Erasmus's Praise of Folly

HOW slightly soever I am esteemed in the common vogue of the world, (for I well know how disingenuously Folly is decried, even by those who are themselves the greatest fools,) yet it is from my influence alone that the whole universe receives her ferment of mirth and jollity: of which this may be urged as a convincing argument, in that as soon as I appeared to speak before this numerous assembly all their countenances were gilded oyer with a lively sparkling pleasantness: you soon welcomed me with so encouraging a look, you spurred me on with so cheerful a hum, that truly in all appearance, you seem now flushed with a good dose of reviving nectar, when as just before you sate drowsy and melancholy, as if you were lately come out of some hermit's cell. But as it is usual, that as soon as the sun peeps from her eastern bed, and draws back the curtains of the darksome night; or as when, after a hard winter, the restorative spring breathes a more enlivening air, nature forthwith changes her apparel, and all things seem to renew their age; so at the first sight of me you all unmask, and appear in more lively colours. That therefore which expert orators can scarce effect by all their little artifice of eloquence, to wit, a raising the attentions of their auditors to a composedness of thought, this a bare look from me has commanded. The reason why I appear in this odd kind of garb, you shall soon be informed of, if for so short a while you will have but the patience to lend me an ear; yet not such a one as you are wont to hearken with to your reverend preachers, but as you listen withal to mountebanks, buffoons, and merry-andrews; in short, such as formerly were fastened to Midas, as a punishment for his affront to the god Pan. For I am now in a humour to act awhile the sophist, yet not of that sort who undertake the drudgery of tyrannizing over school boys, and teach a more than womanish knack of brawling; but in imitation of those ancient ones, who to avoid the scandalous epithet of wise, preferred this title of sophists; the task of these was to celebrate the worth of gods and heroes. Prepare therefore to be entertained with a panegyrick, yet not upon Hercules, Solon, or any other grandee, but on myself, that is, upon Folly.

However little the world may think of me, my influence alone fills the whole universe with merriment and joy. (I know well how dishonestly people condemn Folly, even those who are themselves the greatest fools.) Here is convincing evidence: as soon as I stood before this large gathering to speak, every face lit up with delight. You welcomed me with such encouraging looks and urged me on with such cheerful murmurs. Indeed, you now look as if you have enjoyed a generous dose of refreshing nectar. Yet just before, you sat sleepy and gloomy, as if you had just emerged from some hermit's cell. Just so, the sun peeps from her eastern bed and draws back the curtains of the dark night. Or, after a harsh winter, refreshing spring breathes more life into the air. At once, nature changes her clothes, and everything seems young again. In the same way, at your first sight of me, you all drop your masks and show brighter faces. Skilled speakers can hardly achieve one thing with all their little tricks of eloquence: getting their listeners to pay calm, focused attention. Yet a mere look from me has achieved that very thing. You will soon learn why I appear in this strange outfit, if you will listen patiently for a little while. But do not listen as you usually do to your reverend preachers. Listen instead as you would to traveling quacks, buffoons, and clowns. In short, lend me ears like those once given to Midas as punishment for insulting the god Pan. For I now feel like playing the sophist for a while. But I do not mean the kind who toil at bullying schoolboys and teach a knack for quarreling beyond even women's. Instead, I mean to imitate those ancient sophists who preferred that title to the disgraceful label of wise. Their task was to praise the worth of gods and heroes. So prepare to hear a speech of praise. Not for Hercules, Solon, or any other great figure, but for myself, that is, for Folly.

And here I value not their censure that pretend it is foppish and affected for any person to praise himself: yet let it be as silly as they please, if they will but allow it needful: and indeed what is more befitting than that Folly should be the trumpet of her own praise, and dance after her own pipe? for who can set me forth better than myself? or who can pretend to be so well acquainted with my condition?

And here I care nothing for critics who say praising yourself is vain and affected. But let them call self-praise as silly as they like, if they will only admit that it is necessary. Indeed, what could be more fitting than for Folly to blow her own trumpet and dance to her own tune? For who can describe me better than I can? Or who can claim to know my nature so well?

And yet farther, I may safely urge, that all this is no more than the same with what is done by several seemingly great and wise men, who with a new-fashioned modesty employ some paltry orator or scribbling poet, whom they bribe to flatter them with some high-flown character, that shall consist of mere lies and shams; and yet the persons thus extolled shall bristle up, and, peacock-like, bespread their plumes, while the impudent parasite magnifies the poor wretch to the skies, and proposes him as a complete pattern of all virtues, from each of which he is yet as far distant as heaven itself from hell: what is all this in the mean while, but the tricking up a daw in stolen feathers; a labouring to change the black-a-moor's hue, and the drawing on a pigmy's frock over the shoulders of a giant.

And furthermore, I can safely say that all this is just what several supposedly great and wise men do. With a fashionable show of modesty, they hire some second-rate speaker or scribbling poet. They bribe him to flatter them with extravagant praise made up entirely of lies and shams. Yet the men receiving this praise puff themselves up and spread their feathers like peacocks. Meanwhile, the shameless freeloader praises the poor fool to the skies, presenting him as a perfect model of every virtue. Yet he is as far from each virtue as heaven is from hell. What is all this but dressing a jackdaw in stolen feathers? What is it but trying to change a black man's skin color, or squeezing a giant into a pygmy's coat?

Lastly, I verify the old observation, that allows him a right of praising himself, who has nobody else to do it for him: for really, I cannot but admire at that ingratitude, shall I term it, or blockishness of mankind, who when they all willingly pay to me their utmost devoir, and freely acknowledge their respective obligations; that notwithstanding this, there should have been none so grateful or complaisant as to have bestowed on me a commendatory oration, especially when there have not been wanting such as at a great expense of sweat, and loss of sleep, have in elaborate speeches, given high encomiums to tyrants, agues, flies, baldness, and such like trumperies.

Finally, I prove the old saying true: anyone with nobody else to praise him has the right to praise himself. For really, I cannot help marveling at mankind’s ingratitude, or should I call it stupidity? Everyone willingly pays me the highest respect, and all freely acknowledge how much they owe me. Yet nobody has been grateful or obliging enough to make a speech in my praise. This neglect is especially striking when others have spared neither sweat nor sleep in composing elaborate speeches. They have lavished praise on tyrants, fevers, flies, baldness, and other such rubbish.

