
and his _Thanes_; some smaller parcels by the lesser _Thanes_; and a
very little by the _Ceorles_. The consequence was, that, though the
allodial proprietors in _France_ were glad to renounce their property
for tenure, in order to secure the protection they much wanted; yet
with us, as you say, there could not be any such inducement for the
innovation. For, the lands being possessed in large portions by the
nobility and gentry, the allodial lords in _England_ were too great to
stand in need of protection. Yet from this very circumstance, fairly
attended to, we shall see that the introduction of the feudal tenures
was neither difficult nor unpopular. The great proprietors of land
were, indeed, too free and powerful, to be bettered by this change. But
their tenants, that is, the bulk of the people, would be gainers by it.
For these tenants were, I believe, to a man beneficiaries. The large
estates of the _Thanes_ were granted out in small portions to others,
either for certain quantities of corn or rent, reserved to the lord,
or on condition of stipulated services. And these grants, of whichever
sort they were, were either at pleasure, or at most for a limited term.
So that, though the proprietors of land in _England_ were so much
superior to those in _France_; yet the tenants of each were much in the
same state; that is, they possessed beneficiary lands on stipulated
conditions.

When, therefore, by right of forfeiture, the greater part of the lands
in _England_ fell, as they of course would do, into the power of the
king (for they were in few hands, and those few had either fought at
_Hastings_, or afterwards rebelled against him), it is easy to see
that the people would not be displeased to find themselves, instead of
beneficiary tenants[122], feudatary proprietors.

I say this on supposition that these great forfeited estates and
signiories, so bountifully bestowed by the Conqueror on his favourite
_Normans_, were afterwards, many of them at least, granted out in
smaller parcels to _English_ sub-tenants. But if these sub-tenants
were also _Normans_ (though the case of the _English_ or old _Saxon_
freeholders was then very hard), the change of allodial into feudatary
estates is the more easily accounted for.

The main difficulty would be with the churchmen; who (though the
greatest, and most of them were, perhaps, _Normans_ too) were well
acquainted with the _Saxon_ laws, and for special reasons were much
devoted to them. They were sensible that their possessions had been
held, in the _Saxon_ times, in FRANC-ALMOIGN: a sort of tenure, they
were not forward to give up for this of _feuds_. ’Tis true, the burdens
of these tenures would, many of them, not affect them. But then neither
could they reap the principal fruit of them, the fruit of inheritance.
They, besides, considered every restraint on their privileges as
impious; and took the subjection of the ecclesiastic to the secular
power, which the feudal establishment was to introduce, for the vilest
of all servitudes. Hence the churchmen were, of all others, the most
averse from this law[123]. And their opposition might have given the
Conqueror still more trouble, if the suppression of the great Northern
rebellion had not furnished him with the power, and (as many of them
had been deeply engaged in it) with the pretence, to force it upon
them. And thus, in the end, it prevailed universally, and without
exception.

I would not go further into the history of these tenures. It may appear
from the little I have said of them, that the feudal system was rather
improved and corrected by the duke of NORMANDY, than originally planted
by him in this kingdom: that the alteration made in it was favourable
to the public interest; and that our _Saxon_ liberties were not so
properly restrained, as extended by it. It is of little moment to
inquire whether the nation was won, or forced, to a compliance with
this system. It is enough to say, that, as it was accepted by the
nation, so it was in itself no servile establishment, but essentially
founded in the principles of liberty. The duties of lord and feudatary
were reciprocal and acknowledged: services on the one part, and
protection on the other. The institution was plainly calculated for the
joint-interest[124] of both parties, and the benefit of the community;
the proper notion of the feudal system being that “of a confederacy
between a number of military persons, agreeing on a certain limited
subordination and dependence on their chief, for the more effectual
defence of his and their lives, territories, and possessions.”


MR. SOMERS.

I have nothing to object to your account of the feudal constitution.
And I think you do perfectly right, to lay the main stress on the
general nature and genius of it; as by this means you cut off those
fruitless altercations, which have been raised, concerning the personal
character of the _Norman_ Conqueror. Our concern is not with him, but
with the government he established. And if that be free, no matter
whether the founder of it were a tyrant. But, though I approve your
method, I doubt there is some defect in your argument. _Freedom_ is a
term of much latitude. The _Norman_ constitution may be free in one
sense, as it excludes the sole arbitrary dominion of one man; and
yet servile enough in another, as it leaves the government in few
hands. For it follows, from what I understand of the feudal plan, that
though its genius be indeed averse from absolute monarchy, yet it is
indulgent enough to absolute _aristocracy_. And the notion of each is
equally remote from what we conceive of true _English_ liberty.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

It is true, the proper feudal form, especially as established in this
kingdom, was in a high degree oligarchical. It would not otherwise,
perhaps, have suited to the condition of those military ages. Yet the
principles it went upon, were those of public liberty, and generous
enough to give room for the extension of the system itself, when a
change of circumstances should require it.—But your objection will
best be answered by looking a little more distinctly into the nature of
these tenures.

I took notice that the feudal system subjected the CHURCH more
immediately to the civil power: and laid the foundation of many
services and fruits of tenure to which the LAY-FEUDATARIES in the
_Saxon_ times had been altogether strangers. It is probable that
all the consequences of this alteration were not foreseen. Yet the
churchmen were pretty quick-sighted. And the dislike, they had
conceived of the new establishment, was the occasion of those
struggles, which continued so long between the mitre and crown, and
which are so famous more especially in the early parts of our history.
The cause of these ecclesiastics was a bad one. For their aim was, as
is rightly observed by the advocates for the prerogative, to assert an
independency on the state; and for that purpose the pope was made a
party in the dispute; by whose intrigues it was kept up in one shape
or other till the total renunciation of the papal power. Thus far,
however, the feudal constitution cannot be blamed. On the contrary, it
was highly serviceable to the cause of liberty, as tending only to hold
the ecclesiastic, in a due subordination to the civil, authority.

The same thing cannot be said of the other instance, I mean the _fruits
of tenure_, to which the lay-fees were subjected by this system. For
however reasonable, or rather necessary, those _fruits_ might be, in
a feudal sense, and for the end to which the feudal establishment was
directed, yet, as the _measure_ of these fruits, as well as the manner
of exacting them, was in a good degree arbitrary, and too much left to
the discretion of the sovereign, the practice, in this respect, was
soon found by the tenants in chief to be an intolerable grievance.
Hence that other contest, so memorable in our history, betwixt the king
and his barons: in which the former, under the colour of maintaining
his feudal rights, laboured to usurp an absolute dominion over the
persons and properties of his vassals; and the latter, impatient of
the feudal burdens, or rather of the king’s arbitrary exactions under
pretence of them, endeavoured to redeem themselves from so manifest an
oppression.

It is not to be denied, that, in the heat of this contest, the barons
sometimes carried their pretensions still further, and laboured in
their turn to usurp on the crown, in revenge for the oppressions
they had felt from it. However, their first contentions were only
for a mitigation of the feudal system. It was not the character of
the _Norman_ princes to come easily into any project that was likely
to give the least check to their pretensions. Yet the grievances,
complained of, were in part removed, in part moderated, by HENRY the
First’s and many other successive charters: though the last blow was
not given to these feudal servitudes till after the Restoration, when
such of them as remained, and were found prejudicial to the liberty of
the subject, were finally abolished.

Thus we see that ONE essential defect in the feudal policy, considered
not as a military, but civil institution, was, the too great power
it gave the sovereign in the arbitrary impositions, implied in this
tenure. ANOTHER was accidental. It arose from the disproportionate
allotment of those feuds, which gave the greater barons an ascendant
over the prince, and was equally unfavourable to the cause of liberty.
For the bounty of the duke of NORMANDY, in his distribution of the
forfeited estates and signiories to his principal officers, had been so
immense[125], that their share of influence in the state was excessive,
and intrenched too much on the independency of the crown and the
freedom of the people. And this undue poize in the constitution, as
well as the tyranny of our kings, occasioned the long continuance of
those civil wars, which for many ages harrassed and distressed the
nation. The evil, however, in the end, brought on its own remedy. For
these princely houses being much weakened in the course of the quarrel,
HENRY VII. succeeded, at length, to the peaceable possession of the
crown. And by the policy of this prince, and that of his successor,
the barons were brought so low as to be quite disabled from giving any
disturbance to the crown for the future.

It appears then that TWO great defects in the feudal plan of
government, as settled amongst us, were, at length, taken away. But a
THIRD, and the greatest defect of all, was the narrowness of the plan
itself, I mean when considered as a system of CIVIL polity; for, in its
primary martial intention, it was perfectly unexceptionable.

To explain this matter, which is of the highest importance, and will
furnish a direct answer to Mr. SOMERS’ objection, we are to remember
that in the old feudal policy the king’s barons, that is, such as
held _in capite_ of the crown by barony or knight’s service, were the
king’s, or rather the kingdom’s, great council. No public concerns
could be regularly transacted, without their consent[126]; though
the lesser barons, or tenants by knight’s service, did not indeed so
constantly appear in the king’s court, as the greater barons; and
though the public business was sometimes even left to the ordinary
attendants on the king, most of them churchmen. It appears that,
towards the end of the Conqueror’s reign, the number of these tenants
in chief was about 700; who, as the whole property of the kingdom was,
in effect, in their power, may be thought a no unfit representative
(though this be no proper _feudal_ idea) of the whole nation. It was
so, perhaps, in those rude and warlike times, when the strength of the
nation lay entirely in the soldiery; that is, in those who held by
military services, either immediately of the crown, or of the mesne
lords. For the remainder of the people, whom they called tenants in
socage, were of small account; being considered only in the light
of servants, and contributing no otherwise to the national support
than by their cultivation of the soil, which left their masters at
leisure to attend with less distraction on their military services.
At least, it was perfectly in the genius of the feudal, that is,
military constitutions, to have little regard for any but the men of
arms; and, as every other occupation would of course be accounted base
and ignoble, it is not to be wondered that such a difference was made
between the condition of _prædial_ and _military_ tenures.

However, a policy, that excluded such numbers from the rank and
privileges of citizens, was so far a defective one. And this defect
would become more sensible every day, in proportion to the growth of
arts, the augmentation of commerce, and the security the nation found
itself in from foreign dangers. The ancient military establishment
would now be thought unjust, when the exclusive privileges of the
swordsmen were no longer supported by the necessities of the public,
and when the wealth of the nation made so great a part of the force of
it. Hence arose an important change in the legislature of the kingdom,
which was much enlarged beyond its former limits. But this was done
gradually; and was more properly an extension than violation of the
ancient system.

First, the number of tenants in chief, or the king’s freeholders, was
much increased by various causes, but chiefly by the alienation which
the greater barons made of their fees. Such alienation, though under
some restraint, seems to have been generally permitted in the _Norman_
feuds; I mean, till MAGNA CHARTA and some subsequent statutes laid it
under particular limitations. But, whether the practice were regular or
not, it certainly prevailed from the earliest times; especially on some
more extraordinary occasions. Thus, when the fashionable madness of the
CROISADES had involved the greater barons in immense debts, in order
to discharge the expences of these expeditions, they alienated their
fees, and even dismembered them; that is, they parted with their right
in them, and made them over in small parcels to others, to hold of the
superior lord. And what these barons did from necessity, the crown
itself did, out of policy: for the _Norman_ princes, growing sensible
of the inconvenience of making their vassals too great, disposed of
such estates of their barons as fell in to them by forfeiture, and were
not a few, in the same manner. The consequence of all this was, that,
in process of time, the lesser military tenants _in capite_ multiplied
exceedingly. And, as many of them were poor, and unequal to a personal
attendance in the court of their lord, or in the common council of the
kingdom (where of right and duty they were to pay their attendance),
they were willing, and it was found convenient to give them leave,
to appear in the way of _representation_. And this was the origin of
what we now call THE KNIGHTS OF THE SHIRES; who, in those times, were
appointed to represent, not all the free-holders of counties, but the
lesser tenants of the crown only. For these not attending in person,
would otherwise have had no place in the king’s council.

The rise of CITIZENS AND BURGESSES, that is, representatives of the
cities and trading towns, must be accounted for somewhat differently.
These had originally been in the jurisdiction, and made part of the
demesnes, of the king and his great lords. The reason of which appears
from what I observed of the genius of the feudal policy. For, little
account being had of any but martial men, and trade being not only
dishonourable, but almost unknown in those ages; the lower people,
who lived together in towns, most of them small and inconsiderable,
were left in a state of subjection to the crown, or some other of the
barons, and exposed to their arbitrary impositions and talliages.

But this condition of burghers, as it sprang from the military genius
of the nation, could only be supported by it. When that declined
therefore, and, instead of a people of soldiers, the commercial spirit
prevailed, and filled our towns with rich traders and merchants, it
was no longer reasonable, nor was it the interest of the crown, that
these communities and bodies of men should be so little regarded. On
the contrary, a large share of the public burdens being laid upon them,
and the frequent necessities of the crown, especially in foreign wars,
or in the king’s contentions with his barons, requiring him to have
recourse to their purses, it was naturally brought about that those, as
well as the tenants _in capite_, should, in time, be admitted to have a
share in the public councils.

I do not stay to trace the steps of this change. It is enough to say,
that arose insensibly and naturally out of the growing wealth and
consequence of the trading towns; the convenience the king found in
drawing considerable sums from them, with greater ease to himself, and
less offence to the people; and, perhaps, from the view of lessening by
their means the exorbitant power and influence of the barons.

From these, or the like reasons, the great towns and cities, that
before were royal demesnes, part of the king’s private patrimony, and
talliable by him at pleasure, were allowed to appear in his council
by their deputies, to treat with him of the proportion of taxes to be
raised on them, and, in a word, to be considered it the same light as
the other members of that great assembly.

I do not inquire when this great alteration was first made. I find it
subsisting at least under EDWARD III. And from that time, there is no
dispute but that the legislature, which was originally composed of the
sovereign and his feudal tenants, included also the representatives of
the counties, and of the royal towns and cities. To speak in our modern
style, the HOUSE OF COMMONS was, now, formed. And by this addition, the
glorious edifice of _English_ liberty was completed.

I am sensible, I must have wearied you with this deduction, which can
be no secret to either of you. But it was of importance to shew, that
the constitution of _England_, as laid in the feudal tenures, was
essentially free; and that the very changes it hath undergone, were the
natural and almost unavoidable effects of those tenures. So that what
the adversaries of liberty object to us, as usurpations on the regal
prerogative, are now seen to be either the proper result of the feudal
establishment, or the most just and necessary amendments of it.


BP. BURNET.

