within the jaws of immortality, is, doubtless, immortal-And, as for a Deity, nothing less than an Almighty could inflict what I feel!" 7. I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary confessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, extorted by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passionately exclaimed: "No, no! let me speak on. I have not long to speak.-My much injured friend! my soul, as my body, lies in ruins; in scattered fragments of broken thought.

8. "Remorse for the past, throws my thought on the future. Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake; and bless Heaven for the flames!-that is not an everlasting flame; that is not an unquenchable fire."

9. How were we struck! yet soon after, still more. With what an eye of distraction, what a face of despair, he cried out! "My principles have poisoned my friend; my extravagance has beggared my boy! my unkindness has murdered my wife -And is there another hell? O! thou blasphemed, yet indulgent LORD GOD! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown!"

10. Soon after, his understanding failed. His terrified imagination uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere the sun (which, I hope, has seen few like him) arose, the gay, young, noble, ingenious, accomplished, and most wretched Altamont, expired!

11. If this is a man of pleasure, what is a man of pain?-How quick, how total, is the transit of such persons! In what a dismal gloom they set for ever! How short, alas! the day of their rejoicing?-For a moment, they glitter!-they dazzle! In a moment, where are they? Oblivion covers their memories. Ah! would it did! Infamy snatches them from oblivion. In the long living annals of infamy, their triumphs are recorded.

12. Thy sufferings, poor Altamont! still bleed in the bosom of the heart-stricken friend-for Altamont had a friend. He might have had many. His transient morning might have been the dawn of an immortal day. His name might have been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His memory might have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding generation.

13. With what capacity was he endowed! with what advantages, for being greatly good! But with the talents of an angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme point, judging right in all else, but aggravates his folly; as it shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of being right. DR. YOUNG.

H 2

CHAPTER VII

DIALOGUES.

SECTION I.

DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.*

The vices and follies of men should excite compassion rather thar: ridicule.

Democritus. I FIND it impossible to reconcile myself to a melancholy philosophy.

Heraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain philosophy, which teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in a wretched and painful light.

Dem. Thou art too much affected with the state of things, and this is a source of misery to thee.

Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy mirth and ridicule, bespeak the buffoon, rather than the philosopher. Does it not excite thy compassion to see mankind so frail, so blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue?

Dem. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much impertinence and folly.

Her. And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the persons with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay, even thyself.

Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet with; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly.

Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wisdom no humanity, to insult rather than pity them. But is it certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are?

Dem. I presume that I am not; since, in every point, my senti ments are the very reverse of theirs.

Her. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayest render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable.

Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments; and to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the levities and ill-conduct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish, or irregular in their lives?

Her. Alas! there is but too much reason to believe they are so: and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condition. We agree in this poin, that men do not conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principles; but I, who do not suffer myself to act as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which compel me to love them; and that love fills me with compassion for their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my brethren, persons born in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes

* Democritus and Heraclitus were two ancient philosophers, the former of whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the errors and follies of anarkind.

and privileges? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and wounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy mirth? And yet, the evils of the body, bear no comparison with those of the mind.-Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at or despise a poor miserable being, who had lost one of his legs; and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay to its dictates.

Dem. He who has lost a leg, is to be pitied, because the loss is not to be imputed to himself; but he who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly.

Her. Ah! so much the more is he to be pitied! A furious maniac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would deserve more compassion than an ordinary blind man.

Dem. Come, let us accommodate the business. There is something to be said on each side of the question. There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it; it is deplorable and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in his own way, and according to his own temper. One point is unquestionable, that mankind are preposterous; to think right, and to act well, we must think and act differently from them. To submit to the authority, and to follow the example of the greater part of men, would render us foolish and miserable.

Her. All this is, indeed, true; but then, thou hast no real love or feeling for thy species. The calamities of mankind excite thy mirth, and this proves that thou hast no regard for men, nor any true respect for the virtues which they have unhappily abandoned FENELON, Archbishop.

SECTION II.

DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON.

Genuine virtue commands respect, even from the bad. Dionysius. AMAZING! What do I see? It is Pythias just arrived. It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend!

Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confinement, with no other views, than to pay to heaven the vows I had made; to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil and satisfied. Dio. But why dost thou return? Hast thou no fear of death? Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily? Py. Ireturn to suffer, though I have not deserved death. Every principle of honour and goodness, forbids me to allow my friend to ilie for me.

Dio. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself?

Py. No: I love him as myself. But I am persuaded that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend; since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which was designed not for hun, but for me only.

Dio. But thou supposes, that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee, as upon thy friend.

Py. Very true; we are both perfectly innocent; and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer.

Dio. Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, instead of thee?

Py. It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly culpable to let Damon suffer that death, which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only

Dio. Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view, than to save the life of a friend, by losing thy own? Py. I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice which it is common for tyrants to inflict; and, with respect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me.

Dio. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. Didst thou not really fear that Pythias would never return; and that thou wouldst be put to death on his account?

Da. I was but too well assured, that Pythias would punctually return; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heaven, that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men; and I should have the satisfaction of dying for him!

Dio. What! Does life displease thee?

Da. Yes; it displeases me when I see and feel the power of a tyrant.

Dio. It is well! Thou shalt see him no more. I will order thee to be put to death immediately..

Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in my last hour. Dio. I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power at defiance.

Da. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue.

Dio. No; I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue, which contemns life; which dreads no punishment; and which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure.

Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship.

Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution. We shall see whether Damon will continue to despise my authority.

Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour; but I have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy power, in order to save him; be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice, and put me to death.

Py. Hold, Dionysius! remember, it was Pythias alone who offended thee; Damon could not-

Dio. Alas! what do I see and hear! where am I? How miserable; and how worthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my power and honours, are insufficient to produce love. I cannot

boast of having acquired a single friend in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly, unreservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation. Py. How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, expect to have friends? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast feared mankind, and they fear thee; they detest thee.

Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives; and I will load you with riches.

Da. We have no desire to be enriched by thee; and, in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it, till thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, disinterested, beneficent; and know how to live in a sort of equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship. Fenelon, Abp. of Cambray.

SECTION III.

LOCKE AND BAYLE.

Christianity defended against the cavils of Scepticism. Bayle. YES, we both were philosophers; but my philosophy was the deepest. You dogmatized; I doubted.

Locke. Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philosophy? It may be a good beginning of it; but it is a bad end.

Bayle. No: the more profound our searches are into the nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find; and the most subtle minds, see objections and difficulties in every system, which are overlooked or undiscovered by ordinary understandings.

Locke. It would be better then to be no philosopher, and to continue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that one may have the convenience of thinking that one knows something. I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things very clearly, though some are out of their reach, or discerned but dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who should offer me an eye-water, the use of which would at first so sharpen my sight, as to carry it farther than ordinary vision; but would in the end put them out? Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what I have supposed the doctor's nostrum to be to those of the body. It actually brought your own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighted, and rendered more so by art and a subtility of logic peculiar to yourself-it brought, I say, your very acute understanding to see nothing clearly, and enveloped all the great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt.

Bayle. I own it did; but your comparison is not just. I did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye-water; I only supposed I saw well; but I was in an error, with all the rest of mankind. The blindness was real; the perceptions were imaginary. I cured myself first of those false imaginations, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men.

Locke. A great cure indeed!—-and do not you think that, in return for the service you did them, they ought to erect you a statue ?