I shall entertain you with a hasty and unpremeditated, but so much the more natural discourse. My venting it ex tempore, I would not have you think proceeds from any principles of vain glory by which ordinary orators square their attempts, who (as it is easy to observe) when they are delivered of a speech that has been thirty years a conceiving, nay, perhaps at last, none of their own, yet they will swear they wrote it in a great hurry, and upon very short warning: whereas the reason of my not being provided beforehand is only because it was always my humour constantly to speak that which lies uppermost. Next, let no one be so fond as to imagine, that I should so far stint my invention to the method of other pleaders, as first to define, and then divide my subject, i.e., myself. For it is equally hazardous to attempt the crowding her within the narrow limits of a definition, whose nature is of so diffusive an extent, or to mangle and disjoin that, to the adoration whereof all nations unitedly concur. Beside, to what purpose is it to lay down a definition for a faint resemblance, and mere shadow of me, while appearing here personally, you may view me at a more certain light? And if your eye-sight fail not, you may at first blush discern me to be her whom the Greeks term Mwpia, the Latins stultitia.

I shall entertain you with a hurried, unplanned speech, but one all the more natural for that. Do not think I speak off the cuff out of the vanity that guides ordinary speakers. As anyone can easily see, those speakers may spend thirty years bringing a speech into the world. Perhaps, in the end, the speech is not even their own. Yet they swear they wrote it in a great hurry, with very little notice. My only reason for not preparing beforehand is that I have always liked saying whatever comes into my head. Next, let no one be foolish enough to think I would limit my imagination by following other speakers’ methods. They first define their subject, then divide it into parts. In this case, the subject is myself. To squeeze someone whose nature is so far-reaching into a narrow definition would be dangerous. So would cutting into pieces someone whom all nations join together in worshipping. Besides, why offer a definition that gives only a faint likeness, a mere shadow of me? Here I am in person, so you can see me far more clearly. And if your eyesight is sound, you may recognize me at once as the one the Greeks call Mwpia, the Latins stultitia.

But why need I have been so impertinent as to have told you this, as if my very looks did not sufficiently betray what I am; or supposing any be so credulous as to take me for some sage matron or goddess of wisdom, as if a single glance from me would not immediately correct their mistake, while my visage, the exact reflex of my soul, would supply and supersede the trouble of any other confessions: for I appear always in my natural colours, and an unartificial dress, and never let my face pretend one thing, and my heart conceal another; nay, and in all things I am so true to my principles, that I cannot be so much as counterfeited, even by those who challenge the name of wits, yet indeed are no better than jackanapes tricked up in gawdy clothes, and asses strutting in lions' skins; and how cunningly soever they carry it, their long ears appear, and betray what they are. These in troth are very rude and disingenuous, for while they apparently belong to my party, yet among the vulgar they are so ashamed of my relation, as to cast it in others' dish for a shame and reproach: wherefore since they are so eager to be accounted wise, when in truth they are extremely silly, what, if to give them their due, I dub them with the title of wise fools: and herein they copy after the example of some modern orators, who swell to that proportion of conceitedness, as to vaunt themselves for so many giants of eloquence, if with a double-tongued fluency they can plead indifferently for either side, and deem it a very doughty exploit if they can but interlard a Latin sentence with some Greek word, which for seeming garnish they crowd in at a venture; and rather than be at a stand for some cramp words, they will furnish up a long scroll of old obsolete terms out of some musty author, and foist them in, to amuse the reader with, that those who understand them may be tickled with the happiness of being acquainted with them: and those who understand them not, the less they know the more they may admire; whereas it has been always a custom to those of our side to contemn and undervalue whatever is strange and unusual, while those that are better conceited of themselves will nod and smile, and prick up their ears, that they may be thought easily to apprehend that, of which perhaps they do not understand one word. And so much for this; pardon the digression, now I return.

But why did I need to be so tiresome as to tell you all this? As if my looks did not make it clear enough what I am! Suppose anyone were gullible enough to mistake me for some wise matron or goddess of wisdom. As if one glance from me would not immediately correct that mistake! My face is the exact mirror of my soul, making any further confession unnecessary. I always show my true colors and dress without artifice. I never let my face pretend one thing while my heart hides another. Indeed, I am so true to my principles in everything that no one can even imitate me. Not even those who claim to be witty can manage it. In fact, they are nothing better than monkeys dressed in flashy clothes, or donkeys strutting around in lions' skins. However cleverly they disguise themselves, their long ears stick out and reveal what they are. These people are truly rude and dishonest. Although they clearly belong to my party, they are ashamed to admit their connection with me before ordinary people. Instead, they accuse others of that connection as an insult and a disgrace. They are so eager to be considered wise, though they are really extremely foolish. So why not give them their due and award them the title of wise fools? In this, they follow the example of some modern speakers, whose vanity swells to enormous proportions. They boast that they are giants of eloquence if they can argue fluently for either side with equal readiness. They also consider it a mighty achievement to sprinkle a Latin sentence with a Greek word. They cram the word in at random, merely for decoration. Rather than find themselves short of obscure words, they compile a long list of obsolete terms from some musty author. Then they slip these terms into their writing to dazzle the reader. Readers who understand the terms can congratulate themselves on knowing them. As for readers who do not understand, the less they know, the more they may admire. Yet people on our side have always made a habit of despising and dismissing whatever is strange and unfamiliar. Those with a higher opinion of themselves, meanwhile, will nod, smile, and prick up their ears. They want to seem quick to understand something of which they perhaps do not understand a single word. But enough of that. Forgive the digression. Now I return to my subject.

Of my name I have informed you, Sirs; what additional epithet to give you I know not; except you will be content with that of most foolish; for under what more proper appellation can the goddess Folly greet her devotees? But since there are few acquainted with my family and original, I will now give you some account of my extraction:

Gentlemen, I have told you my name. I don't know what title to give you, unless you are happy to be called most foolish. For how else could the goddess Folly more fittingly greet her followers? But since few people know about my family and origins, I will now tell you something about my ancestry:

First then, my father was neither the chaos, nor hell, nor Saturn, nor Jupiter, nor any of those old, worn out, grandsire gods, but Plutus, the very same that, maugre Homer, Hesiod, nay, in spite of Jove himself, was the primary father born amongst these delights, I did not, like other infants, come crying into the world, but perked up, and laughed immediately in my mother's face. And there is no reason I should envy Jove for having a she-goat to his nurse, since I was more creditably suckled by two jolly nymphs; the name of the first drunkenness, one of Bacchus's offspring, the other ignorance, the daughter of Pan; both which you may here behold among several others of my train and attendants, whose particular names, if you would fain know, I will give you in short This, who goes with a mincing gait, and holds up her head so high, is Self-Love. She that looks so spruce, and makes such a noise and bustle, is Flattery. That other, which sits hum-drum, as if she were half asleep, is called Forgetfulness. She that leans on her elbow, and sometimes yawningly stretches out her arms, is Laziness. This, that wears a plighted garland of flowers, and smells so perfumed, is Pleasure. The other, which appears in so smooth a skin, and pampered-up flesh, is Sensuality. She that stares so wildly, and rolls about her eyes, is Madness. As to those two gods whom you see playing among the lasses the name of the one is Intemperance, the other Sound Sleep. By the help and service of this retinue I bring all things under the verge of my power, lording it over the greatest kings and potentates.