I have waited with much pleasure for this conclusion, which entirely
discredits the notion of an absolute, despotic government. I will not
take upon me to answer for Mr. _Somers_, whose great knowledge in the
laws and history of the kingdom enables him to see further into the
subject than I do; but to me nothing appears more natural or probable
than this account of the rise and progress of the _English_ monarchy.
One difficulty, in particular, which seemed to embarrass this inquiry,
you have entirely removed, by shewing how, from the aristocratical form
which prevailed in the earlier times, the more free and popular one of
our days hath gradually taken place, and that without any violence to
the antient constitution[127].


MR. SOMERS.

At least, my lord, with so little, that we may, perhaps, apply to
the _English_ government what the naturalists observe of the HUMAN
BODY[128]; that, when it arrives at its full growth, it does not
perhaps retain a single particle of the matter it originally set out
with; yet the alteration hath been made so gradually and imperceptibly,
that the system is accounted the same under all changes. Just so, I
think, we seem to have shaken off the constituent parts of the FEUDAL
CONSTITUTION; but, liberty having been always the informing principle,
time and experience have rather completed the old system, than created
a new one: and we may account the present and _Norman_ establishment
all one, by the same rule as we say that HERCULES, when he became the
deliverer of oppressed nations, was still the same with him who had
strangled serpents in his cradle.


SIR. J. MAYNARD.

I know not what fanciful similes your younger wit may delight in. I
content myself with observing, that the two great points, which they,
who deny the liberty of the subject, love to inculcate, and on which
the plausibility of all their reasonings depends, are, THE SLAVISH
NATURE OF THE FEUDAL CONSTITUTION, and THE LATE RISE OF THE HOUSE OF
COMMONS. And I have taken up your time to small purpose, if it doth
not now appear, that the _former_ of these notions is false, and the
_latter_ impertinent. If the learned inquirers into this subject had
considered that the question is concerning the freedom itself of our
constitution, and not the most convenient form under which it may be
administered, they must have seen that, the feudal law, though it
narrowed the system of liberty, was founded in it; that the spirit of
freedom is as vital in this form, and the principles it goes upon as
solid, as in the best-formed republic; and that _villanage_ concludes
no more against the _feudal_, than _slavery_ against the _Greek_ or
_Roman_, constitutions.


MR. SOMERS.

That is, Sir JOHN, you make _liberty_ to have been the essence of all
THREE; though, to the perfection of an equal commonwealth, you suppose
it should have been further spread out and dilated: as they say of
_frankincense_ (if you can forgive another allusion), which, when
lying in the lump, is of no great use or pleasure; but, when properly
diffused, is the sweetest of all odours. But you was going on with the
application of your principles.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

I was going to say that, as many have been misled by wrong notions of
the _feudal tenures_, others had erred as widely in their reasonings
on _the late origin of the lower house of parliament_. How have we
heard some men triumph, in dating it no higher than the reign of
EDWARD III? Let the fact be admitted. What follows? That this house
is an usurpation on the prerogative? Nothing less. It was gradually
brought forth by time, and grew up under the favour and good liking
of our princes[129]. The constitution itself supposed the men of
greatest consequence in the commonwealth to have a seat in the
national councils. Trade and agriculture had advanced vast numbers
into consequence, that before were of small account in the kingdom.
The public consideration was increased by their wealth, and the public
necessities relieved by it. Were these to remain for ever excluded from
the king’s councils? or was not that council, which had liberty for its
object, to widen and expand itself in order to receive them? It did, in
fact, receive them with open arms; and, in so doing, conducted itself
on the very principles of the old feudal policy.

In short, the _feudal constitution_, different from all others that
human policy is acquainted with, was of such a make, that it readily
gave way, and fitted itself to the varying situations of society:
narrow and contracted, when the public interest required a close
connexion between the governor and the governed; large and capacious,
when the same interest required that connexion to be loosened. Just as
the skin (if you will needs have a comparison), the natural cincture
of the body, confines the young limbs with sufficient tightness,
and yet widens in proportion to their growth, so as to let the
different parts of the body play with ease, and obtain their full
size and dimensions. Whereas the other policies, that have obtained
in the world, may be compared to those artificial coverings, which,
being calculated only for one age and size; grow troublesome and
insupportable in any other; and yet cannot, like these, be thrown off
and supplied by such as are more suitable and convenient; but are worn
for life, though with constant, or rather increasing, uneasiness.

This then being the peculiar prerogative of the feudal policy, I think
we may say with great truth, not that the House of Commons violated
the constitution, but, on the contrary, that the constitution itself
demanded, or rather generated, the House of Commons.

So that I cannot by any means commend the zeal which some have shewn
in seeking the origin of this house in the _British_ or even _Saxon_
annals. Their aim was, to serve the cause of liberty; but, it must be
owned, at the expence of truth, and, as we now perceive, without the
least necessity.


BP. BURNET.

It hath happened then in this, as in so many other instances, that an
excellent cause hath suffered by the ill judgment of its defenders.
But, when truth itself had been disgraced by one sort of men in being
employed by them to the worst purposes, is it to be wondered that
others should not acknowledge her in such hands, but be willing to look
out for her in better company?


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Let us say, my lord, they should have acknowledged her in whatever
company she was found; and the rather, as ill-applied truths are seen
to be full as serviceable to a bad cause, as downright falsehoods.
Besides, this conduct had not only been fairer, but more politic. For
when so manifest a truth was rejected, it was but natural to suspect
foul play in the rest, and that none but a bad cause could want to be
supported by so disingenuous a management.


MR. SOMERS.

I think so, Sir JOHN; and there is this further use of such candor,
that it cuts off at once the necessity of long and laboured researches
into the dark parts of our history; and so not only shortens the
debate, but renders it much more intelligible to the people.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

I was aware of that advantage, and am therefore not displeased that
truth allowed me to make use of it.—But to resume the main argument;
for I have not yet done with my evidence for the freedom of our
excellent constitution:—It seemed of moment to shew, from the nature
and consequences of the _Norman_ settlement, that the _English_
government was essentially free. But, because the freest form of
government may be tamely given up and surrendered into the hands of a
master, I hold it of consequence to prove, that the _English_ spirit
hath always been answerable to the constitution, and that even the
most insidious attempts on their liberties have never failed to awaken
the resentment of our generous forefathers. In a word, I would shew
that the jealously, with which the _English_ have ever guarded the
national freedom, is at once a convincing testimony of their _right_,
and of their constant _possession_ of it.

And though I might illustrate this argument by many other instances, I
chuse to insist only on ONE, THEIR PERPETUAL OPPOSITION TO THE CIVIL
AND CANON LAWS; which, at various times and for their several ends, the
crown and church have been solicitous to obtrude on the people.

To open the way to this illustration, let it be observed that, from the
time of HONORIUS, that is, when the _Roman_ authority ceased amongst
us, the _Saxon_ institutions, incorporated with the old _British_
customs, were the only standing laws of the kingdom. These had been
collected and formed into a sort of digest by EDWARD the Confessor; and
so great was the nation’s attachment to them, that WILLIAM himself was
obliged to ratify them, at the same time that the feudal law itself was
enacted. And afterwards, on any attempt to innovate on those laws, we
hear of a general outcry and dissatisfaction among the people: which
jealousy of theirs was not without good grounds; as we may see from
an affair that happened in the Conqueror’s own reign, and serves to
illustrate the policy of this monarch.

It had been an old custom, continued through the _Saxon_ times, for
the bishops and sheriffs to sit together in judicature in the county
courts. This had been found a very convenient practice; for the
presence of the churchmen gave a sanction to the determinations of
the temporal courts, and drew an extraordinary reverence towards them
from the people. Yet we find it abolished by the Conqueror; who, in a
rescript to the bishop of _Lincoln_, ordained that, for the future,
the bishops and aldermen of the shires should have separate courts
and separate jurisdictions. The pretence for this alteration was the
distinct nature of the two judicatures, and the desire of maintaining
a strict conformity to the canons of the church. The real design was
much deeper. There is no question but WILLIAM’S inclinations, at least,
were for arbitrary government; in which project his _Norman_ lawyers,
it was hoped, might be of good use to him. But there was a great
obstacle in his way. The churchmen of those times had incomparably
the best knowledge of the _Saxon_ laws. It matters not, whether those
churchmen were _Normans_, or not. They were equally devoted, as I
observed before, to the _Saxon_ laws, with the _English_; as favouring
that independency, they affected, on the civil power. Besides, in
the Confessor’s time, many and perhaps the greatest of the churchmen
had been _Normans_; so that the study of the _Saxon_ laws, from the
interest they promised themselves in them, was grown familiar to the
rising ecclesiastics of that country. Hence, as I said, the churchmen,
though _Normans_, were well instructed in the spirit and genius of the
_Saxon_ laws; and it was not easy for the king’s glossers to interpret
them to their own mind, whilst the bishops were at hand to refute and
rectify their comments.

Besides, the truth is (and my lord of SALISBURY will not be displeased
with me for telling it), the ecclesiastics of that time were much
indevoted to the court. They considered the king as the wickedest of
all tyrants. He had brought them into subjection by their baronies, and
had even set the pope himself at defiance. In this state of things,
there was no hope of engaging the clergy in his plot. But when a
separation of the two tribunals was made, and the civil courts were
solely administered by his own creatures, the laws, it was thought,
would speak what language he pleased to require of them.

Such appears to have been the design of this prince in his famous
distinction of the ecclesiastic and temporal courts. It was so artfully
laid, and so well coloured, that the laity seem to have taken no
umbrage at it. But the clergy saw his drift; and their zeal for the
ancient laws, as well as their resentments, put them upon contriving
methods to counteract it. They hit upon a very natural and effectual
one. In a word, they all turned common lawyers; and so found means of
introducing themselves into the civil courts. This expedient succeeded
so well, and was so generally relished, that the clergy to a man almost
in the next reign were become professors of the common law; NULLUS
CLERICUS NISI CAUSIDICUS, as WILLIAM of _Malmesbury_ takes care to
inform us[130].


BP. BURNET.

Whatever their motive might be, the churchmen, I perceive, interposed
very seasonably in the support of our civil liberties. It was a
generous kind of revenge, methinks, to repay the king’s tyranny over
the church by vindicating the authority of the _English_ laws.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

It was so; and for this good service, I let them pass without any
harsher reflection. Though the true secret is, perhaps, no more than
this: Their main object was the church, of whose interests, as is
fitting, we will allow them to be the most competent judges. And,
as these inclined them, they have been, at different junctures, the
defenders or oppressors of civil liberty.


BP. BURNET.

At _some_ junctures, it may be, they have. But, if you insist on so
general a censure, I must intreat Mr. SOMERS, once more, to take upon
him the defence of our order.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

All I intended by this instance, was, to shew the spirit of the
_Saxon_ laws, which could excite the jealousy of the prince, and
deserve, at such a season, the patronage of the clergy. It seems,
however, for once, as if they had a little misconceived their true
interests. For the distinction of the two judicatures, which occasioned
their resentment, was, in the end, a great means of the hierarchical
greatness and independency.

Matters continued on this footing during the three first of the
_Norman_ reigns. The prince did his utmost to elude the authority of
the _English_ laws; and the nation, on the other hand, laboured hard to
confirm it. But a new scene was opened under King STEPHEN, by means of
the _Justinian_ laws; which had lately been recovered in _Italy_, and
became at once the fashionable study over all _Europe_. It is certain,
that the Pandects were first brought amongst us in that reign; and that
the reading of them was much favoured by Archbishop THEOBALD[131],
under whose encouragement they were publicly read in _England_ by
VACARIUS, within a short time after the famous IRNERIUS had opened his
school at _Bologna_. There is something singular in the readiness with
which this new system of law was embraced in these Western parts of
_Europe_. But my friend Mr. SELDEN used to give a plausible account of
it. It was, he said[132], in opposition to INNOCENT II, who was for
obtruding on the Christian states the _decretals_, as laws; manifestly
calculated for the destruction of the civil magistrate’s power. And
what seems to authorize the opinion of my learned friend, is, that
the popes very early took the alarm, and, by their decrees, forbad
churchmen to teach the civil law: as appears from the constitution of
ALEXANDER III, so early as the year 1163, in the council of TOURS; and
afterwards from the famous decretal of SUPER-SPECULA by HONORIUS III,
in 1219, in which the clergy of all denominations, seculars as well as
regulars, were prohibited the study of it. And it was, doubtless, to
defeat the mischief which the popes apprehended to themselves, from
the credit of the imperial laws, that GRATIAN was encouraged, about
the same time, to compose and publish his DECREE; which, it is even
said[133], had the express approbation of Pope EUGENIUS.

Let us see, now, what reception this newly-recovered law, so severely
dealt with by the pope, and so well entertained by the greatest part of
_Europe_, had in _England_.

VACARIUS had continued to teach it for some time, in the archbishop’s
palace at _Lambeth_, to great numbers, whom first, the novelty of the
study, and then, the fashion of the age, had drawn about him. The fame
of the teacher was high, and the new science had made a great progress,
when on a sudden it received a severe check, and from a quarter
whence one should not naturally expect it. In short, the king himself
interdicted the study of it. Some have imagined, that this inhibition
was owing to the spite he bore to archbishop THEOBALD. But the truer
reason seems to be, that the canon law was first read by VACARIUS at
the same time, and under colour of the imperial. I think we may collect
thus much very clearly from JOHN OF SALISBURY, who acquaints us with
this edict. For he considers it as an offence against the church, and
expressly calls the prohibition, an IMPIETY[134].

It is true, the decretals of GRATIAN were not yet published. But Ivo
had made a collection of them in the reign of HENRY I; and we may be
sure that some code of this sort would privately go about amongst the
clergy, from what was before observed of the pains taken by INNOCENT
II, to propagate the decretals. We may further observe, that THEOBALD
had been in high favour with INNOCENT; and that his school, at
_Lambeth_, was opened immediately on his return from _Rome_, whither he
had been to receive his pall from this pope, on his appointment to the
see of _Canterbury_[135]. All which makes it probable, that STEPHEN’S
displeasure was not so much at the civil, as _canon_ law, which he
might well conclude had no friendly aspect on his sovereignty.

And we have the greater reason to believe that this was the fact, from
observing what afterwards happened in the reign of HENRY III, when
a prohibition of the same nature was again issued out against the
teachers of the _Roman_ laws in _London_[136]. The true cause of the
royal mandate is well known. GREGORY IX had just then published a new
code of the decretals; which, like all former collections of this sort,
was calculated to serve the papal interest, and depress the rights of
princes.

