tions from being possible1; that those who had the greatest power resisted all proposals for my benefit, and were always delivering harangues without truth, but not without effect,2 in order to ruin me; that there was no one to utter a word for me and for the State; that an idea prevailed-unfounded, indeed, but still it prevailed-that the army was on the point of being brought to bear against3 your lives and property. When I saw all this, what was I to do, Judges? Ought a private man like myself to have fought with arms. against a tribune of the people? Suppose for a moment that that right had prevailed: that a man unaccustomed to fighting had overcome a trained soldier; still the result would have been that the only man who could have saved the State from its worst foe would have been put to death. After a 'successful engagement with the tribune, I should have had to enter on a new contest with his friends and avengers.

I must needs own that it was by the assistance of this secret, that I, though otherwise unapt, have adventured upon so daring an attempt, never achieved or undertaken before, but by a certain author called Homer, in whom, though otherwise a person not without abilities, and (for an ancient) of a tolerable genius, I have discovered many gross errors, which are not to be forgiven his very ashes,1 if by chance any of them are left. For whereas we are assured he designed his work for a complete body of all knowledge, human, divine, political, and mechanic, it is manifest he has wholly neglected some, and been very imperfect in the rest. For, first of all, for so eminent a cabalist,2 as his disciples would fain represent him to be, his account of the opus magnum 2 is very poor and deficient; he seems to have read very superficially either Sendivocus or Behmen.2 But I have still behind a fault far more notorious to tax the author with: I mean his gross ignorance in the common laws of this realm, and in the doctrine as well as the discipline of the Church of England.2

41.

At first, perhaps, there were some men who, from weakness or from accident, felt the dependence1 on their parents, or received the benefit from them longer than others, and in such was formed a more deep and strong tie of attachment.2 And while their neighbours, so soon as they were of adult vigour, heedlessly left the side of their parents, and troubled themselves no more about them, and let them perish,3 if so it might happen, these few remained with their parents, and grew used to them more and more, and finally even fed and tended them when they grew helpless. Presently they began to be shocked at their neighbours' callous neglect of those who had begotten and borne them, and they expostulated with their neighbours, and entreated and pleaded that their own way was the best. Some suffered,1 perhaps, for their interference; some had to fight for their parents, to prevent their neighbours maltreating them; and all the more fixed in their new filial feelings did these primitive gropers after morality become. 1 § 3.

4

2 § 1.

3 § 21.

§ 15.

5 § 6.

42.

There is another circumstance in which my countrymen have dealt very perversely with me, and that is, in searching not only into my life, but also into the lives of my ancestors. If there has been a blot 1 in my family for these ten generations, it hath been discovered by some or other of my correspondents. In short, I find that the ancient family to which I belong 2 has suffered very much through the malice and prejudice of my enemies. Some of them twit me in the teeth 3 with the conduct of my aunt; nay, there are some who have been so disingenuous as to throw into my dish 1 the marriage of one of my forefathers with a milkmaid, although I myself was the first who discovered that alliance. I reap, however, many benefits from the malice of these enemies, as they let me see my own faults, and give me a view of myself in the worst light, as they hinder me from being blown up by flattery and self-conceit, as they make me keep a watchful eye over my own actions; and, at the same time, make me

cautious how I talk of others, and particularly of my friends and relations, or value myself upon the antiquity of my

But, to carry this affair more home1: What is it that gives? a man authority to commend, or makes it a favour to me that he does commend me? It is certain that there is no praise valuable but from the praiseworthy. Were the good and evil of fame laid upon a level 3 among mankind, the judge on the bench and the criminal at the bar would differ only in their stations; and if one's word is to pass as much as the other's, their reputation would be much alike to the jury. Pliny, speaking of the death of Martial, expresses himself with great gratitude to him for the honours done to him in the writings of that author; but he begins it with an account of his character, which alone made the applause valuable. There is something so peculiar in true glory, that the selfsame action done by different men cannot merit the same degree of applause. The Roman who was surprised in the enemy's camp before he had accomplished his design, and thrust his bare arm into a funeral pile, telling the general that there were many who had conspired his death regardless of danger,5 wrought in the very enemy an admiration of his fortitude. But the slave who represented him in the theatre, and consumed his arm in the same manner, did not raise in the spectators a great idea of his virtue.

One common calamity makes men1 extremely affect each other, though they differ in every particular otherwise. The passion of love is the most general concern among men, and I am glad to hear, by the latest advices 2 from Athens, that there are among that polite people certain persons who have erected themselves into a society in honour of the tender passion. These gentlemen are not so lost to common sense 3 § 8.

1 §§ 2, 12.

2 §§ 5, 17.

that they cannot understand the folly they are guilty of, and for that reason they separate themselves from all other company, that they may enjoy the pleasure of talking incoherently without being ridiculous to any but each other. When a man comes into the company he is not obliged to make any other introduction to his discourse, but at once seating himself in a chair, as he is, he speaks in the thread of his own discourse: She gave me a very obliging glance; she never looked so well as this evening,' or the like reflection, without regard to any other member of the society, for in this assembly they do not meet to talk to each other; but every man claims the full liberty of talking as he will to himself.

4 § 16.

45.

At length when these two counsellors, Avarice and Luxury, had wearied themselves with waging war upon each other, they agreed upon an interview, at which none of their counsellors were to be present. It is said that Luxury began the parley, and, after having represented the endless state of war in which they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart which is natural to him,1 that he believed they two should be very good friends were it not for the instigations of Poverty, for that pernicious 2 counsellor made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this Avarice replied that he looked upon Plenty, the counsellor of his antagonist, as much more pernicious than his own minister, Poverty, for that he was perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the necessary cautions against want, and undermining those principles on which the government of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they agreed on this preliminary, that each should dismiss his counsel. After this was done, all other differences were soon accommodated,5 and for the future they resolved to live as good friends and confederates, and share between them whatever conquests were made on either side. For this reason we now find Luxury and Avarice taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the same person between them.

3

1 § 20.

2 $7.

3 §§ 1, 17

+ § 5.. 5 § 2.

46.

I remember hearing once from a traveller of a very simple and strange tribe of men who lived in a remote country somewhere in Armenia. They were all poor and hardworking, except a few of them, who were fed at the public expense, and lived in a temple, and were looked up to as prophets. Of these prophets there were several different classes. The lowest class were very miserable and ill-fed, and their clothes were half worn out; these foresaw what was going to happen fifty years a-head, and to these the people paid very little heed, and only gave them the worst of everything. The next class were more happy, and fed on better fare, and were allowed richer clothing; for they only foresaw what was likely to occur a year hence. These the people respected more than the first; but, still, they had only a very moderate estimate of them. But the highest class of all were a very few fat and ordinary men, who were kept in every luxury, and before whom every one bowed down with all imaginable worship; for they foresaw what was going to befall on the very next day. The fact was that these simple savages cared very little for knowing what was destined to happen a long time hence, and were only moderately interested in knowing the future events of the coming year; but everybody, high and low alike, were eager to know the immediate future, and gave every honour to those whom they thought able to foretell it.

See sections 17 and 20.

47.

I was not gone far before I heard the sound of trumpets and alarms, which seemed to proclaim the march of an enemy, and, as I afterwards found, was in reality what I apprehended it. There appeared at a great distance a very shining light, and in the midst of it a person of a most beautiful aspect; her name was Truth. On her right hand there marched a male deity, who bore several quivers on his. shoulders, and grasped several arrows in his hand; his name was Wit. The approach of these two enemies filled all