First, my father was not chaos, hell, Saturn, Jupiter, or any of those old, worn-out grandfather gods. My father was Plutus himself, the original father, despite Homer, Hesiod, and even Jove himself. Born among these delights, I did not come crying into the world like other infants. Instead, I perked up and immediately laughed in my mother's face. Nor need I envy Jove for having a she-goat as his nurse. I had the more respectable privilege of being nursed by two merry nymphs. The first was drunkenness, one of Bacchus's children. The other was ignorance, the daughter of Pan. You can see both here among the others in my company of attendants. If you would like to know the attendants' individual names, I will briefly give them. This one, who walks with dainty steps and holds her head so high, is Self-Love. The one who looks so smart and makes such a noisy fuss is Flattery. The other, sitting listlessly as if half asleep, is called Forgetfulness. The one leaning on her elbow, sometimes yawning and stretching her arms, is Laziness. This one, wearing a woven garland of flowers and smelling strongly of perfume, is Pleasure. The other, with such smooth skin and pampered flesh, is Sensuality. The one staring so wildly and rolling her eyes is Madness. As for those two gods you see playing among the girls, one is Intemperance, and the other is Sound Sleep. With the help and service of these attendants, I bring all things under my power. I lord it over the greatest kings and rulers.

You have now heard of my descent, my education, and my attendance; that I may not be taxed as presumptuous in borrowing the title of a goddess, I come now in the next place to acquaint you what obliging favours I everywhere bestow, and how largely my jurisdiction extends: for if, as one has ingenuously noted, to be a god is no other than to be a benefactor to mankind; and if they have been thought deservedly deified who have invented the use of wine, corn, or any other convenience for the well-being of mortals, why may not I justly bear the van among the whole troop of gods, who in all, and toward all, exert an unparalleled bounty and beneficence?

You have now heard about my ancestry, my education, and my attendants. Next, I will explain the generous favors I grant everywhere and how far my power extends. That way, no one can accuse me of presuming too much by claiming the title of goddess. For, as someone has frankly observed, if being a god means nothing more than benefiting humanity, consider my claim. Those who introduced wine, grain, or any other comfort for mortal life have been thought worthy of becoming gods. If they deserved that honor, why should I not rightly lead the whole company of gods? After all, in everything and toward everyone, I show unmatched generosity and kindness.

For instance, in the first place, what can be more dear and precious than life itself? and yet for this are none beholden, save to me alone. For it is neither the spear of throughly-begotten Pallas, nor the buckler of cloud-gathering Jove, that multiplies and propagates mankind: but my sportive and tickling recreation that proceeded the old crabbed philosophers, and those who now supply their stead, the mortified monks and friars; as also kings, priests, and popes, nay, the whole tribe of poetic gods, who are at last grown so numerous, as in the camp of heaven (though ne'er so spacious), to jostle for elbow room. But it is not sufficient to have made it appear that I am the source and original of all life, except I likewise shew that all the benefits of life are equally at my disposal. And what are such? Why, can any one be said properly to live to whom pleasure is denied? You will give me your assent; for there is none I know among you so wise shall I say, or so silly, as to be of a contrary opinion. The Stoics indeed contemn, and pretend to banish pleasure; but this is only a dissembling trick, and a putting the vulgar out of conceit with it, that they may more quietly engross it to themselves: but I dare them now to confess what one stage of life is not melancholy, dull, tiresome, tedious, and uneasy, unless we spice it with pleasure, that hautgoust of Folly. Of the truth whereof the never enough to be commended Sophocles is sufficient authority, who gives me the highest character in that sentence of his,

First of all, what could be dearer or more precious than life itself? Yet everyone owes life to me alone. Neither the spear of fully formed Pallas nor the shield of cloud-gathering Jove makes humanity multiply. No, my playful, tickling pastime brought forth those old, sour philosophers. The same goes for their replacements today, those monks and friars who deny themselves every pleasure. My pastime also produced kings, priests, popes, and even the whole tribe of gods the poets invented. Those gods have now become so numerous that they jostle for elbow room in heaven, spacious though heaven is. But showing that I am the source and origin of all life is not enough. I must also show that all life's blessings are equally mine to give. And what are those blessings? Well, can anyone denied pleasure truly be said to live? You will agree with me. I know none of you is so wise, shall I say, or so foolish, as to think otherwise. The Stoics certainly despise pleasure and claim to banish pleasure from their lives. But their contempt is only a dishonest trick. They want ordinary people to lose their taste for pleasure, so they can keep all the pleasure for themselves undisturbed. But I now challenge the Stoics to name one stage of life that escapes sadness, dullness, weariness, tedium, and discomfort. Can any stage escape unless we season life with pleasure, that rich flavor of Folly? Sophocles, whom we can never praise enough, provides sufficient authority for this truth. He gives me the highest praise in this saying of his:

Yet abating from this, let us examine the case more narrowly. Who knows not that the first scene of infancy is far the most pleasant and delightsome? What then is it in children that makes us so kiss, hug, and play with them, and that the bloodiest enemy can scarce have the heart to hurt them; but their ingredients of innocence and Folly, of which nature out of providence did purposely compound and blend their tender infancy, that by a frank return of pleasure they might make some sort of amends for their parents' trouble, and give in caution as it were for the discharge of a future education; the next advance from childhood is youth, and how favourably is this dealt with; how kind, courteous, and respectful are all to it? and how ready to become serviceable upon all occasions? And whence reaps it this happiness? Whence indeed, but from me only, by whose procurement it is furnished with little of wisdom, and so with the less of disquiet? And when once lads begin to grow up, and attempt to write man, their prettiness does then soon decay, their briskness flags, their humours stagnate, their jollity ceases, and their blood grows cold; and the farther they proceed in years, the more they grow backward in the enjoyment of themselves, till waspish old age comes on, a burden to itself as well as others, and that so heavy and oppressive, as none would bear the weight of, unless out of pity to their sufferings. I again intervene, and lend a helping-hand, assisting them at a dead lift, in the same method the poets feign their gods to succour dying men, by transforming them into new creatures, which I do by bringing them back, after they have one foot in the grave, to their infancy again; so as there is a great deal of truth couched in that old proverb, Once an old man, and twice a child. Now if any one be curious to understand what course I take to effect this alteration, my method is this: I bring them to my well of forgetfulness, (the fountain whereof is in the Fortunate Islands, and the river Lethe in hell but a small stream of it), and when they have there filled their bellies full, and washed down care, by the virtue and operation whereof they become young again.