However, these edicts, if we suppose them levelled against the civil
law, had no effect, any more than those of the popes ALEXANDER and
HONORIUS, before mentioned. For the imperial law, being generally well
received by the princes of _Europe_, presently became a kind of _Jus
gentium_. And the clergy, who aspired to power and dignities, either
abroad or at home, studied it with an inconceivable rage; insomuch,
that ROGER BACON tells us, that, in his time for forty years together,
the seculars, who were the ecclesiastics employed in business, never
published a single treatise in divinity[137].

The truth is, whatever shew the popes or our own princes might make,
at times, of discountenancing the civil law, it was not the design of
either absolutely and universally to suppress it. It was properly, not
the civil, but the canon law, which was discountenanced by our kings.
And the case of the popes was, that, when they found the imperial law
opposed to the _common_, they were ready to favour it; when it was
opposed to the _canon_, and brought that into neglect, they forbad
ecclesiastics the study of it.


MR. SOMERS.

In the mean time the poor people, methinks, were in a fine condition,
between two laws, the one founded on civil, and the other on
ecclesiastical, tyranny. If either had prevailed, there had been an end
of their liberties.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Certainly their situation was very critical. Yet in the end it was
precisely this situation that saved them. For betwixt these contentions
of the crown and mitre, each endeavouring to extend its dominion over
the other, the people, who were of course to be gained by either side
in its distress, found means to preserve themselves from both.

To see how this happened, we must remember, what appears indeed from
the two edicts of STEPHEN and HENRY, that the king himself was a
bulwark betwixt them and the papal power. And when the king in his turn
wanted to exalt his prerogative over all, the church very naturally
took the alarm, as we saw in the case of WILLIAM’S separation of the
two tribunals. And thus it happened, as NAT. BACON observes[138],
“That many times the pope and the clergy became protectors of the
people’s liberties, and kept them safe from the rage of kings.” The
greatest danger was, when the two powers chanced to unite in one common
design against them; as they did in their general inclination for the
establishment of the civil law. But here the people had the courage
always to defend themselves; and with that wisdom too, as demonstrates
their attention to the cause of civil liberty, and the vigilance with
which they guarded even its remotest outworks.

Of their steady and watchful conduct, in this respect, I shall mention
some of the many memorable examples, that occur in our history.

I have said that from the time of STEPHEN, notwithstanding his famous
edict, the imperial laws were the chief and favourite study of the
clergy. They had good reason for applying themselves so closely to this
science, and still further views than their own immediate advancement.
They wanted to bring those laws into the civil courts, and to make
them the standing rule of public administration; not merely from
their good-will to the papal authority, which would naturally gain
an advantage by this change, but for the sake of controlling the too
princely barons, and in hopes, no doubt, that the imperial would in due
time draw the canon laws into vogue along with them. Such, I think,
were at least the secret designs of the ruling clergy; and they did not
wait long before they endeavoured to put their project in execution.
The plot was admirably laid, and with that deep policy as hath kept it,
I believe, from being generally understood to this day.

The great men of that time were, we may be sure, too like the great
men of every other, to be very scrupulous about the commission of
those vices to which they were most inclined. The truth is, their
profligacy was in proportion to their greatness and their ignorance.
They indulged themselves in the most licentious amours, and even prided
themselves in this licence. The good churchmen, no doubt, lamented this
corruption of manners; but, as they could not reform, they resolved at
least to draw some emolument to themselves from it. The castles of the
barons, they saw, were full of bastards. Nay, the courtesy of that time
had so far dignified their vices, that the very same was had in honour.
EGO GULIELMUS BASTARDUS, is even the preamble to one of WILLIAM the
First’s charters.

Yet, as respectable as it was become, there was one unlucky check
on this favourite indulgence: and this, with the barons leave, the
considerate bishops would presently take off. Subsequent marriage,
by the imperial as well as canon laws, legitimated bastards, as to
succession; whereas the common law kept them eternally in their
state of bastardy. It is not to be doubted, but the barons would be
sensible enough of this restraint. They earnestly wished to get rid
of it. And could any thing bid so fair to recommend the imperial law
to their good liking, as the tender of it for so desirable a purpose?
At a parliament, therefore, under HENRY III[139], _Rogaverunt omnes
episcopi, ut consentirent quod nati ante matrimonium essent legitimi_.
What think ye now of this general supplication of the hierarchy?
What could the barons do but comply with it, especially as it was so
kindly intended for their relief, and the proposal was even made with
a delicacy that might enable them to come into it with a good grace,
and without the shame of seeming to desire it? All this is very true.
Yet the answer of the virtuous barons is as follows: _Omnes comites et
barons unâ voce responderunt_, QUOD NOLUMUS LEGES ANGLIÆ MUTARI.

We see then what stuck with them. These barons, as licentious as they
were, preferred their liberty to their pleasure. The bishops, they
knew, as partisans of the pope, were for subjecting the nation to
the imperial and papal laws. They offered, indeed, to begin with a
circumstance very much to their taste. But if they accepted the benefit
of them in one instance, with what decency could they object to them
in others? They determined therefore to be consistent. They rejected
a proposition, most agreeable in itself, lest their acceptance of it
should make way for the introduction of foreign laws; whose very genius
and essence, they well knew, was arbitrary, despotic power. Their
answer speaks their sense of this matter, NOLUMUS LEGES ANGLIÆ MUTARI.
They had nothing to object to the proposal itself. But they were afraid
for the constitution.


MR. SOMERS.

I doubt, Sir JOHN, my lord of SALISBURY will bring a fresh complaint
against you, for this liberty with the bishops. But I, who shall not
be thought wanting in a due honour for that bench, must needs confess
myself much pleased, as well with the novelty, as justice of this
comment. I have frequently considered this famous reply of the old
barons. But I did not see to the bottom of the contrivance. Their
aversion to the imperial laws, as you say, must have been very great,
to have put them on their guard against so inviting a proposal.


BP. BURNET.

One thing, however, is forgotten or dissembled in this account, that
the law of JUSTINIAN, which allows the privilege of legitimation
to subsequent marriage, is grounded on some reasons that might,
perhaps, recommend it to the judgment, as well as interest of the old
prelates. Besides, they doubtless found themselves much distressed
by the contrariety of the two laws in this instance. For the ground
of their motion, as I remember, was, _Quod esset secundum communem
formam ecclesiæ_. But, to deal ingenuously with you, Sir JOHN, you have
dressed up your hypothesis very plausibly. And I, who am no advocate
for the civil or ecclesiastical laws, in this or any instance where
they clash with those of my country, can allow your raillery on HENRY’S
good bishops, if it were only that I see it makes so much for your
general argument.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Your lordship may the rather excuse this liberty with the _church_,
as I propose, in due time, to deal as freely with WESTMINSTER-HALL;
a similar plot, which I shall have occasion to mention presently,
having been formed against the ancient constitution by the men of our
profession.


MR. SOMERS.

In the mean time, Sir JOHN, you must give me leave, in quality of
advocate for the church, to observe one thing, that does the churchmen
honour. It is, that, in these attempts on the constitution, the judges
and great officers of the realm, who in those times were of the clergy,
constantly took the side of the _English_ laws; as my Lord COKE
himself, I remember, takes notice in his commentary on this statute of
MERTON.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

I believe the observation is very just. But I should incline to impute
this integrity, not to the influence of church principles, but those
of the common law, and so turn your compliment to the honour of our
profession instead of theirs, if it were not too clear in fact that
every profession, in its turn, hath been liable to this charge of
corruption.

But I was going on with my proofs of the national aversion to the
imperial law.

The next shall be taken from that famous dispute concerning the
succession to the crown of _Scotland_ in the reign of EDWARD I. For a
question arising about the kind of law by which the controversy should
be decided, and it being especially debated, whether the _Cæsarean_
law, as a sort of _jus gentium_, ought not in such a cause to have the
preference to the law of _England_; it was then unanimously determined
by the great council of NORHAM, that the authority of the _Cæsarean_
law should by no means be admitted; NE INDE MAJESTATIS ANGLICANÆ JURI
FIERET DETRIMENTUM[140].

This determination was public, and given on a very solemn occasion.
And in general we may observe, that at the junctures when the state
hath been most jealous of its liberty and honour, it hath declared
the loudest against the _imperial laws_: as in the WONDER-WORKING
parliament under RICHARD II, when the duke of _Gloucester_ accused the
archbishop of _York_, the duke of _Ireland_, and other creatures of
the king, of high treason. The charge was so fully proved, that the
court had no other way of diverting the storm, than by pretending an
irregularity in the forms of procedure. To this end the lawyers were
consulted with, or more properly directed. I will disguise nothing.
They descended so much from the dignity of their profession, as to act
in perfect subserviency to the views of the court; and therefore gave
it as their opinion, that the proceedings against the lords were of
no validity, as being contrary to the forms prescribed by the _civil
law_. The barons took themselves to be insulted by these shifts of the
lawyers. They insisted that the proceedings were agreeable to their own
customs, and declared roundly that they would never suffer _England_ to
be governed by the _Roman_ civil law[141].

What think ye now of these examples? Are they not a proof that the
spirit of liberty ran high in those times, when neither the intrigues
of churchmen nor the chicane of lawyers could put a stop to it? It
seems as if no direct attempts on the constitution could have been
made with the least appearance of success; and that therefore the
abettors of arbitrary power were obliged to work their way obliquely,
by contriving methods for the introduction of a foreign law.

In this project they had many advantages, which nothing but
an unwearied zeal in the cause of liberty could have possibly
counteracted. From the reign of STEPHEN to that of EDWARD III, that
is, for the space of near 200 years, the _Roman_ law had been in great
credit[142]. All the learning of the times was in the clergy, and that
learning was little more than the imperial and canon laws. The fact is
so certain, that some of the clergy themselves, when in an ill temper,
or off their guard, complain of it in the strongest terms. And to see
the height to which this humour was carried, not the seculars only who
intended to rise by them, but the very monks in their cells studied
nothing but these laws[143]. To complete the danger, the magistracies
and great offices of the kingdom were filled with churchmen[144].

Who would expect, now, with those advantages, but that the _Roman_
law would have forced its way into our civil courts? It did indeed
insinuate itself there as it were by stealth, but could never appear
with any face of authority. The only service, that would be accepted
from it, was that of illustration only in the course of their
pleadings, whilst the lawyers quoted occasionally from the INSTITUTES,
just as they might have done from any other ancient author[145].
Yet, so long as the churchmen presided in the courts of justice,
this intruder was to be respected; and it is pleasant to observe the
wire-drawing of some of our ablest lawyers, in their endeavours to make
the policy of _England_ speak the language of _Rome_.

MR. SELDEN’S dissertation on FLETA[146], which lies open before me,
affords a curious instance. The civil law says, “Populus ei [Cæsari]
et in eum omne suum imperium et potestatem conferat;” meaning by
_people_, the _Roman_ people, and so establishing the despotic rule of
the prince. But BRACTON took advantage of the ambiguity, to establish
that maxim of a free government, “That all dominion arises from the
people.” This, you will say, was good management. But what follows is
still better. “Nihil aliud, says he, potest rex in terris, cum sit Dei
minister et vicarius, nisi quod JURE potest. NEC OBSTAT quod dicitur,
QUOD PRINCIPI PLACET LEGIS HABET VIGOREM; quia sequitur in fine legis,
CUM LEGE REGIA QUÆ DE IMPERIO EJUS LATA EST; id est, non quicquid de
voluntate regis temerè præsumptum est, sed quod consilio magistratuum
suorum, rege auctoritatem præstante, et habitâ super hoc deliberatione
et tractatu, rectè fuerit definitum.” Thus far old BRACTON; who is
religiously followed in the same gloss by THORNTON, and the author of
FLETA. But what! you will say, this is an exact description of the
present constitution. It is so, and therefore certainly not to be found
in the civil law. To confess the truth, these venerable sages are
playing tricks with us. The whole is a premeditated falsification, or,
to say it softer, a licentious commentary, for the sake of _English_
liberty. The words in the PANDECTS and INSTITUTIONS are these; “QUOD
PRINCIPI PLACUIT, LEGIS HABET VIGOREM, UTPOTE CUM LEGE REGIA, QUÆ DE
IMPERIO EJUS LATA EST, POPULUS EI ET IN EUM OMNE SUUM IMPERIUM ET
POTESTATEM CONFERAT.”

My honest friend, in mentioning this extraordinary circumstance, says,
one cannot consider it _sine stupore_. He observes, that these lawyers
did not quote the Pandects by hearsay, but had copies of them; and
therefore adds (for I will read on) “Unde magis mirandum quânam ratione
evenerit, ut non solùm ipse, adeò judiciis forensibus clarus, et (si
Biographis scriptorum nostratium fides) professor juris utriusque
Oxoniensis, verùm etiam THORNTONIUS juris aliàs peritissimus, et FLETÆ
author, adeò diversam lectionem sensumque diversum atque interpretibus
aliis universis adeò alienum in illustrissimo juris Cæsarei loco
explicando tam fidentèr admiserint.” The difficulty, you see, increases
upon him. But we shall easily remove it by observing, that the Cæsarean
laws, though they had no proper authority with us, yet were much
complimented in those times, and were to be treated on all occasions
with ceremony. And therefore those lawyers that lived under and wanted
to support a free constitution, saw there was no way of serving their
cause so effectually, as by pretending to find it in the _Roman
institutes_.


MR. SOMERS.

This management of BRACTON and his followers makes some amends for the
ill conduct of RICHARD the Second’s lawyers. And as to their chicanery,
the ingenuity of the gloss, we will suppose, was no more than necessary
to correct the malignity of the text.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

They had, no doubt, consulted their honour much more, by insisting
roundly, as they might have done, that the text had no concern at all
in the dispute. But I mention these things only to shew the extreme
reverence, that was then paid to the civil law, by the shifts the
common lawyers were put to in order to evade its influence. From which
we learn how rooted the love of liberty must have been in this nation,
and how unshaken the firmness of the national councils in supporting
it, when, notwithstanding the general repute it was of in those days,
the imperial law could never gain authority enough to prescribe to
us in any matters that concerned the rights of the crown, or the
property of the subject. And this circumstance will be thought the more
extraordinary, if it be considered, that, to the general esteem in
which the _Roman_ law was held by the clergy, our kings have usually
added the whole weight of their influence; except indeed at some
particular junctures, when their jealousy of the _canon_ law prevailed
over their natural bias to the _civil_.


MR. SOMERS.

I should be unwilling to weaken any argument you take to be of use
in maintaining the noble cause you have undertaken. But, methinks,
this charge on our princes would require to be made out by other
evidence[147] than hath been commonly produced for it. There is no
doubt but many of them have aimed at setting themselves above the laws
of their country; but is it true (I mean, though FORTESCUE himself[148]
has suggested the same thing) that for this purpose they have usually
expressed a partiality to the _Roman_ laws?