But setting that aside, let us examine the matter more closely. Who does not know that infancy is by far the most pleasant and delightful stage of life? What makes us kiss, hug, and play with children? What makes even the bloodiest enemy hardly have the heart to hurt them? It is their mixture of innocence and Folly. Nature wisely blended these qualities into their tender infancy for a purpose. The pleasure children freely give might offer their parents some compensation for their trouble. That pleasure might also serve as a kind of advance payment for the children's future upbringing. After childhood comes youth, and how favorably everyone treats the young! How kind, courteous, and respectful all are toward them! How ready everyone is to help them on every occasion! And where does youth get this happiness? From me alone, of course. Through my efforts, the young have little wisdom, and therefore fewer worries. But once boys begin to grow up and try to pass for men, their charm soon fades. Their energy weakens, their spirits grow dull, their merriment ends, and their blood runs cold. The older they grow, the less they enjoy themselves. At last, irritable old age arrives, a burden both to itself and to others. This burden is so heavy and crushing that no one would bear it unless I pitied their suffering and intervened again. I lend them a helping hand when they can no longer help themselves. I use the same method that poets imagine their gods using to rescue dying men: transforming them into new creatures. With one foot already in the grave, I bring the old back to infancy. So there is a great deal of truth in that old proverb, Once an old man, and twice a child. Now, if anyone wants to know how I bring about this change, here is my method. I take them to my well of forgetfulness, whose source lies in the Fortunate Islands. The river Lethe in hell is only a small stream flowing from that source. There they drink their fill and wash away their cares. Through the water's power, they become young again.

Ay, but (say you) they merely dote, and play the fool: why yes, this is what I mean by growing young again: for what else is it to be a child than to be a fool and an idiot? It is the being such that makes that age so acceptable: for who does not esteem it somewhat ominous to see a boy endowed with the discretion of a man, and therefore for the curbing of too forward parts we have a disparaging proverb, Soon ripe, soon rotten? And farther, who would keep company or have any thing to do with such an old blade, as, after the wear and harrowing of so many years should yet continue of as clear a head and sound a judgment as he had at any time been in his middle-age; and therefore it is great kindness of me that old men grow fools, since it is hereby only that they are freed from such vexations as would torment them if they were more wise: they can drink briskly, bear up stoutly, and lightly pass over such infirmities, as a far stronger constitution could scarce master. Sometime, with the old fellow in Plautus, they are brought back to their horn-book again, to learn to spell their fortune in love.

But, you say, they are merely becoming senile and acting like fools. Yes, that is exactly what I mean by growing young again. For what is being a child but being a fool and an idiot? That very foolishness makes childhood so appealing. For who does not think it rather ominous to see a boy with a grown man’s judgment? And so, to discourage children whose abilities develop too early, we have a mocking proverb: Soon ripe, soon rotten? Besides, who would spend time with an old fellow whose mind remained as clear as it was in middle age? Who would want anything to do with him if his judgment stayed just as sound after so many exhausting years? So I show old men great kindness by making them fools. Only through foolishness are they freed from troubles that would torment them if they were wiser. They can drink heartily, keep their spirits up, and make light of ailments that even a much stronger body could barely withstand. Sometimes, like the old fellow in Plautus, they return to their horn-book, their beginner’s reading book. There they learn once again to spell out their fortunes in love.

Most wretched would they needs be if they had but wit enough to be sensible of their hard condition; but by my assistance, they carry off all well, and to their respective friends approve themselves good, sociable, jolly companions. Thus Homer makes aged Nestor famed for a smooth oily-tongued orator, while the delivery of Achilles was but rough, harsh, and hesitant; and the same poet elsewhere tells us of old men that sate on the walls, and spake with a great deal of flourish and elegance. And in this point indeed they surpass and outgo children, who are pretty forward in a softly, innocent prattle, but otherwise are too much tongue-tied, and want the other's most acceptable embellishment of a perpetual talkativeness. Add to this, that old men love to be playing with children, and children delight as much in them, to verify the proverb, that Birds of a feather flock together. And indeed what difference can be discerned between them, but that the one is more furrowed with wrinkles, and has seen a little more of the world than the other? For otherwise their whitish hair, their want of teeth, their smallness of stature, their milk diet, their bald crowns, their prattling, their playing, their short memory, their heedlessness, and all their other endowments, exactly agree; and the more they advance in years, the nearer they come back to their cradle, till like children indeed, at last they depart the world, without any remorse at the loss of life, or sense of the pangs of death.

They would be utterly miserable if they had enough sense to recognize their unhappy condition. But with my help, they take everything in stride and prove good, sociable, cheerful companions to their friends. Thus Homer makes aged Nestor famous as a smooth, honey-tongued speaker, while Achilles speaks roughly, harshly, and hesitantly. Elsewhere, the same poet describes old men sitting on the walls, speaking with great flourish and elegance. And in speaking, old men really do surpass children. Children are quite ready with their gentle, innocent chatter, but otherwise struggle to get their words out. They lack the old men's most welcome gift of endless talk. Besides, old men love playing with children, and children take just as much delight in old men. This proves the proverb, Birds of a feather flock together. Indeed, what difference can anyone see between them? The old have more wrinkles and have seen a little more of the world than the young. Otherwise, their whitish hair, missing teeth, small stature, milk diet, bald heads, chatter, play, poor memory, and carelessness match exactly. So do all their other gifts. And the older they grow, the closer they come to returning to the cradle. At last, truly like children, they leave the world without regret at losing life or awareness of death's pains.

And now let any one compare the excellency of my metamorphosing power to that which Ovid attributes to the gods; their strange feats in some drunken passions we will omit for their credit sake, and instance only in such persons as they pretend great kindness for; these they transformed into trees, birds, insects, and sometimes serpents; but alas, their very change into somewhat else argues the destruction of what they were before; whereas I can restore the same numerical man to his pristine state of youth, health and strength; yea, what is more, if men would but so far consult their own interest, as to discard all thoughts of wisdom, and entirely resign themselves to my guidance and conduct, old age should be a paradox, and each man's years a perpetual spring. For look how your hard plodding students, by a close sedentary confinement to their books, grow mopish, pale, and meagre, as if, by a continual wrack of brains, and torture of invention, their veins were pumped dry, and their whole body squeezed sapless; whereas my followers are smooth, plump, and bucksome, and altogether as lusty as so many bacon-hogs, or sucking calves; never in their career of pleasure to be arrested with old age, if they could but keep themselves untainted from the contagiousness of wisdom, with the leprosy whereof, if at any time they are infected, it is only for prevention, lest they should otherwise have been too happy.

Now let anyone compare my marvelous power to transform people with the power Ovid gives the gods. For the sake of their reputation, we will leave out their strange feats during drunken fits. We will consider only the people the gods claim to love dearly. The gods transformed these favorites into trees, birds, insects, and sometimes snakes. But alas, turning these people into something else means destroying what they were before. I, however, can restore the very same person to his original youth, health, and strength. Indeed, I can do more, if people would only look after their own interests. If they abandoned all thoughts of wisdom and put themselves entirely under my guidance, old age would become a contradiction. Every man's life would be an endless spring. Just look at your hardworking scholars. Constantly sitting shut away with their books makes them gloomy, pale, and thin. They look as if constantly racking their brains and straining for ideas had drained their veins and squeezed their bodies dry. My followers, however, are smooth-skinned, plump, and lively, as full of vigor as pigs fattened for bacon or suckling calves. Old age would never interrupt their pursuit of pleasure, if only they could avoid catching the infection of wisdom. If they ever catch that leprosy, wisdom, it is only to prevent them from being too happy.

For a more ample confirmation of the truth of what foregoes, it is on all sides confessed, that Folly is the best preservative of youth, and the most effectual antidote against age. And it is a never-failing observation made of the people of Brabant, that, contrary to the proverb of Older and wiser, the more ancient they grow, the more fools they are; and there is not any one country, whose inhabitants enjoy themselves better, and rub through the world with more ease and quiet. To these are nearly related, as well by affinity of customs, as of neighbourhood, my friends the Hollanders: mine I may well call them, for they stick so close and lovingly to me, that they are styled fools to a proverb, and yet scorn to be ashamed of their name. Well, let fond mortals go now in a needless quest of some Medea, Circe, Venus, or some enchanted fountain, for a restorative of age, whereas the accurate performance of this feat lies only within the ability of my art and skill.

To confirm what I have already said, everyone agrees that Folly is the best way to preserve youth. Folly is also the most effective remedy against old age. And one observation about the people of Brabant never fails. Contrary to the saying Older and wiser, the older they grow, the more foolish they become. Yet no other country has people who enjoy themselves more or get through life with greater ease and peace. My friends the Hollanders are closely related to them, both in their customs and as neighbors. I can rightly call the Hollanders mine, since they cling to me so closely and lovingly. They are so famously foolish that their foolishness has become a proverb, yet they refuse to feel ashamed of the name. Well, let foolish mortals go on their needless search for some Medea, Circe, Venus, or some enchanted fountain to restore youth. Only my art and skill can truly accomplish that feat.

It is I only who have the receipt of making that liquor wherewith Memnon's daughter lengthened out her grandfather's declining days: it is I that am that Venus, who so far restored the languishing Phaon, as to make Sappho fall deeply in love with his beauty. Mine are those herbs, mine those charms, that not only lure back swift time, when past and gone, but what is more to be admired, clip its wings, and prevent all farther flight. So then, if you will all agree to my verdict, that nothing is more desirable than the being young, nor any thing more loathed than contemptible old age, you must needs acknowledge it as an unrequitable obligation from me, for fencing off the one, and perpetuating the other.

I alone know the recipe for the potion Memnon's daughter used to prolong her grandfather's declining years. I am that Venus who restored the fading Phaon so completely that Sappho fell deeply in love with his beauty. Mine are the herbs, mine the charms that bring back swift time after it has passed. More wonderfully still, they clip time's wings and stop it from flying any further. So, if you all agree with my judgment that nothing is more desirable than youth, nor more hated than contemptible old age, you must acknowledge your debt to me. You can never repay me for keeping old age away and making youth last forever.

But why should I confine my discourse to the narrow subject of mankind only? View the whole heaven itself, and then tell me what one of that divine tribe would not be mean and despicable, if my name did not lend him some respect and authority. Why is Bacchus always painted as a young man, but only because he is freakish, drunk, and mad; and spending his time in toping, dancing, masking, and revelling, seems to have nothing in the least to do with wisdom? Nay, so far is he from the affectation of being accounted wise, that he is content, all the rights of devotion which are paid unto him should consist of apishness and drollery. Farther, what scoffs and jeers did not the old comedians throw upon him? O swinish punch-gut god, say they, that smells rank of the sty he was sowed up in, and so on. But prithee, who in this case, always merry, youthful, soaked in wine, and drowned in pleasure, who, I say, in such a case, would change conditions, either with the lofty menace-looking Jove, the grave, yet timorous Pan, the stately Pallas, or indeed any one other of heaven's landlords? Why is Cupid feigned as a boy, but only because he is an under-witted whipster, that neither acts nor thinks any thing with discretion? Why is Venus adored for the mirror of beauty, but only because she and I claim kindred, she being of the same complexion with my father Plutus, and therefore called by Homer the Golden Goddess? Beside, she imitates me in being always a laughing, if either we believe the poets, or their near kinsmen the painters, the first mentioning, the other drawing her constantly in that posture. Add farther, to what deity did the Romans pay a more ceremonial respect than to Flora, that bawd of obscenity? And if any one search the poets for an historical account of the gods, he shall find them all famous for lewd pranks and debaucheries. It is needless to insist upon the miscarriages of others, when the lecherous intrigues of Jove himself are so notorious, and when the pretendedly chaste Diana so oft uncloaked her modesty to run a hunting after her beloved Endimion. But I will say no more, for I had rather they should be told of their faults by Momus, who was want formerly to sting them with some close reflections, till nettled by his abusive raillery, they kicked him out of heaven for his sauciness of daring to reprove such as were beyond correction: and now in his banishment from heaven he finds but cold entertainment here on earth, nay, is denied all admittance into the court of princes, where notwithstanding my handmaid Flattery finds a most encouraging welcome: but this petulant monitor being thrust out of doors, the gods can now more freely rant and revel, and take their whole swinge of pleasure.