SIR J. MAYNARD.

I believe it certain that they have, and on better reasons than the
bare word of any lawyer whatsoever.

What think you of RICHARD the Second’s policy in the instance before
mentioned; that RICHARD, who used to declare, “That the laws were only
in his mouth and breast, and that he himself could make and unmake them
at his pleasure?” We may know for what reason a prince of this despotic
turn had recourse to the _Roman_ law.

But even his great predecessor is known to have been very indulgent
towards it. And still earlier, EDWARD I. took much pains to establish
the credit of this law; and to that end engaged the younger ACCURSIUS,
the most renowned doctor of the age, to come over into _England_, and
set up a school of it at _Oxford_. Or, to wave these instances, let
me refer you to a certain and very remarkable fact, which speaks the
sense, not of this or that king, but of the whole succession of our
princes.

The imperial law, to this day, obtains altogether in the courts of
admiralty, in courts marescall, and in the universities[149]. On the
contrary, in what we call the courts of law and equity, it never
hath, nor ever could prevail. What shall we say to this remarkable
difference? or to what cause will you ascribe it, that this law, which
was constantly excluded with such care from the one sort of courts,
should have free currency and be of sole authority in the other? I
believe it will be difficult to assign any other than this: that the
subjects of decision in the first species of courts are matters in
the resort of the king’s prerogative, such as peace and war, and the
distribution of honours; whilst the subjects of decision in the courts
of common law are out of his prerogative, such as those of liberty
and property. The king had his choice by what law the first sort of
subjects should be regulated; and therefore he adopted the imperial
law. He had not his choice in the latter instance; and the people were
never satisfied with any other than the law of the land.


MR. SOMERS.

Yet Mr. SELDEN, you know, gives another reason of this preference: it
was, he thinks, because foreigners are often concerned with the natives
in those tribunals where the civil law is in use.


SIR J. MAYNARD.

True; but my learned friend, as I conceive, did not attend to this
matter with his usual exactness. For foreigners are as frequently
concerned in the courts of law and equity, as in the other tribunals.
The case in point of reason is very clear. In all contests that are
carried on between a native and a foreigner, as the subject of another
state, the decision ought to be by the law of nations. But when a
foreigner puts himself with a native under the protection of our
state, the determination is, of course, by our law. The practice hath
uniformly corresponded to the right in the courts of law and equity. In
the other tribunals the right hath given way to the will of the prince,
who had his reasons for preferring the authority of the imperial law.

Upon the whole, if we consider the veneration, which the clergy usually
entertained, and endeavoured to inculcate into the people, for the
civil law; the indulgence shewn it by the prince; its prevalence in
those courts which were immediately under the prerogative; and even the
countenance shewn it at times in the course of pleading at common law;
we cannot avoid coming to this short conclusion, “That the genius of
the imperial laws was repugnant to our constitution; and that nothing
but the extreme jealousy of the barons, lest they might prove, in
pleas of the crown, injurious to civil liberty, hath kept them from
being received in _England_ on the same footing that we every where
find they are in the other countries of _Europe_, and as they are in
_Scotland_ to this day.”

But, if you think I draw this conclusion too hastily, and without
grounding it on sufficient premises, you may further consider with me,
if you please, THE FATE AND FORTUNES OF THE CIVIL LAW IN THIS KINGDOM
DOWN TO THE PRESENT TIME.

In the reigns of HENRY VII[150] and VIII, and the two first kings of
the house of STUART, that is, the most despotic of our princes, the
study of the civil law hath been more especially favoured; as we might
conclude from the general spirit of those kings themselves, but as we
certainly know from the countenance they shewed to its professors; from
their chusing to employ them in their business, and from the salaries
and places they provided for their encouragement. Yet see the issue of
all this indulgence to a foreign law, and the treatment it met with
from our parliaments and people! The oppressions of EMPSON and DUDLEY
had been founded in a stretch of power, usurped and justified on the
principles of the civil law; by which these miscreants had been enabled
to violate a fundamental part of our constitution, the way of _trial
by_ JURIES. The effect on the people was dreadful. Accordingly, in the
entrance of the next reign, though the authority, by which they had
acted, had even been parliamentary, these creatures of tyranny were
indicted of high treason, were condemned and executed for having been
instrumental in subverting LEGEM TERRÆ; and the extorted statute, under
which they had hoped to shelter themselves, was with a just indignation
repealed.

Yet all this was considered only as a necessary sacrifice to the
clamours of an incensed people. The younger HENRY, we may be sure,
had so much of his father in him, or rather so far outdid him in the
worst parts of his tyranny, that he could not but look with an eye of
favour on the very law he had been constrained to abolish. His great
ecclesiastical minister was, no doubt, in the secret of his master’s
inclinations, and conducted himself accordingly. Yet the vengeance of
the nation pursued and overtook him in good time. They resented his
disloyal contempt of the original constitution; and made it one of the
articles against this _Roman_ cardinal, “That he endeavoured to subvert
_antiquissimas leges hujus regni, universumque hoc regnum_ LEGIBUS
IMPERIALIBUS _subjicere_.”

From this time, the study of the civil law was thought to languish in
_England_, till it revived with much spirit in the reigns of those
unhappy princes who succeeded to the house of TUDOR. Then indeed,
by inclination and by pedantry, JAMES I. was led to patronize and
encourage it. And the same project was resumed, and carried still
further, by his unfortunate son. I speak now from my own experience and
observation. The civil lawyers were most welcome at court. They were
brought into the Chancery and court of Requests. The minister, another
sort of man than WOLSEY, yet a thorough ecclesiastic, and bigoted, if
not to the religion; yet to the policy of _Rome_, gave a countenance
to this profession above that of the common law. He had found the
spirit, and even the forms of it, most convenient for his purpose in
the STAR-CHAMBER and HIGH-COMMISSION court, those tribunals of imperial
justice, exalted so far above the controul of the common law; and by
his good will, therefore, would have brought the same regimen into the
other branches of the administration. Great civilians were employed to
write elaborate defences of their science; to the manifest exaltation
of the prerogative; to the prejudice of the national rights and
privileges; and to the disparagement of the common law. The consequence
of these proceedings is well known. The most immediate was, that they
provoked the jealousy of the common lawyers; and, when the rupture
afterwards happened, occasioned many of the most eminent of them to
throw themselves into the popular scale[151].

Yet, to see the uniformity of the views of tyranny, and the direct
opposition which it never fails to encounter from the _English_ law, no
sooner had a set of violent men usurped the liberties of their country,
and with the sword in their hands determined to rule despotically
and in defiance of the constitution, than the same jealousy of the
common law, and the same contempt of it, revived. Nay, to such an
extreme was the new tyranny carried, that the very game of EMPSON and
DUDLEY was played over again. The trial of an _Englishman_ by his
peers was disgraced and rejected; and (I speak from what I felt) the
person imprisoned and persecuted, who dared appeal, though in his own
case[152], to the ancient essential forms of the constitution. Under
such a state of things, it is not to be wondered that much pains was
taken to depreciate a law which these mighty men were determined not
to regard. Invectives against the professors of the _English_ laws
were the usual and favoured topics of parliamentary eloquence. These
were sometimes so indecent, and pushed to that provoking length,
that WHITLOCKE himself, who paced it with them through all changes,
was forced in the end to hazard his reputation with his masters, by
standing on the necessary defence of himself and his profession[153].

I need not, I suppose, descend lower. Ye have both seen with your own
eyes the occurrences of the late reign. Ye have heard the common
language of the time. The practice was but conformable to such
doctrines as were current at court, where it was generally maintained,
that the king’s power of dispensing with law, was LAW; by which if
these doctors did not intend the _imperial_ or _civil law_, the insult
was almost too gross to deserve a confutation, It must be owned, and
to the eternal shame of those who were capable of such baseness, there
were not wanting some even of the common lawyers that joined in this
insult.

I but touch these things slightly; for I consider to whom I speak. But
if, to these examples of the nation’s fondness for their laws, you
add, what appears in the tenor of our histories, the constant language
of the _coronation-oaths_, of the _oaths of our judges_, and, above
all, of the _several great charters_; in all which express mention is
made of the LEX TERRÆ, in opposition to every foreign, but especially
the Cæsarean, law; you will conclude with me, “That, as certainly as
the CÆSAREAN LAW is founded in the principles of slavery, our ENGLISH
LAW, and the constitution to which it refers, hath its foundation in
freedom, and, as such, deserved the care with which it hath been
transmitted down to us from the earliest ages.”

What think ye now, my good friends? Is it any longer a doubt, that the
constitution of the _English_ government, such I mean as it appears to
have been from the most unquestioned annals of our country, is a free
constitution? Is there any thing more in the way of this conclusion?
or does it not force itself upon us, and lie open to the mind of every
plain man that but turns his attention upon this subject?

You began, Mr. SOMERS, with great fears and apprehensions; or you
thought fit to counterfeit them, at least. You suspected the matter
was too mysterious for common understandings to penetrate, and too
much involved in the darkness of ancient times to be brought into open
day-light. Let me hear your free thoughts on the evidence I have here
produced to you. And yet it is a small part only of that which might be
produced, of that I am sure which yourself could easily have produced,
and perhaps expected from me.

But I content myself with these obvious truths, “That the liberty of
the subject appears, and of itself naturally arose, from the very
nature of the FEUDAL, which is properly (at least if we look no further
back than the Conquest) the _English_ constitution; that the current
of liberty has been gradually widening, as well as purifying, in
proportion as it descended from its source; that charters and laws have
removed every scruple that might arise about the reciprocal rights and
privileges of prince and people; that the sense of that liberty which
the nation enjoyed under their admirable constitution was so quick,
that every the least attempt to deprive them of it gave an alarm;
and their attachment to it so strong and constant, that no artifice,
no intrigue, no perversion of law and gospel, could induce them to
part with it: that, in particular, they have guarded this precious
deposite of legal and constitutional liberty with such care, that,
while the heedless reception of a foreign law, concurring with other
circumstances, hath riveted the yoke of slavery on the other nations
of _Europe_, this of _England_ could never be cajoled nor driven into
any terms of accommodation with it; but, as NAT. BACON[154] said truly,
_That the triple crown could never well solder with the English_, so
neither could the _imperial_; and that, in a word, the ENGLISH LAW
hath always been preserved inviolate from the impure mixtures of the
canon and Cæsarean laws, as the sole defence and bulwark of our civil
liberties.”

These are the plain truths, which I have here delivered to you, and
on which I could be content to rest this great cause; I mean, if
it had not already received its formal, and, I would hope, final
determination, in another way. For no pretences will surely prevail
hereafter with a happy people to renounce that liberty, which so
rightfully belonged to them at all times, and hath now so solemnly been
confirmed to them by the great transactions of these days. I willingly
omit therefore, as superfluous, what in a worse cause might have been
thought of no small weight, the express testimony of our ablest lawyers
to the freedom of our constitution. I do not mean only the COKES and
SELDENS of our time (though in point of authority what names can be
greater than theirs?); but those of older and therefore more reverend
estimation, such as GLANVIL, BRACTON, the author of FLETA, THORNTON,
and FORTESCUE[155]: men the most esteemed and learned in their several
ages; who constantly and uniformly speak of the _English_, as a mixed
and limited form of government, and even go so far as to seek its
origin, where indeed the origin of all governments must be sought, in
the free will and consent of the people.

All this I might have displayed at large; and to others perhaps,
especially if the cause had required such management, all this I should
have displayed. But, independently of the judgments of particular men,
which prejudice might take occasion to object to, I hold it sufficient
to have proved from surer grounds, from the very form and make of our
political fabric, and the most unquestioned, because the most public,
monuments of former times, “THAT THE ENGLISH CONSTITUTION IS ASSUREDLY
AND INDISPUTABLY FREE[156].”


BP. BURNET.

You will read, Sir JOHN, in our attention to this discourse, the effect
it has had upon us. The zeal, with which you have pleaded the cause
of liberty, makes me almost imagine I see you again in the warmth and
spirit of your younger years, when you first made head against the
encroachments of civil tyranny. The same cause has not only recalled to
your memory the old topics of defence, but restores your former vigour
in the management of them. So that, for myself, I must freely own, your
vindication of our common liberties is, at least, the most plausible
and consistent that I have ever met with.


MR. SOMERS.

And yet, if one was critically disposed, there are still, perhaps, some
things that might deserve a further explanation.—But enough has been
said by you, Sir JOHN, to shew us where the truth lies: and, indeed,
from such plain and convincing topics, that, whatever fears my love of
liberty might suggest, they are much abated at least, if not entirely
removed, by your arguments.


BP. BURNET.

Mr. SOMERS, I perceive, is not easily cured of his scruples and
apprehensions. But for my own part, Sir JOHN, I can think but of one
objection of weight that can be opposed to your conclusion. It is,
“That, notwithstanding the clear evidence you have produced, both for
the free nature of the _English_ constitution, and the general sense
of the _English_ nation concerning it, yet, in fact, the government
was very despotic under the TUDOR, and still more perhaps under the
first princes of the STUART, line. How could this happen, may it be
asked, on your plan, which supposes the popular interest to have been
kept up in constant vigour, or rather to have been always gaining,
insensibly indeed, but necessarily, on the power of the crown? Will
not the argument then from historical evidence be turned against
you, whilst it may be said that your theory, however plausible, is
contradicted by so recent and so well-attested a part of our history?
And, in particular, will not the partisans[157] of the late king and
his family have to allege in their behalf, that their notions of the
prerogative were but such as they succeeded to with the crown; and,
whatever may be pretended from researches into remoter times, that they
endeavoured only to maintain the monarchy on the footing on which it
had stood for many successions, and on which it then stood when the
administration fell into their hands? If this point were effectually
cleared, I see nothing that could be further desired to a full and
complete vindication of _English_ liberty.”


SIR J. MAYNARD.

Your lordship, I must own, has touched a very curious and interesting
part of our subject. But you must not believe it was so much
overlooked by me, as purposely left for your lordship’s better
consideration. You, who have looked so minutely and carefully into the
story of those times, will, better than any other, be able to unfold
to us the mysteries of that affair. The fact is certain, as you say,
that the _English_ government wore a more despotic appearance from the
time of the TUDOR family’s accession to the throne, than in the reigns
preceding that period. But I am mistaken, if your lordship will not
open the reason of it so clearly as to convince us, that that increase
of prerogative was no proof of a change in the constitution, and was
even no symptom of declining liberty. I do not allow myself to speak my
sentiments more plainly at present. But I am sure, if they are just,
they will receive a confirmation from what your lordship will find
occasion to observe to us in discoursing op this subject.


MR. SOMERS.

I will not disown that this was one of the matters I had in view, when
I hinted some remaining doubts about your general conclusion. But I
knew it would not escape my lord of SALISBURY, who, of all others, is
certainly the most capable of removing it.


BP. BURNET.

So that I have very unwarily, it seems, been providing a fine task
for myself. And yet, as difficult as I foresee it will be for me to
satisfy two such Inquirers, I should not decline that task, if I was
indeed prepared for it, or if I could boast of such a memory as Sir J.
MAYNARD has shewn in the course of this conversation. But the truth is,
though I have not wanted opportunities of laying in materials for such
a design, and though I have not neglected to take some slight notes of
them, yet I cannot pretend to have them at once in that readiness, as
to venture on such a discourse as I know you expect from me. But if,
against our next meeting, I shall be able to digest such thoughts as
have sometimes occurred to me when I was engaged in the History of the
Reformation, I shall take a pleasure to contribute all I can to the
further and more entire elucidation of this subject.


  THE END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

  Printed by J. Nichols and Son,
  Red Lion Passage, Fleet Street, London.




FOOTNOTES:

[1] Mala et impia consuetudo est contra Deos disputandi, sive ex animo
id fit, sive simulatè. _De Nat. D._ l. ii. c. 67.

[2] Genus hoc sermonum, positum in hominum veterum auctoritate, et
eorum illustrium, plus nescio quo pacto videtur habere gravitatis.
Itaque ipse mea legens, sic afficior interdum, ut Catonem, non me loqui
existímem. CIC. _De Amic._ c. 1.

[3] Omnem sermonem tribuimus non Tithono, ut Aristo Chius; _parum enim
esset auctoritatis in fabulâ_. De Senect. c. 1.

[4] See the Dialogue intituled, Πρὸς τὸν εἰπόντα, ΠΡΟΜΗΘΕΥΣ εἶ ἐν
λόγοις.

[5] Ἔπαιζεν ἅμα σπουδάζων· Xen. Mem. l. i. c. 3.

[6] Γέλωτα κωμικὸν ὑπὸ σεμνότητι φιλοσόφῳ. Προμηθ. c. 7.

[7] Difficillimam illam societatem _Gravitatis cum Humanitate_. _Leg._ l.
iii. c. 1.

[8] Ἐτολμήσαμεν ἡμεῖς τὰ οὕτως ἔχοντα ϖρὸς ἄλληλα ξυναγαγεῖν καὶ
ξυναρμόσαι, οὐ ϖάνυ ϖειθόμενα, οὐδὲ εὐμαρῶς ἀνεχόμενα τὴν κοινωνίαν.
Προμηθ. c. 7.

[9] Προμηθ. c. 7. to the end. Δὶς κατηγορούμενος. c. 33. and Ζεῦξις.

[10] ——quo in genere orationis utrumque Oratorem cognoveramus, id
ipsum sumus in eorum sermone _adumbrare conati_. De Orat. iii. 4.

[11] A curious passage, or two, in his Letters to Atticus, will serve
to illustrate this observation. The _academic questions_ were drawn
up, and finished, when a doubt occurred to him, whether he should
not change one of the speakers in that Dialogue, and, instead of
Varro, introduce Brutus; who would suit his purpose, he said, just
as well, because his philosophic principles were the same with those
of Varro—_si addubitas_, says he to Atticus, _ad Brutum transeamus.
Est enim is quoque Antiochius._ l. xiii. 25. Was this a change to
be easily made, if it were necessary, in this kind of writing, to
suit the _style_ and _manner of expression_ to the character of the
speakers? Yet, hear how negligently he treats this matter—_Opinor
igitur consideremus, etsi nomina jam facta sunt. Sed_ VEL INDUCI, VEL
MUTARI POSSUNT. l. xiii. 14.—In other words, provided the _cast_ of
the several parts was the same, the _language_ of the Dialogue would
require no alteration. It was indifferent, in this respect, who were
the speakers.

[12] Scripsit enim et DIALOGOS quos non magis philosophiæ annumerare
possis, quam HISTORIÆ. SENECA, EP. C.

[13] Lord SHAFTESBURY’S _Moralists_, P. 1. S. I.

[14] _Adv. to an Author_, P. 1. S. III.

[15] _Adv. to an Author_, P. 1. towards the end.

[16] The scene of Dr. MORE’S DIVINE DIALOGUES, printed in 1668.

[17] At BEACONSFIELD in _Bucks_, the supposed scene of the Dialogue.

[18] See his works, where are some pieces of a very early date; though
Lord CLARENDON tells us, _he was near thirty years of age, before he
was much taken notice of as a Poet_. Contin. of his Life, P. I. p. 25.

[19] Dr. ANDREWS, bishop of _Winchester_, and Dr. NEAL, bishop of
_Durham_. The story is well known.

[20] Dr. GEORGE MORLEY.

[21] This alludes to the impeachment of Mr. _Justice_ CRAWLEY, _July 6,
1641_, for his extra-judicial opinion in the affair of _Ship-money_.
Mr. WALLER’S speech on this occasion is extant amongst his works.

[22] The famous Mr. HAMPDEN was his uncle.

[23] That of _Secretary of State_. The Lord CLARENDON tells us it was
with the utmost difficulty he persuaded him to accept it. “There were
two considerations (says the historian) that made most impression on
him; the _one_, lest the world should believe that his own ambition had
procured this promotion, and that he had therefore appeared signally
in the house to oppose those proceedings, that he might thereby render
himself gracious to the court: The _other_, lest the king should expect
such a submission and resignation of himself and his own reason and
judgment to his commands as he should never give or pretend to give;
for he was so severe an adorer of truth, that he would as easily have
given himself leave to steal as to dissemble,” &c. B. iv.

[24] The noble historian, before cited, gives us two instances of Lord
FALKLAND’S scrupulosity. The _one_ was, “That he could never bring
himself to employ spies, or give any countenance or entertainment to
them:” The _other_, “That he could never allow himself the liberty of
opening letters, upon a suspicion that they might contain matter of
dangerous consequence.” B. viii.

[25] To this purpose my Lord CLARENDON. “He [Mr. W.] spoke, upon all
occasions, with great sharpness and freedom: which (now there were so
few that used it, and there was no danger of being over-voted) was
not restrained; and therefore used as an argument against those, who
were gone upon pretence, that they were not suffered to declare their
opinion freely in the house; which could not be believed, when all men
knew what liberty Mr. WALLER took, and spoke every day with impunity,
against the sense and proceedings of the house.” B. vii.

[26] See Lord CLARENDON’S History.

[27] Ἅπλωσον σεαυτόν, lib. iv. § 26, which Dr. MORE, in l. ii. c. 3. of
his ENCHIRIDION ETHICUM, translates, _simplifica teipsum_.

[28] In the year 1654.

[29] Lord CLARENDON died in 1674.

[30] The character of Mr. WALLER is given at large in the _Life of
Lord Clarendon_, P. I. p. 25.—As for Dr. MORE, Bishop BURNET tells
us, in one word, “That he was an open-hearted and sincere Christian
philosopher.” _Hist. of his own Time_, vol. p. 273. 12^{mo}, _Edinb._
1753.

[31] This Dialogue is founded on a short passage in Mr. SPRAT’S Life of
Mr. COWLEY, in which he observes, “That in his long dependence on my
Lord St. ALBANS, there never happened any manner of difference between
them; except a little at LAST, because he would leave his service.”

[32] A small village on the _Thames_, which was Mr. COWLEY’S first
retreat, before he removed to _Chertsea_.

[33] Meaning an estate he had obtained by means of this lord. This
particular is several times referred to in the course of the Dialogue.

[34] The writer of the Dialogue has thought fit to soften the
misanthropy of Mr. COWLEY in this instance. In one of his Essays he
talks strangely. “It is the great boast,” says he, “of eloquence and
philosophy, that they first congregated men dispersed, united them into
cities, and built up the houses and the walls of cities. I wish they
could unravel all they had woven, that we might have our woods and our
innocence again, _instead of our castles and our policies_.”

[35] These verses are inserted in one of his _Essays_, and in some
editions of his works.

[36] “Perhaps, says he (speaking of the poets), it was the immature and
immoderate love of them, which stampt first, or rather engraved, the
characters in me: they were like letters cut in the bark of a young
tree, which with the tree, still grow proportionably.”

  [_Essay on himself._]

[37] “When the civil war broke out, his [Mr. COWLEY’S] affection to the
king’s cause drew him to _Oxford_, as soon as it began to be the chief
seat of the royal party.” [Dr. SPRAT’S life of him.]

[38] Dr. SPRAT tells us in _his Life_, “That, during his residence at
_Oxford_, he had the entire friendship of my Lord FALKLAND, one of the
principal secretaries of state. That affection was contracted by the
agreement of their learning and manners. For you may remember, Sir,
[addressing himself to Mr. M. CLIFFORD] we have often heard Mr. COWLEY
admire him, not only for the profoundness of his knowledge, which was
applauded by all the world, but more especially for those qualities
which he himself more regarded, for _his generosity of mind, and his
neglect of the vain pomp of human greatness_.”

[39] _The Cutter of Coleman-street_; the occasion and purpose of
which was this: At the Restoration, there was not a set of men more
troublesome to the ministry than the cavalier officers; amongst whom
had crept in all the profligate of broken fortunes, to share in the
merits and rewards of that name. COWLEY writ this comedy to unmask
these wretches, and might reasonably pretend to some thanks for it.
But, contrary to expectation, this very attempt raised a storm against
him even at court, which beat violently upon him. See his preface to
that play in the later editions in 8vo.

[40] SHAKESPEAR. _As you like it._ Act II. S. 1.—There is a quaintness
in these lines of the great poet, which however are not unlike some of
Mr. COWLEY’S addressed to J. EVELYNE, Esq.

    Where does the wisdom and the pow’r divine,
    In a more bright and sweet reflexion shine;
    Where do we finer strokes and colours see
    Of the Creator’s real poetry;

      Than when we with attention look
    Upon the third day’s volume of the book?
    If we could open and intend our eye,
      We all, like _Moses_, should espy,
    Ev’n in a _Bush_, the radiant Deity.

[41] In the PREFACE to his _Proposition for the advancement of
experimental philosophy_, first printed in 1661. _See the edition in
24^{to}, Lond. for H. Herringham._

[42] Dr. SPRAT tells us, “That he had obtained a plentiful estate by
the favour of my Lord ST. ALBANS, and the bounty of my lord duke of
BUCKINGHAM.” [See his _Life_.]

[43] Meaning _The true history of_ Don Quixote; in which poor _Sancho
Panca_ is drawn into all adventures, by the promise of his _knight_, to
reward him in due time with the government of an _island_.

[44] LORD BACON gives another account of this matter.—“As for the
privateness of life of contemplative men, it is a theme so common
to extol a private life, not taxed with sensuality and sloth, in
comparison, and to the disadvantage of a civil life, for safety,
liberty, pleasure, and dignity, _as no man handleth it, but handleth it
well_: such a consonancy it hath to men’s conceits in the expressing,
and to men’s consents in the allowing.” [_Adv. of Learning_, Book 1.]

[45] The justness of this encomium on Lord CLARENDON will hardly be
disputed by any man, whose opinion is worth regarding.—What pity,
that Mr. COWLEY’S connexions with some persons, indevoted to the
excellent Chancellor, kept him at a distance from a man, so congenial
to himself, and for whom he could not but entertain the highest esteem!
The Chancellor, though he could not be expected to take him out of the
hands of his old patrons, seems, yet, to have been generous enough to
Mr. COWLEY, not to resent those connexions: as may be gathered from
the handsome testimony paid to his merit, in the _Continuation of the
History of his own Life_. Speaking of B. JONSON, he says—“He [BEN
JONSON] was the best judge of, and fittest to prescribe rules to,
poetry and poets, of any man who had lived with, or before him, or
since; _If Mr._ COWLEY _had not made a flight beyond all men_; with
that modesty yet, to ascribe much of this, to the example and learning
of BEN JONSON.”—Among the other infelicities of men of genius, ONE
is, and not the least, that it rarely happens to them to have the
choosing of the persons, to whom they would most wish to be obliged.
The sensibility of their gratitude being equal to their other parts and
virtues, the man, whose favour they chance first to experience, is sure
of their constant services and attachment through life, how strongly
soever their interest, and even their judgment, may _draw_ another way.

[46] The reader is not to forget, that Mr. SPRAT is writing to the Lord
ST. ALBANS, and was, at this time, chaplain to the Duke of BUCKINGHAM.

[47] “Ingenium illustre altioribus studiis juvenis admodum dedit: non,
ut PLERIQUE, UT NOMINE MAGNIFICO SEGNE OTIUM VELARET, sed quo firmior
adversus fortuita rempublicam capesseret.” [_Hist._ IV. 5.]—Part of
the fine character given us of HELVIDIUS PRISCUS.

[48] THE ROYAL SOCIETY; not yet instituted, but much talked of at this
time.

[49] We have in this remonstrance that follows, the usual language of
those we call our _friends_; which may sometimes be the _cause_, but
is oftner the _pretence_, of ambition. Hear how gravely Sir DUDLEY
CARLTON, who loved business, and drudged on in it all his life, is
pleased, in an evil hour, to express himself: “The best is, I was never
better, and were it not more for a necessity that is imposed by the
EXPECTATION OF FRIENDS, not to stand at a stay and SENESCERE, whilst
a man is young, than for ambition, I would not complain myself of my
misfortune.” [Sir RALPH WINWOOD’S _Memorials_, vol. II. p. 45.]

[50] That Mr. COWLEY _had_ his prince’s grace appears from what the
king said of him, on the news of his death: “_That he had not left a_
BETTER _man behind him in_ England.” And this with _grace_ enough, in
reason, from SUCH a prince.—How it came to pass that he _wanted_ the
grace of his peers (if, indeed, he _did_ want it), hath been explained
in a note, p. 140.

[51] The application of this line is the affair of the _Mastership of
the_ Savoy; “which though granted, says Mr. Wood, to his highest merit
by both the CHARLESES I. and II. yet by certain persons, enemies to the
Muses, he lost that place.” But this was not the worst. For, such is
the hard lot of unsuccessful men, the _Savoy-missing_ COWLEY became the
object of ridicule, instead of pity, even to the wits themselves; as
may be seen in “_The session of the poets_, amongst _the miscellaneous
poems_ published by Mr. DRYDEN.”

    Quid DOMINI facient, audent si talia FURES?