But why should I limit my speech to the narrow subject of humanity? Look at all of heaven itself. Then tell me which of those gods would not be worthless and contemptible without my name lending him respect and authority. Why is Bacchus always painted as a young man? Only because he is wild, drunk, and mad. He spends his time drinking, dancing, wearing disguises, and partying, and seems to have nothing whatever to do with wisdom. Indeed, he makes no show of wanting to be thought wise. He is quite content for all his rites of worship to consist of foolish antics and clowning. And what insults and mockery the old comic playwrights hurled at him! O piggish, potbellied god, they say, who reeks of the pigsty he was sewn up in, and so on. But tell me, who would trade such a life for another? Bacchus is always cheerful and young, soaked in wine and swimming in pleasure. Would anyone in his position trade places with lofty, threatening Jove, or solemn yet fearful Pan? Or with majestic Pallas, or indeed any other landlord of heaven? Why is Cupid portrayed as a boy? Only because he is a dim-witted little rascal who never acts or thinks with any judgment. Why is Venus worshipped as the very image of beauty? Only because she and I are related. She has the same complexion as my father Plutus, and Homer therefore calls her the Golden Goddess. Besides, she imitates me by always laughing, if we believe the poets or their close relatives, the painters. The poets always describe her laughing, and the painters always show her that way. And what deity did the Romans honor with more ceremony than Flora, that bawd of obscenity? Anyone who searches the poets for a history of the gods will find them all famous for obscene antics and debauchery. There is no need to dwell on the others' misconduct when Jove's own lustful affairs are so notorious. And supposedly chaste Diana so often cast aside her modesty to go hunting for her beloved Endimion. But I will say no more. I would rather let Momus tell the gods their faults. He used to sting them with pointed remarks. At last, irritated by his insulting mockery, they kicked him out of heaven. How dare he be so impertinent as to criticize those beyond correction? Now, banished from heaven, he finds only a cold welcome here on earth. Indeed, he is refused entry to princes' courts, where my servant Flattery nevertheless receives a most encouraging welcome. But with that irritating scold thrown out, the gods can now carouse and revel more freely. They can indulge their pleasure to the full.

ENLARGE

ENLARGE

Now the beastly Priapus may recreate himself without contradiction in lust and filthiness; now the sly Mercury may, without discovery, go on in his thieveries, and nimble-fingered juggles; the sooty Vulcan may now renew his wonted custom of making the other gods laugh by his hopping so limpingly, and coming off with so many dry jokes, and biting repartees. Silenus, the old doting lover, to shew his activity, may now dance a frisking jig, and the nymphs be at the same sport naked. The goatish satyrs may make up a merry ball, and Pan, the blind harper may put up his bagpipes, and sing bawdy catches, to which the gods, especially when they are almost drunk, shall give a most profound attention. But why would I any farther rip open and expose the weakness of the gods, a weakness so childish and absurd, that no man can at the same time keep his countenance, and make a relation of it? Now therefore, like Homer's wandering muse, I will take my leave of heaven, and come down again here below, where we shall find nothing happy, nay, nothing tolerable, without my presence and assistance. And in the first place consider how providently nature has took care that in all her works there should be some piquant smack and relish of Folly: for since the Stoics define wisdom to be conducted by reason, and folly nothing else but the being hurried by passion, lest our life should otherwise have been too dull and inactive, that creator, who out of clay first tempered and made us up, put into the composition of our humanity more than a pound of passions to an ounce of reason; and reason he confined within the narrow cells of the brain, whereas he left passions the whole body to range in. Farther, he set up two sturdy champions to stand perpetually on the guard, that reason might make no assault, surprise, nor in-road: anger, which keeps its station in the fortress of the heart; and Just, which like the signs Virgo and Scorpio, rules the belly and secret members. Against the forces of these two warriors how unable is reason to bear up and withstand, every day's experience does abundantly witness; while let reason be never so importunate in urging and reinforcing her admonitions to virtue, yet the passions bear all before them, and by the least offer of curb or restraint grow but more imperious, till reason itself, for quietness sake, is forced to desist from all further remonstrance.

Now the beastly Priapus may amuse himself with lust and filth without anyone objecting. Now sly Mercury may continue his thefts and sleight-of-hand tricks without being caught. Soot-covered Vulcan may return to his usual way of making the other gods laugh. He may hobble about on his lame leg, cracking dry jokes and delivering sharp replies. Silenus, the old, foolish lover, may now dance a lively jig to show his energy. The nymphs may join the same dance naked. The goatlike satyrs may hold a merry dance. And Pan, the blind harpist, may take up his bagpipes and sing bawdy songs. The gods will listen with the deepest attention, especially when they are nearly drunk. But why should I expose any more of the gods’ weakness? Their weakness is so childish and absurd that no one can describe it with a straight face. So now, like Homer’s wandering muse, I will leave heaven and return to earth. Here we shall find nothing happy, indeed nothing bearable, without my presence and help. First, consider how wisely nature has ensured that all her works have some lively flavor of Folly. The Stoics define wisdom as being guided by reason, and folly as nothing but being swept along by passion. So, to keep our lives from becoming too dull and inactive, our creator mixed us accordingly. When he first shaped us from clay, he added more than a pound of passions for every ounce of reason. He confined reason to the narrow chambers of the brain, but gave the passions the whole body to roam through. He also stationed two powerful champions to keep constant watch, preventing reason from attacking, surprising, or breaking through. One is anger, stationed in the fortress of the heart. The other is lust, which, like the signs Virgo and Scorpio, rules the belly and private parts. Every day’s experience amply shows how powerless reason is against the strength of these two warriors. However insistently reason repeats and strengthens her calls to virtue, the passions sweep everything before them. The slightest attempt to curb or restrain the passions only makes them more overbearing. At last, reason herself must stop protesting, simply for the sake of peace.

But because it seemed expedient that man, who was born for the transaction of business, should have so much wisdom as should fit and capacitate him for the discharge of his duty herein, and yet lest such a measure as is requisite for this purpose might prove too dangerous and fatal, I was advised with for an antidote, who prescribed this infallible receipt of taking a wife, a creature so harmless and silly, and yet so useful and convenient, as might mollify and make pliable the stiffness and morose humour of man. Now that which made Plato doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and Folly of that sex, a sex so unalterably simple, that for any of them to thrust forward, and reach at the name of wise, is but to make themselves the more remarkable fools, such an endeavour, being but a swimming against the stream, nay, the turning the course of nature, the bare attempting whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for as it is a trite proverb, That an ape will be an ape, though clad in purple; so a woman will be a woman, a fool, whatever disguise she takes up. And yet there is no reason women should take it amiss to be thus charged; for if they do but righdy consider they will find it is to Folly they are beholden for those endowments, wherein they so far surpass and excel man; as first, for their unparalleled beauty, by the charm whereof they tyrannize over the greatest tyrants; for what is it but too great a smatch of wisdom that makes men so tawny and thick-skinned, so rough and prickly-bearded, like an emblem of winter or old age, while women have such dainty smooth cheeks, such a low gende voice, and so pure a complexion, as if nature had drawn them for a standing pattern of all symmetry and comeliness? Beside, what live, but to be wound up as it were in a winding-sheet before we are dead, and so to be shuffled quick into a grave, and buried alive.