[52] Printed among his works, under the name of THE COMPLAINT. The
relation it has to the subject debated, made me think it not amiss to
print it at the end of this Dialogue—It must raise one’s indignation
to find that so just, so delicate, and so manly a _complaint_ should be
scoffed at, as it was by the wits before mentioned, under the name of
THE PITIFUL MELANCHOLY.

[53] Juvenal, _Sat._ i. ver. 112.

[54] Whether it were owing to his other occupations, or that he had no
great confidence in the success of this attempt, these _Essays_, which
_were to give entire satisfaction_ to his court-friend in the affair of
his retirement, went on very slowly. They were even left imperfect at
his death, “a little before which (says Dr. SPRAT) he communicated to
me his resolution, to have dedicated them all to my Lord ST. ALBANS, as
a testimony of his entire respects to him; and a _kind of apology_ for
having left human affairs in the strength of his age, while he might
have been serviceable to his country.”——However, if this apology had
not the _intended_ effect, it had a much better. Lords and wits may
decide of the qualities of Mr. COWLEY’S _head_ as they please; but, so
long as these _Essays_ remain, they will oblige all honest men _to love
the language of his heart_.

[55] Alas! he was mistaken.

[56] A citation from one of his own poems.

[57] Mr. SPRAT himself tells us, speaking of Mr. COWLEY’S retreat,
that “some few friends and books, a _chearful heart_, and innocent
conscience, were his constant companions.” _Life._

[58] This is one of the prettiest of Mr. COWLEY’S smaller Poems. The
plan of it is highly poetical: and, though the numbers be not the most
pleasing, the expression is almost every where natural and beautiful.
But its principal charm is that air of _melancholy_, thrown over the
whole, so expressive of the poet’s character.

The _address_ of the writer is seen in conveying his just reproaches on
the _Court_, under a pretended vindication of it against the _Muse_.

[59] An execrable line.

[60] For the account of these _Monuments_, and of _Kenelworth-Castle_,
see the plans and descriptions of DUGDALE.

[61] The speaker’s idea of Lord LEICESTER’S porter agrees with the
character he sustained on the queen’s reception at _Kenelworth_;
as we find it described in a paper of good authority written at
that time. “Here a PORTER, tall of person, big of limbs, stark of
countenance—with club and keys of quantity according; in a rough
speech, full of passion in metre, while the queen came within his ward,
burst out in a great pang of impatience to see such uncouth trudging
to and fro, such riding in and out, with such din and noise of talk,
within his charge; whereof he never saw the like, nor had any warning
once, ne yet could make to himself any cause of the matter. At last,
upon better view and advertisement, he proclaims open gates and free
passage to all; yields over his club, his keys, his office and all, and
on his knees humbly prays pardon of his ignorance and impatience. Which
her highness graciously granting, _&c._”—

 A letter from an attendant in court to his friend a citizen and
 merchant of _London_. From the court at _Worcester, 20 August 1575_.

[62] In the first volume of the SPECTATOR.

[63] The factious use, that was afterwards made of this humour of
magnifying the character of ELIZABETH, may be seen in the _Craftsman_
and _Remarks on the History of England_.

[64] What the _political_ character of Mr. ADDISON was, may be seen
from his _Whig-examiner_. This amiable man was keen and even caustic
on subjects, where his party, that is, _civil liberty_, was concerned.
Nor let it be any objection to the character I make him sustain in
this Dialogue, that he treats ELIZABETH’S government with respect in
the _Freeholder_. He had then the people to cajole, who were taught to
reverence her memory. He is, here, addressing himself, in private, to
his friends.

[65] Lucian expresses this use of the Table prettily—ΦΙΛΙΑΣ ΜΕΣΙΤΗΝ
ΤΡΑΠΕΖΑΝ, Ἔρωτες, c. 27.

[66] Besides this sort of hospitality, there was another still
more noble and disinterested, which distinguished the early times,
especially the purer ages of chivalry. It was customary, it seems,
for the great lords to fix up HELMETS on the roofs and battlements
of their castles as a signal of hospitality to all adventurers and
noble passengers. “Adoncques etoit une coustume en la Grant Bretagne
(says the author of the old romance, called PERCEFOREST) et fut tant
que charité regna illecque, tous gentils hommes et nobles dames
faisoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel ung heaulme, en SIGNE
que tous gentils hommes et gentilles femmes trespassans les chemins,
entrassent hardyement en leur hostel comme en leur propre; car leurs
biens estoient davantage à tous nobles hommes et femmes trespassans le
royaulme.” Vol. iii. fol. 103.

[67] This is not said without authority: “Give me leave, says one, to
hold this paradox, that the English were never more idle, never more
ignorant in manual arts, never more factious in following the parties
of princes or their landlords, never more base (as I may say) trencher
slaves, than in that age, wherein great men kept open houses for all
comers and goers: and that in our age, wherein we have better learned
each man to live of his own, and great men keep not such troops of idle
servants, not only the English are become very industrious and skilful
in manual arts, but also the tyranny of lords and gentlemen is abated,
whereby they nourished private dissensions and civil wars, with the
destruction of the common people.” FYNES MORYSON’S _Itinerary_, Part
III. Ch. v.

[68] Dr. ARBUTHNOT, too, has his authority. A famous politician of the
last century expresseth himself to much the same purpose, after his
manner: “Henceforth, says he, [that is, after the statutes against
retainers in HEN. VII’S reign] the country lives, and _great tables_
of the nobility, which no longer nourished veins that would bleed
for them, were fruitless and loathsome till they changed the air,
and of princes became _courtiers_; where their revenues, never to
have been exhausted by beef and mutton, were found _narrow_; whence
followed racking of rents, and, at length, sale of lands.” SIR JAMES
HARRINGTON’S OCEANA, p. 40. _Lond._ 1656.

[69] True it is, that this divertisement of _bear-baiting_ was not
altogether unknown in the age of ELIZABETH, and, as it seemeth, not
much misliked of master STOW himself, who hath very graphically
described it. He is speaking of the _Danish_ embassador’s reception and
entertainment at _Greenwich_ in 1586. “As the better sort, saith he,
had their convenient disports, so were not the ordinary people excluded
from competent pleasure. For, upon a green, very spacious and large,
where thousands might stand and behold with good contentment, their
BEAR-BAITING and bull-baiting (tempered with other merry disports) were
exhibited; whereat it cannot be spoken of what pleasure the people took.

For it was a sport alone, of these beasts, continueth the historian,
to see the bear with his pink-eyes leering after his enemies; the
nimbleness and wait of the dog to take his advantage; and the force and
experience of the bear again to avoid the assaults; if he were bitten
in one place, how he would pinch in another to get free; and if he were
once taken, then what shift with biting, clawing, roaring, tugging,
grasping, tumbling, and tossing, he would work to wind himself away;
and, when he was loose, to shake his ears with the blood and slaver
about his phisnomy, was a pittance of good relief. The like pastime
also of the bull.—And now the day being far spent, and the sun in
his declination, the embassador withdrew to his lodging by barge to
CROSBY’S place; where, no doubt, THIS DAY’S SOLEMNITY WAS THOUGHT UPON
AND TALKED OF.”—p. 1562.

[70] See the _Anarcharsis_ of LUCIAN.

[71] If the reader be complaisant enough to admit the fact, it may be
accounted for, on the ideas of chivalry, in the following manner. The
knight forfeited all pretensions to the favour of the ladies, if he
failed, in any degree, in the point of valour. And, reciprocally, the
claim which the ladies had to protection and courtesy from the order
of knights, was founded singly in the reputation of chastity, which
was the female point of honour. “Ce droit que les dames avoient sur la
chevalerie (says M. DE LA CURNE DE STE PALAYE) devoit étre conditionel;
il supposoit que leur conduite et leur reputation ne les rendoient
point indignes de l’espece d’association qui les unissoit à cet ordre
uniquement fondé sur l’honneur.

Par celle voye (says an old _French_ writer, the chevalier DE LA TOUR,
about the year 1371) les bonnes se craignoient et se tenoient plus
fermes de faire chose dont elles peussent perdre leur honneur et leur
etat. _Si vouldroye que celûi temps fust revenu, car je pense qu’il
n’en seroit pas tant de blasmées comme il est à present.”_

[72] Sir PHILIP SYDNEY.

[73] What is hinted, here, of the _reality_ of these representations,
hath been lately shewn at large in a learned memoir on this subject,
which the reader will find in the XX^{th} Tom. of HIST. DE L’ACAD. DES
INSCRIPTIONS ET BELLES LETTRES.

[74] This representation of things in the ages of chivalry agrees
with what we are told by the author of the memoir just quoted: “Les
premières leçons,” (says he, speaking of the manner in which the youth
were educated in the houses of the Great, which were properly the
schools of those times) “qu’on leur donnoit, regardoient principalement
_l’amour de Dieu, et des dames_, c’est-à-dire, la religion, et la
galanterie. Mais autant la dévotion qu’on leur inspiroit étoit
accompagnée de puerilités et de superstitions, autant l’amour des
dames, qu’on leur recommandoit, étoit il rempli de RAFFINEMENT et
de FANATISME. Il semble qu’on ne pouvoit, dans ces siécles ignorans
et grossiers, présenter aux hommes la religion sous une forme assez
materielle pour la mettre à leur portée; ni leur donner, en même tems,
une idée de l’amour assez pure, assez metaphysique, pour prevenir les
desordres et les excès, dont etoit capable une nation qui conservoit
par-tout le caractere impetueux qu’elle montroit à la guerre.” Tom. xx.
p. 600.

One sees then the origin of that furious gallantry which runs through
the old romances. And so long as the _refinement and fanaticism_,
which the writer speaks of, were kept in full vigour by the force of
institution and the fashion of the times, the morals of these enamoured
knights might, for any thing I know, be as pure as their apologist
represents them. At the same time it must be confessed that this
discipline was of a nature very likely to relax itself under another
state of things, and certainly to be misconstrued by those who should
come to look upon these pictures of a _refined and spiritual passion_,
as incredible and fantastic. And hence, no doubt, we are to account
for that censure which a famous writer, and one of the ornaments
of ELIZABETH’S own age, passeth on the old books of chivalry. His
expression is downright, and somewhat coarse. “In our fathers time
nothing was read but books of chivalry, wherein a man by reading should
be led to none other end, but only to _manslaughter_ and _baudrye_.
If any man suppose they were good enough to pass the time withall, he
is deceived. For surely vain words do work no small thing in vain,
ignorant, and young minds, especially if they be given any thing
thereunto of their own nature.” He adds, like a good Protestant, “These
books, as I have heard say, were made the most part in abbayes and
monasteries; a very likely and fit fruit of such an idle and blind kind
of living.” _Præf._ to ASCHAM’S TOXOPHILUS, 1571.

I thought it but just to set down this censure of Mr.
ASCHAM over-against the candid representation of the French
memorialist.—However, what is said of the influence, which this
ancient institution had on the character of his countrymen, is not
to be disputed. “Les preceptes d’amour repandoient dans le commerce
des dames ces considerations et ces egards respectueux, qui, n’ayant
jamais été effacés de l’esprit des François, ont toujours fait un des
caractères distinctifs de nôtre nation.”

[75] Of SCRIBLERUS. See the VI^{th} chapter of that learned work, _On
the ancient Gymnastics_.

[76] MASQUES, p. 181. WHALEY’S edition.

[77] This romantic spirit of the Queen may be seen as well in her
_amours_, as military achievements. “Ambiri, coli ob formam, et
AMORIBUS, etiam inclinatâ jam ætate, videri voluit; de FABULOSIS
INSULIS per illam relaxationem renovatâ quasi memoriâ in quibus EQUITES
AC STRENUI HOMINES ERRABANT, et AMORES, fœditate omni prohibitâ,
generosè per VIRTUTEM exercebant.”

  THUANI Hist. tom. vi. p. 172.

The observation of the great historian is confirmed by FRANCIS OSBORNE,
Esq., who, speaking of a contrivance of the Cecilian party to ruin
the earl of ESSEX, by giving him a rival in the good graces of the
queen, observes—“But the whole result concluding in a duel, did rather
inflame than abate the former account she made of him: the opinion
of a CHAMPION being more splendid (in the weak and romantic sense of
women, that admit of nothing fit to be made the object of a quarrel
but themselves) and far above that of a captain or general. So as Sir
EDMUND CARY, brother to the Lord HUNSDON, then chamberlain and near
kinsman to the Queen, told me, that though she chid them both, nothing
pleased her better than a conceit she had, that her _beauty_ was the
subject of this quarrel, when, God knows, it grew from the stock of
honour, of which then they were very tender.”—MEM. OF Q. ELIZABETH, p.
456.

But nothing shews the romantic disposition of the Queen, and indeed
of her times, more evidently than the TRIUMPH, as it was called;
devised and performed with great solemnity, in honour of the _French_
commissioners in 1581. The contrivance was for four of her principal
courtiers, under the quaint appellation of “four foster-children of
DESIRE,” to besiege and carry, by dint of arms, “THE FORTRESS OF
BEAUTY;” intending, by this courtly ænigma, nothing less than the
queen’s majesty’s own person.—The actors in this famous triumph were,
the Earl of ARUNDEL, the Lord WINDSOR, Master PHILIP SIDNEY, and Master
FULK GREVIL. And the whole was conducted so entirely in the spirit
and language of knight errantry, that nothing in the Arcadia itself
is more romantic. See the account at large in STOW’S continuation of
HOLINSHED’S Chronicles, p. 1316-1321.

To see the drift and propriety of this triumph, it is to be observed
that the business which brought the _French_ commissioners into
_England_ was, the great affair of the queen’s marriage with the duke
of ALANÇON.

[78] Speeches at Prince HENRY’S barriers.

[79] There was an instance of this kind, and perhaps the latest upon
record in our history, in the 13th year of the queen, when “a combat
was appointed to have been fought for a certain manor, and demain
lands belonging thereto, in _Kent_.” The matter was compromised in
the end. But not till after the usual forms had been observed, by the
two parties: of which we have a curious and circumstantial detail in
_Holinshed’s_ Chronicles, p. 1225.

[80] Alluding to a tract, so called, by GASCOIGNE, an attendant on the
court, and poet of that time, who hath given us a narrative of the
entertainments that passed on this occasion at _Kenelworth_.

[81] Hence then it is that a celebrated dramatic writer of those
days represents the entertainment of MASKS and SHOWS, as the highest
indulgence that could be provided for a luxurious and happy monarch.
His words are these;

    “Music and poetry are his delight.
    Therefore I’ll have _Italian_ masques by night,
    Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
    And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
    Like SYLVAN NYMPHS, my pages shall be clad:
    My men, like SATYRS, grazing on the lawns,
    Shall, with their goat-feet dance the antic hay:
    Sometimes a lovely boy in DIAN’S shape,
    With hair, that gilds the water as it glides,
    Crownets of pearls about his naked arms,
    And in his sportful hands an olive-tree,
    Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard-by
    One like ACTÆON, peeping through the grove,
    Shall by the angry Goddess be transform’d—
    Such things as these best please his Majesty.”

  MARLOW’S Edward II.

And how exactly this dramatist painted the humour of the times, we may
see from the entertainment provided, not many years after, for the
reception of King JAMES at _Althorp_ in _Northamptonshire_; where this
very design of _Sylvan Nymphs_, _Satyrs_, and ACTÆON, was executed in a
masque by B. JONSON.

[82] Whom his friend Mr. SELDEN characterizeth in this manner,

                     “Omnia carmina doctus
    Et calles mythων plasmata et historiam.”
                       TIT. OF HON. p. 466.

[83] _Sacrifices_, says PLUTARCH, _without chorusses and without music,
we have known: but for poetry, without fable and without fiction, we
know of no such thing_. Θυσίας μὲν ἀχόρους καὶ ἀναύλους ἴσμεν· οὐκ
ἴσμεν δὲ ἄμυθον οὐδὲ ἀψευδῆ ϖοίησιν. De aud. poët. vol. i. p. 16.

[84] This will be admitted, if a calculation said to have been made by
themselves of their number at that time may be relied on—“They make
reasoning (saith Sir EDWIN SANDYS in his _Speculum Europæ_, written
in 1699) forty hundred sure catholics in _England_, with four hundred
_English Roman_ priests to maintain that militia,” p. 157.

[85] Mr. CAMDEN owns that the _Irish_ rebellion, which in the end
became so dangerous, had been “encouraged by a slighting of it, and
a gripple-handedness of _England_.” [_Hist. of_ ELIZ. B. iv.]—To
the same purpose another eminent writer of that time—“Before the
transmitting of the last great army, the forces sent over by Q.
ELIZABETH were NOT of sufficient power to break and subdue all the
_Irishry_.” At last, however, “The extreme peril of losing the kingdom;
the dishonour and danger that might thereby grow to the crown of
_England_; together with a just disdain conceived by that great-minded
queen, that so wicked and ungrateful a rebel should prevail against
her, who had ever been victorious against all her enemies; did move and
almost ENFORCE her to send over that mighty army.” [Sir. J. DAVIES,
_Discovery of the State of Ireland_, p. 97. _Lond._ 1613.]

[86] Sir ROBERT NAUNTON tells us, “The queen was never profuse in
delivering out of her treasure; but paid her servants part in money,
and the rest with GRACE; which, as the case stood, was then taken for
good payment.” [FRAGM. REG. p. 89.] And NAT. BACON to the same purpose.
“A wise man, that was an eye-witness of HER actions, and those that
succeeded to her, many times hath said, That a courtier might make a
better meal of one good LOOK from her, than of a gift from some other.”
[DISC. P. ii. p. 266. _Lond._ 1651.]

[87] This _reverence of authority_, one of the characteristics of that
time, and which Mr. ADDISON presently accounts for, a great writer
celebrates in these words—“It was an ingenuous uninquisitive time,
when all the passions and affections of the people were lapped up in
such an innocent and humble obedience, that there was never the least
contestation nor capitulation with the queen, nor (though she very
frequently consulted with her subjects) _any further reasons urged of
her actions than_ HER OWN WILL.” See a tract intitled THE DISPARITY, in
Sir H. WOTTON’S Remains, p. 46, supposed to have been written by the
earl of CLARENDON.

[88] PAULUS HENTZNERUS, a learned _German_, who was in _England_
in 1598, goes still further in his encomium on the queen’s skill
in languages. He tells us, that, “præterquam quòd Græcè et Latinè
eleganter est docta, tenet, ultra jam memorata idiomata, etiam
Hispanicum, Scoticum, et Belgicum.” See his ITINERARIUM.

But this was the general character of the great in that reign: at
least, if we may credit Master WILLIAM HARRISON, who discourseth on the
subject before us in the following manner: “This further is not to be
omitted, to the singular commendation of both sorts and sexes of our
courtiers here in _England_, that there are very few of them, which
have not the use and skill of sundry speeches, beside an excellent vein
of writing, before time not regarded. Truly it is a rare thing with us
now, to hear of a courtier which hath but his own language. And to say
how many gentlewomen and ladies there are, that, beside sound knowledge
of the _Greek_ and _Latin_ tongues, are thereto no less skilful in the
_Spanish_, _Italian_, and _French_, or in some one of them, it resteth
not in me; sith I am persuaded, that as the noblemen and gentlemen do
surmount in this behalf, so these come very little or nothing behind
them for their parts; which industry God continue, and accomplish that
which otherwise is wanting.” DESCRIPT. of ENGLAND, p. 196.

[89] One of these _ties_ was the _prejudice of education_; and some
uncommon methods used to bind it fast on the minds of the people.—A
book, called ΕΙΡΗΝΑΡΧΙΑ, sive ELIZABETH, was written in _Latin_ verse
by one OCKLAND, containing the highest panegyrics on the queen’s
character and government, and setting forth the transcendant virtues of
her ministers. This book was enjoined by authority to be taught, as a
classic author, in Grammar-schools, and was of course to be gotten by
heart by the young scholars throughout the kingdom.

This was a matchless contrivance to imprint a sense of loyalty on the
minds of the people. And, though it flowed, as we are to suppose,
from a tender regard, in the advisers of it, for the interests of
Protestantism in that reign; yet its uses are so apparent in any reign,
and under any administration, that nothing but the moderation of her
successors, and the reasonable assurance of their ministers that their
own acknowledged virtues were a sufficient support to them, could have
hindered the expedient from being followed.

But, though the stamp of public authority was wanting, private men
have attempted, in several ways, to supply this defect. To instance
only in one. The Protestant queen was to pass for a mirror of _good
government_: hence the Εἰρηνάρχια. Her successor would needs be thought
a mirror of _eloquence_: and hence the noble enterprise I am about to
celebrate. “Mr. GEORGE HERBERT (I give it in the grave historian’s own
words) being prelector in the rhetorique school in _Cambridge_, in
1618, passed by those fluent orators, that domineered in the pulpits of
_Athens_ and _Rome_, and insisted to read upon an oration of K. JAMES,
which he analysed; shewed the concinnity of the parts; the propriety
of the phrase; the height and power of it to move the affections; the
style, UTTERLY UNKNOWN TO THE ANCIENTS, who could not conceive what
kingly eloquence was, in respect of which those noted demigogi were
but hirelings and tribolary rhetoricians.” Bishop HACKET’S Life of
Archbishop WILLIAMS, p. 175.

[90] A learned foreigner gives this character of the _English_ at that
time: “Angli, ut ADDICTE SERVIUNT, ità evecti ad dignitates priorem
humilitatem INSOLENTIA rependunt.” H. GROTII ANN. L. v. p. 95. _Amst._
1657. Hence the propriety of those complaints, in our great poet, of,

        “The whips and scorns of th’ time,
    Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
    THE INSOLENCE OF OFFICE;”—

_complaints_ so frequent, and so forcibly expressed by him, that we may
believe he painted from his own observation, and perhaps experience, of
this insolent misuse of authority. MEASURE FOR MEASURE, A. II. S. vii.

[91] Yet it may seem probable, from this poet’s conduct in _Ireland_,
and his _View of the state of that country_, that his talents for
_business_ (such as CECIL himself must have approved) were no less
considerable than for poetry. But he had served a disgraced man; and
had drawn upon himself the admiration of the generous earl of _Essex_.
So that, as the historian expresseth it, “by a fate which still follows
poets, he always wrestled with poverty, though he had been secretary
to the lord GRAY, lord deputy of _Ireland_.” All that remained for
him was, “to be interred at _Westminster_, near to CHAUCER, at the
charge of the earl of _Essex_; his hearse being attended by poets, and
mournful elegies and poems, with the pens that wrote them, thrown into
his grave.” CAMDEN, lib. iv.

[92] As to Sir FRANCIS BACON, the queen herself gave a very plausible
reason, and doubtless much approved by the grave lawyers and other
judicious persons of that time, for her neglect of this gentleman.
“She did acknowledge (says the earl of _Essex_ in a letter to Mr.
FRANCIS BACON) you had a great wit, and an excellent gift of speech,
and much other good learning. But in LAW, she rather thought you could
make shew, to the utmost of your knowledge, than, that you were deep.”
MEM. OF Q. ELIZABETH by Dr. BIRCH; to whom the public is exceedingly
indebted for abundance of curious information concerning the history of
those times.

If it be asked, how the queen came to form this conclusion, the answer
is plain. It was from Mr. BACON’S having a GREAT WIT, an excellent GIFT
OF SPEECH, and much other GOOD LEARNING.

It is true, Sir FRANCIS BACON himself gives another account of this
matter. In a letter of advice to Sir. GEORGE VILLIERS, he says, “In
this dedication of yourself to the public, I recommend unto you
principally that which I think was never done since I was born—that
you countenance and encourage and advance ABLE MEN, in all kinds,
degrees, and professions. For in the time of the CECILS, father and
son, ABLE MEN WERE BY DESIGN AND OF PURPOSE SUPPRESSED.” CABALA, p. 57,
ed. 1691.—But either way, indeed, the queen’s character is equally
saved.

[93] The lord MOUNTJOY [then Sir CHARLES BLOUNT], being of a military
turn, had stolen over into _France_, without the queen’s knowledge,
in order to serve in _Bretagne_, under one of her generals. Upon his
return, which was hastened too by her express command, “Serve me so
again, said the queen, once more, and I will lay you fast enough for
running. You will never leave, till you are knocked o’ the head, as
that inconsiderate fellow SIDNEY was. You shall go when I send you. In
the mean time see that you lodge in the Court, where you may FOLLOW
YOUR BOOKS, HEAD, AND DISCOURSE OF THE WARS.” Sir ROBERT NAUNTON’S FR.
REG. in L. BURLEIGH.

[94] So good a judge of military matters, as Sir WALTER RALEIGH, was of
this opinion with regard to the conduct of the _Spanish_ war. “If the
late queen would have believed her men of war, as she did her scribes,
we had, in her time, beaten that great empire in pieces, and made their
kings, kings of figs and oranges, as in old times. But _her majesty
did all by halves_, and, by petty invasions, taught the _Spaniard_
how to defend himself, and to see his own weakness; which, till our
attempts taught him, was hardly known to himself.” See his Works, vol.
i. 273.—RALEIGH, it may be said, was of the CECIL faction. But the men
of war, of the ESSEX faction, talked exactly in the same strain; which
shews that this might probably be the truth.

[95] See Sir HENRY WOTTON’S _Parallel of the earl of Essex and duke
of Buckingham_. The words are these: “He [the earl of _Essex_] was to
wrestle with a queen’s declining, or rather with her very setting age,
as we may term it; which, besides other respects, is commonly even
of itself the more umbratious and apprehensive; as for the most part
all horizons are charged with certain vapours towards their evening.”
REMAINS, p. 11.

[96] THE DISPARITY, p. 43

[97] This account of her policy is confirmed by what we read in the
DISPARITY, before cited. “That trick of countenancing and protecting
factions (as that queen, almost her whole reign, did with singular and
equal demonstration of grace look upon several persons of most distant
wishes one towards another) was not the least ground of much of her
quiet and success. And she never doubted but that men, that were never
so opposite in their good-will each to other, or never so dishonest in
their projectments for each other’s confusion, might yet be reconciled
in their allegiance towards her. Insomuch that, during her whole
reign, she never endeavoured to reconcile any personal differences in
the court, though the unlawful emulations of persons of nearest trust
about her, were ever like to overthrow some of her chiefest designs:
_A policy, seldom entertained by princes, especially if they have
issues to survive them_,” p. 46. Her own historian, it is true, seems
a little shy of acknowledging this conduct of the queen, with regard
to her nobility and ministers. But he owns, “She now and then took a
pleasure (and not unprofitably) in the emulation and privy grudges of
her women.” CAMDEN’S ELIZABETH, p. 79. fol. _Lond._ 1688.

[98] We find an intimation to this purpose, in a writer of credit, at
least with respect to the _Dutch_ and _Ireland_—“Jam et _divulsam_
Hiberniam, et in Batavis Angli militis _seditiones_, velut JUSSAS,
erant qui exprobrarent.” GROTII ANNAL. l. xii. p. 432.

[99] Something like this was observed of her disposition by Sir JAMES
MELVIL. After having related to his mistress, the queen of _Scots_,
the strong professions of friendship which the queen of _England_ had
made to him, “She [the queen of _Scots_] inquired, says he, whether I
thought that queen meant truly towards her inwardly in her heart, as
she appeared to do outwardly in her speech. I answered freely, that, in
my judgment, there was neither plain dealing, nor upright meaning; but
great dissimulation, emulation, and FEAR, lest her princely qualities
should over-soon chace her from her kingdom,” &c. MEMOIRS, p. 53.

[100] Secretary WALSINGHAM, in a letter to the queen, Sept. 2,
1581, amongst other things to the same purpose, has the following
words—“_Remember_, I humbly beseech your majesty, _the respect of
charges hath lost Scotland_: and I would to God I had no cause to
think, that _it might put your highness in peril of the loss of
England_.”—“And even the Lord Treasurer himself (we are told) in
a letter still extant in the paper-office, written in the critical
year 1588, while the _Spanish_ armada was expected against _England_,
excuses himself to sir EDWARD STAFFORD, then embassador in _France_,
for not writing to him oftener, _on account of her majesty’s
unwillingness to be at the expence of messengers_.” Sir T. EDMONDES’
State-papers, by Dr. BIRCH, p. 21.

[101] One of these complaisant observers was the writer of _the
Description of England_, who, speaking of the variety of the queen’s
houses, checks himself with saying, “But what shall I need to take
upon me to repeat all, and tell what houses the queen’s majesty hath?
Sith ALL IS HIRS; and when it pleaseth hir in the summer season to
recreate hirself abroad, and view the state of the countrie, and hear
the complaints of hir unjust officers or substitutes, _every nobleman’s
house is hir palace_, where she continueth during pleasure, and till
she returne again to some of hir owne; in which she remaineth as long
as pleaseth hir.” p. 196.