But man was born to conduct business, so it seemed fitting to give him enough wisdom to perform his duties. Yet even the wisdom needed for that purpose might prove too dangerous and fatal. So I was consulted about an antidote. I prescribed this sure remedy: take a wife. She is a creature so harmless and foolish, yet so useful and convenient, that she could soften man's stubbornness and bad temper. Now Plato hesitated over how to classify woman, whether among beasts or rational creatures. His hesitation was meant only to show the extreme stupidity and Folly of that sex. Women are so unchangeably simple that any woman who pushes forward and seeks a reputation for wisdom becomes more conspicuously foolish. Such an effort means swimming against the current. Indeed, it means reversing the course of nature. Merely attempting such a thing is as absurd as achieving it is impossible. For, as the old proverb says, An ape will be an ape, even dressed in purple. So a woman will remain a woman, a fool, whatever disguise she adopts. And yet women have no reason to resent this accusation. For if women consider the matter properly, they will find they owe Folly the gifts in which they far surpass men. First comes their unmatched beauty, whose charm lets them rule over the greatest tyrants. For what but an excessive touch of wisdom makes men so dark and thick-skinned, so rough and bristly-bearded? Men look like images of winter or old age. Meanwhile, women have such delicate, smooth cheeks, such soft, gentle voices, and such clear complexions. They look as if nature designed them as a lasting model of perfect proportions and beauty. Besides, what is living but being wrapped in a burial shroud before we are dead? And so we are hustled into a grave while still alive, and buried alive.

But there are yet others perhaps that have no gust in this sort of pleasure, but place their greatest content in the enjoyment of friends, telling us that true friendship is to be preferred before all other acquirements; that it is a thing so useful and necessary, as the very elements could not long subsist without a natural combination; so pleasant that it affords as warm an influence as the sun itself; so honest, (if honesty in this case deserve any consideration), that the very philosophers have not stuck to place this as one among the rest of their different sentiments of the chiefest good. But what if I make it appear that I also am the main spring and original of this endearment? Yes, I can easily demonstrate it, and that not by crabbed syllogisms, or a crooked and unintelligible way of arguing, but can make it (as the proverb goes) As plain as the nose on your face. Well then, to scratch and curry one another, to wink at a friend's faults; nay, to cry up some failings for virtuous and commendable, is not this the next door to the being a fool? When one looking stedfastly in his mistress's face, admires a mole as much as a beauty spot; when another swears his lady's stinking breath is a most redolent perfume; and at another time the fond parent hugs the squint-eyed child, and pretends it is rather a becoming glance and winning aspect than any blemish of the eye-sight, what is all this but the very height of Folly?

But perhaps some others have no taste for this kind of pleasure and find their greatest satisfaction in their friends. They tell us that true friendship is worth more than anything else we can gain. Friendship is so useful and necessary that even the elements could not last long without naturally joining together. Friendship is so pleasant that its warmth rivals the sun itself. It is also so morally worthy (if moral worth deserves any consideration here). Indeed, philosophers have not hesitated to include friendship among their various ideas of the highest good. But what if I show that I too am the driving force and original source of this affection? Yes, I can easily prove it, without complicated syllogisms or twisted, incomprehensible arguments. I can make my point, as the proverb goes, As plain as the nose on your face. Well then, people flatter and pamper one another and turn a blind eye to a friend's faults. They even praise some faults as virtues worthy of admiration. Isn't such behavior just a step away from being a fool? One man gazes steadily into his beloved's face and admires a mole as much as a beauty spot. Another swears that his lady's foul breath is the sweetest perfume. Then a doting parent hugs a cross-eyed child and pretends the child's eyes have a charming, winning look instead of a defect. What is all this but the very height of Folly?

Folly (I say) that both makes friends and keeps them so. I speak of mortal men only, among whom there are none but have some small faults; he is most happy that has fewest. If we pass to the gods, we shall find that they have so much of wisdom, as they have very little of friendship; nay, nothing of that which is true and hearty. The reason why men make a greater improvement in this virtue, is only because they are more credulous and easy natured; for friends must be of the same humour and inclinations too, or else the league of amity, though made with never so many protestations, will be soon broke. Thus grave and morose men seldom prove fast friends; they are too captious and censorious, and will not bear with one another's infirmities; they are as eagle sighted as may be in the espial of others' faults, while they wink upon themselves, and never mind the beam in their own eyes. In short, man being by nature so prone to frailties, so humoursome and cross-grained, and guilty of so many slips and miscarriages, there could be no firm friendship contracted, except there be such an allowance made for each other's defaults, which the Greeks term 'Eunoeia, and we may construe good nature, which is but another word for Folly. And what? Is not Cupid, that first father of all relation, is not he stark blind, that as he cannot himself distinguish of colours, so he would make us as mope-eyed in judging falsely of all love concerns, and wheedle us into a thinking that we are always in the right? Thus every Jack sticks to his own Jill; every tinker esteems his own trull; and the hob-nailed suiter prefers Joan the milk-maid before any of my lady's daughters. These things are true, and are ordinarily laughed at, and yet, however ridiculous they seem, it is hence only that all societies receive their cement and consolidation.

Folly, I say, both makes friends and keeps them friends. I speak only of mortal men, all of whom have some small faults. The happiest man is the one with the fewest. If we turn to the gods, we find that their great wisdom leaves them with very little friendship. Indeed, they have none that is true and heartfelt. Men do better at friendship only because they are more trusting and easygoing. For friends must share the same temperament and tastes. Otherwise, their bond will soon break, however many promises they make. So serious, gloomy men seldom become firm friends. They are too faultfinding and judgmental, and will not put up with one another's weaknesses. They spot other people's faults with an eagle's sharp eyes. Yet they close their eyes to their own faults and ignore the beam in their own eyes. In short, man is naturally prone to weakness, so moody and difficult, and guilty of so many mistakes and failures. No firm friendship could form unless friends made allowances for one another's faults. The Greeks call this tolerance 'Eunoeia, which we may translate as good nature, just another word for Folly. And what about Cupid, the original father of all human bonds? Isn't he completely blind? Just as he cannot distinguish colors, he would have us judge matters of love with equally blind eyes. He would coax us into thinking we are always right. So every Jack sticks to his own Jill. Every tinker prizes his own loose woman. And the suitor in hobnailed boots prefers Joan the milkmaid to any of my lady's daughters. These things are true, and people commonly laugh at them. Yet, however ridiculous these things seem, they alone bind all societies together and keep them strong.