[102] Perhaps they had no need of such favours: It seems as if they
had provided for themselves another way. One of her ladies, the Lady
EDMONDES, had been applied to for her interest with the queen in a
certain affair of no great moment, then depending in the Court of
Chancery. The person, commissioned to transact this matter with her
ladyship, had offered her 100_l._ which she treated _as too small a
sum_. The relater of this fact adds—“This ruffianry of causes I am
daily more and more acquainted with, and see the manner of dealing,
which cometh of the _queen’s straitness_ to give these women, whereby
they presume thus to grange and truck causes.” See a letter in MEM. of
Q. ELIZABETH, by Dr. BIRCH, vol. i. p. 354. But this 100_l._ as the
virtuous Lady EDMONDES says, was _a small sum_. It appears, that bishop
FLETCHER, on his translation to _London_, “bestowed in allowances
and gratifications to divers attendants [indeed we are not expressly
told, they were _female_] about her majesty, the sum of 3100_l._ which
money was given by him, for the most part of it, _by her majesty’s
direction and special appointment_.” Mem. vol. ii. p. 113. And the
curiosity is, to find this minute of episcopal _gratifications_ in
a petition presented to the queen herself, “To move her majesty in
commiseration towards the orphans of this bishop.”—However, to do the
ladies justice, the contagion of bribery was so general in that reign,
that the greatest men in the court were infected by it. The lord-keeper
PUCKERING, it seems, had a finger in the affair of the 100_l._; nay,
himself speaks to the lady to get him commanded by the queen to favour
the suit. And we are told, that Sir W. RALEIGH had no less than
10,000_l._ for his interest with the queen on a certain occasion, after
having been invited to this service by the finest letter that ever was
written.—Indeed it is not said how much of this secret service money
went _in allowances and gratifications to the attendants about the
queen’s majesty_, vol. ii. p. 497.

[103] Lord BACON made the same excuse for _his_ bribery; as he had
learnt, perhaps, the trade itself from his royal mistress. It was a
rule with this great chancellor, “Not to sell injustice, but never to
let justice go scot-free.”

[104] See _Hist. Collections_, by H. TOWNSHEND, Esq.; p. 268. _Lond._
1680.—The lord-keeper too, in a speech in the star-chamber, confirms
this charge on the country justices. “The thirst, says he, after this
authority, proceedeth from nothing but an ambitious humour of gaining
of reputation amongst their neighbours; that still, when they come
home, _they may be presented with presents_.” Ibid. p. 355.

[105] When the queen declared to Sir JAMES MELVIL her resolution of
virginity, “I know the truth of that, madam, (said he); you need not
tell it me. Your majesty thinks, if you were married, you would be but
queen of _England_; and now you are both king and queen. _I know your
spirit cannot endure a commander._” MEM. p. 49. This was frank. But Sir
JAMES MELVIL was too well seen in courts to have used this language,
if he had not understood it would be welcome. Accordingly, the queen’s
highness did not seem displeased with the imputation.

[106] This was a common topick of complaint against the queen; or at
least her ministers, and gave occasion to that reproof of the poet
SPENSER, which the persons concerned could hardly look upon as very
decent,

    “Scarce can a bishoprick forepass them bye
     But that it must be gelt in privity.”
                      Mother HUBBARD’S _Tale_.

But a bishop of that time carries the charge still further. In one of
his sermons at court before the queen, “Parsonages and vicarages, says
he, seldom pass now-a-days from the patron, but either for the lease,
or the present money. Such merchants are broken into the church of God,
a great deal more intolerable than were they whom CHRIST whipped out
of the temple.”—This language is very harsh, and surely not deserved
by the Protestant patrons of those days, who were only, as we may
suppose, for reducing the church of CHRIST to its pure and primitive
state of indigence and suffering. How edifying is it to hear St. PAUL
speak of his being—_In hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold
and nakedness!_ And how perfectly reformed would our church be, if its
ministers were but once more in this blessed apostolical condition!

[107] It was this circumstance that seemed to weigh most with the
Lord Chancellor BACON; who, in his short tract, _In felicem memoriam_
ELIZABETHÆ, saith, “Illud cogitandum censeo, in quali populo imperium
tenuerit: si enim in Palmyrenis, aut Asiâ imbelli et molli regnum
sortita esset, minùs mirandum fuisset—verùm in ANGLIA, _natione
ferocissimâ et bellicosissimâ_, omnia ex nutu fœminæ moveri et cohiberi
potuisse, SUMMAM MERITO ADMIRATIONEM HABET.”

[108] The subject of these Dialogues, on _the English Constitution_,
is the most important in _English_ politics.—To cite all the passages
from our best antiquaries and historians, out of which this work was
formed, and which lay before the writer in composing it, would swell
this volume to an immoderate size. It is enough to say, that nothing
_material_ is advanced in the course of the argument, but on the best
authority.

[109] That is, of the _feudal law_: which was one of the subjects
explained by the bishop to his royal pupil the duke of _Gloucester_. “I
acquainted him, says he, with all the great revolutions that had been
in the world, and gave him a copious account of the _Greek_ and _Roman_
histories, and of PLUTARCH’S Lives: the last thing I explained to him
was the Gothic constitution, and the BENEFICIARY AND FEUDAL LAWS.”
[HIST. _of his own Times_, vol. iv. p. 357. _Edinb._ 1753.]

[110] On _April 11, 1689_.

[111] Of the great seal—The other lawyers in commission were KECK and
RAWLINSON.

[112] This was a favourite subject with our good bishop; and how
qualified he was to discuss it, even in its minutest particularities,
may be learnt from his history at large.

[113] It was not thus _left to itself_, but was nursed and fostered
with great care by the preachers of _divine indefeasible hereditary
right_, in this and the following reign.

[114] This casual remark seems to determine a famous dispute among
the Antiquaries on the subject before us. Bishop NICOLSON attended
so little to this tralatitious use of words, in which all languages
abound, that finding LAGA in several places signified a _country_, he
would needs have it that CAMDEN, LAMBARDE, SPELMAN, COWELL, SELDEN,
and all our best Antiquaries, were mistaken, when they supposed _Laga_
ever signified, in the compositions here mentioned, a _law_. However,
his adversaries among the Antiquaries were even with him; and finding
that _Laga_, in these compositions, did signify a law in several
places of our ancient laws, historians, and lawyers, deny that it ever
signifies a _country_. Each indeed had a considerable object in view;
the one was bent on overthrowing a system; the other on supporting it;
namely, that famous threefold body of laws, the _Danish_, _Mercian_,
and _West-Saxon_. It must be owned, the bishop could not overthrow
the common system, without running into his extreme: it seems, his
opponents might have supported it without running into theirs.

[115] See _Historical Law-Tracts_, vol. i. p. 294.

[116] MILTON did not forget to observe, in his _Tenure of kings and
magistrates_, That WILLIAM the _Norman_, though a Conqueror, and not
unsworn at his Coronation, was compelled a second time to take oath at
_St. Albans_, ere the people would be brought to yield obedience. Vol.
i. _of his Prose works_, 4^{to}, 1753. p. 345.

[117] HENRY VII.

[118] HENRY VIII.

[119] ELIZABETH.

[120] PROPRIA FEUDI NATURA EST UT SIT PERPETUA.

  CUJACIUS, LITTLETON.

[121] CRAIG’S _Jus feudale_, lib. i. p. 21. _Lond._ 1655.

[122] This account of the _Saxon_ benefices is much confirmed by the
famous charter of Bishop OSWALD, and the comment of Sir H. SPELMAN upon
it. See his discourse on FEUDS and TENURES.

[123] MATTHEW PARIS gives us the following account of this
matter—“Episcopatus et Abbatias omnes, quæ baronias tenebant, et
eatenus ab omni servitute sæculari libertatem habuerant, sub servitute
statuit militari, inrotulans singulos episcopatus et abbatias pro
voluntate suâ, quot milites sibi et successoribus suis, hostilitatis
tempore, voluit à singulis exhiberi. Et ROTULOS HUJUS ECCLESIASTICÆ
SERVITUTIS ponens in thesauris, multos viros ecclesiasticos HUIC
CONSTITUTIONI PESSIMÆ reluctantes, à regno fugavit.”

  HIST. ANG. WILLIELMUS CONQÆSTOR.

[124] The learned CRAIG, who has written so largely and accurately on
the feudal law, was so far from seeing any thing servile in it, that he
says, “The foundations of this discipline are laid in the most generous
of all considerations, those of GRATITUDE. _Hujus feudalis disciplinæ
fundamenta à gratitudine et ingratitudine descendunt._” EPIST. NUNCUP.
to K. JAMES.

[125] This bounty in so wise a prince as WILLIAM will be thought
strange. I believe it may be, in part, accounted for, from what is
observed above of the _Saxon_ allodial lords. These had possessed
immense estates. And, as they fell in upon forfeiture, the great
_Norman_ adventurers would of course expect to come into the entire
succession.—Perhaps too, in that confusion of affairs, the prince
might not always, himself, be apprized of the extent and value of these
possessions.

[126] The law of EDWARD the Confessor is express to this purpose, and
it was ratified by the Conqueror—“Debet rex omnia ritè facere in regno
et per judicium procerum regni.” Sir H. SPELMAN of Parliaments, p. 58.

[127] M. DE MONTESQUIEU observes of the Gothic government—“Il fut
d’abord melé de l’aristocratie, et de la monarchie. Il avoit cet
inconvenient, que le bas-peuple y étoit esclave: _C’étoit un bon
gouvernment, qui avoit en soi la capacité de devenir meilleur._” [l.
xi. c. 8.]—the very idea, which is here inculcated.

[128] See old FORTESCUE, in his book _De laudibus legum Angliæ_, where
this sort of analogy is pursued at length through a great part of the
XIII^{th} chapter.

[129] Agreeably to what Sir H. SPELMAN asserts, in his Glossary, of
its parent, the _feudal law_ itself; “DE LEGE FEUDALI—pronunciandum
censeo, TEMPORIS eam esse filiam, sensimque succrescentem, EDICTIS
PRINCIPUM auctam indies excultam.” In voce FEODUM.

[130] DISS. AD FLET. 1091. and WILLIAM OF MALMESBURY, lib. iv. 1. 69.
_Lond._ 1596.

[131] SELDEN’S Works, vol. ii. p. 1082.

[132] DISS. AD FLET. 1078.

[133] Dr. DUCK, _De usu et authoritate juris civilis_, p. 103. _Lugd.
Batav._ 1654.

[134] POLICRATIC. lib. viii. c. 22. p. 672. _Lugd. Bat._ 1639.

[135] DISS. AD FLET. 1082.

[136] DISS. AD FLET. 1097.

[137] Dr. DUCK, p. 364.

[138] DISC. Part I. p. 78. _Lond._ 1739.

[139] At MERTON, in the year 1236.

[140] DISS. AD FLET. 1108.

[141] See FORTESCUE, _De laudibus leg. Angl._ p. 74. _Lond._ 1741; and
SELDEN’S JANUS ANGLORUM, 1610, vol. ii. tom. ii.

[142] DISS. AD FLET. 1104.

[143] Dr. DUCK, p. 365.

[144] DISS. AD FLET. 1010.

[145] DISS. AD FLET. 1106.

[146] P. 1046.

[147] Mr. SELDEN’S DISS. AD FLET. 1100.

[148] _De laud. leg. Ang._ c. 33, 34.

[149] DISS. AD FLET. 1102.

[150] The speaker might have begun this account of the _fate and
fortunes_ of the civil law still higher. NAT. BACON, speaking of
HENRY the Fifth’s reign, observes, “The times were now come about,
wherein light began to spring forth, conscience to bestir itself, and
men to study the scriptures. This was imputed to the idleness and
carelessness of the clergy, who suffered the minds of young scholars to
luxuriate into errors of divinity, for want of putting them on to other
learning; and gave no encouragement to studies of human literature,
by preferring those that were deserving. The convocation taking this
into consideration, do decree, that no person should exercise any
jurisdiction in any office, as _vicar-general_, _commissary_, or
_official_, or otherwise, unless he shall first in the university have
taken degrees in the CIVIL OR CANON LAWS. A shrewd trick this was,
to stop the growth of the study of divinity, and WICKLIFF’S way; and
to embellish men’s minds with a kind of learning that may gain them
preferment, or at least an opinion of abilities beyond the common
strain, and dangerous to be meddled with. Like some gallants, that
wear swords as badges of honour, and to bid men beware, because they
possibly may strike, though in their own persons they may be very
cowards. And no less mischievously intended was this against the rugged
COMMON LAW, a rule so nigh allied to the gospel-way, as it favoureth
liberty; and so far estranged from the way of the civil and canon law,
as there is no hope of accommodation till Christ and Antichrist have
sought the field.” DISC. Part II. p. 90. _Lond._ 1739.

[151] It should however be observed, in honour of their patriotism,
that “they afterwards took themselves out of it,” when they saw the
extremities to which the popular party were driving.

[152] This alludes to the proceedings against the _eleven members_ upon
the charge of the Army. Sir JOHN MAYNARD was one of them. And when
articles of high treason were preferred against him, and the trial was
to come on before the lords, he excepted to the jurisdiction of the
court, and, by a written paper presented to them, required to be tried
by his peers according to _Magna Charta, and the law of the land_. See
WHITLOCKE’S _Memorials_; and a short pamphlet written on that occasion,
called THE ROYAL QUARREL, dated 9th of _Feb._ 1647.—Sir JOHN was, at
this time, a close prisoner in the Tower.

[153] See his speech, inserted in his _Memorials of English Affairs,
Nov. 1649_.

[154] DISC. Part I. p. 78.

[155] The reader may not be displeased to see the words of old
FORTESCUE on this subject of the origin of the _English_ government,
which are very remarkable. In his famous book _De laudibus legum
Angliæ_, he distinguishes between the REGAL and POLITICAL forms of
government. In explaining the _latter_, which he gives us as the proper
form of the _English_ government, he expresseth himself in these
words—“Habes instituti omnis POLITICI REGNI formam, ex quâ metiri
poteris potestatem, quam rex ejus in leges ipsius aut subditos valeat
exercere: ad tutelam namque legis subditorum, ac eorum corporum et
bonorum rex hujusmodi erectus est, et hanc potestatem A POPULO EFFLUXAM
ipse habet, quo ei non licet potestate aliâ _suo populo dominari_.”
CAP. xiii.

[156] It may be of little moment to us, at this day, to inquire,
how far the princes of the house of STUART were blameable for their
endeavours to usurp on the constitution. But it must ever be of the
highest moment to maintain, that we had a constitution to assert
against them. Party-writers perpetually confound these two things. It
is the author’s purpose, in these two Dialogues, to contend for the
_latter_.

[157] See the late History of England by DAVID HUME, esq.; who forms
the apology of the house of STUART on these principles.


[Transcriber’s Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.]