The same which has been said of friendship is much more applicable to a state of marriage, which is but the highest advance and improvement of friendship in the closest bond of union. Good God! What frequent divorces, or worse mischief, would oft sadly happen, except man and wife, were so discreet as to pass over light occasions of quarrel with laughing, jesting, dissembling, and such like playing the fool? Nay, how few matches would go forward, if the hasty lover did but first know how many little tricks of lust and wantonness (and perhaps more gross failings) his coy and seemingly bashful mistress had oft before been guilty of? And how fewer marriages, when consummated, would continue happy, if the husband were not either sottishly insensible of, or did not purposely wink at and pass over the lightness and forwardness of his good-natured wife? This peace and quietness is owing to my management, for there would otherwise be continual jars, and broils, and mad doings, if want of wit only did not at the same time make a contented cuckold and a still house; if the cuckoo sing at the back door, the unthinking cornute takes no notice of the unlucky omen of others' eggs being laid in his own nest, but laughs it over, kisses his dear spouse, and all is well. And indeed it is much better patiently to be such a hen-pecked frigot, than always to be wracked and tortured with the grating surmises of suspicion and jealousy. In fine, there is no one society, no one relation men stand in, would be comfortable, or indeed tolerable, without my assistance; there could be no right understanding betwixt prince and people, lord and servant, tutor and pupil, friend and friend, man and wife, buyer and seller, or any persons however otherwise related, if they did not cowardly put up small abuses, sneakingly cringe and submit, or after all fawningly scratch and flatter each other. This you will say is much, but you shall yet hear what is more; tell me then, can any one love another that first hates himself? Is it likely any one should agree with a friend that is first fallen out with his own judgment? Or is it probable he should be any way pleasing to another, who is a perpetual plague and trouble to himself? This is such a paradox that none can be so mad as to maintain. Well, but if I am excluded and barred out, every man would be so far from being able to bear with others, that he would be burthensome to himself, and consequently incapable of any ease or satisfaction. Nature, that toward some of her products plays the step-mother rather than the indulgent parent, has endowed some men with that unhappy peevishness of disposition, as to nauseate and dislike whatever is their own, and much admire what belongs to other persons, so as they cannot in any wise enjoy what their birth or fortunes have bestowed upon them: for what grace is there in the greatest beauty, if it be always clouded with frowns and sulliness? Or what vigour in youth, if it be harassed with a pettish, dogged, waspish, ill humour? None, sure. Nor indeed can there be any creditable acquirement of ourselves in any one station of life, but we should sink without rescue into misery and despair, if we were not buoyed up and supported by self-love, which is but the elder sister (as it were) of Folly, and her own constant friend and assistant For what is or can be more silly than to be lovers and admirers of ourselves? And yet if it were not so there will be no relish to any of our words or actions. Take away this one property of a fool, and the orator shall become as dumb and silent as the pulpit he stands in; the musician shall hang up his untouched instruments on the wall; the completest actors shall be hissed off the stage; the poet shall be burlesqued with his own doggrel rhymes; the painter shall himself vanish into an imaginary landscape; and the physician shall want food more than his patients do physic. In short, without self-love, instead of beautiful, you shall think yourself an old beldam of fourscore; instead of youthful, you shall seem just dropping into the grave; instead of eloquent, a mere stammerer; and in lieu of gende and complaisant, you shall appear like a downright country clown; it being so necessary that every one should think well of himself before he can expect the good opinion of others. Finally, when it is the main and essential part of happiness to desire to be no other than what we already are; this expedient is again wholly owing to self-love, which so flushes men with a good conceit of their own, that no one repents of his shape, of his wit, of his education, or of his country; so as the dirty half-drowned Hollander would not remove into the pleasant plains of Italy, the rude Thracian would not change his boggy soil for the best seat in Athens, nor the brutish Scythian quit his thorny deserts to become an inhabitant of the Fortunate Islands. And oh the incomparable contrivance of nature, who has ordered all things in so even a method that wherever she has been less bountiful in her gifts, there she makes it up with a larger dose of self-love, which supplies the former defects, and makes all even. To enlarge farther, I may well presume to aver, that there are no considerable exploits performed, no useful arts invented, but what I am the respective author and manager of: as first, what is more lofty and heroical than war? and yet, what is more foolish than for some petty, trivial affront, to take such a revenge as both sides shall be sure to be losers, and where the quarrel must be decided at the price of so many limbs and lives? And when they come to an engagement, what service can be done by such pale-faced students, as by drudging at the oars of wisdom, have spent all their strength and activity? No, the only use is of blunt sturdy fellows that have little of wit, and so the more of resolution: except you would make a soldier of such another Demosthenes as threw down his arms when he came within sight of the enemy, and lost that credit in the camp which he gained in the pulpit.

Everything said about friendship applies even more strongly to marriage, friendship’s highest form and closest bond. Good God! How often would divorce, or worse trouble, follow if husbands and wives did not wisely overlook small causes for quarrels? They laugh, joke, pretend not to notice, and play the fool in other ways. Indeed, how few weddings would happen if the eager lover first knew his sweetheart’s history! His coy, seemingly shy beloved has often indulged in little acts of lust and wantonness, and perhaps worse faults. And how much fewer marriages would remain happy once the wedding was over! The husband must either be foolishly unaware of his good-natured wife’s loose and forward behavior, or deliberately overlook it. This peace and quiet comes from my management. Otherwise, there would be constant quarrels, fights, and wild behavior. Only a lack of sense can make both a contented cuckold and a quiet household. If the cuckoo sings at the back door, the unthinking cuckold ignores the unlucky warning. Other birds are laying eggs in his nest, but he laughs, kisses his dear wife, and all is well. Indeed, being such a henpecked fool is much better than suffering the constant torment of suspicion and jealousy. In short, no community or human relationship would be comfortable, or even bearable, without my help. Ruler and people, master and servant, teacher and student, friend and friend, husband and wife, buyer and seller all depend on me. So do people in every other relationship. They could never get along unless they cowardly tolerated small offenses, meekly bowed and submitted, or finally fawned over each other. They must flatter one another and scratch each other’s backs. You will say I claim a great deal, but you will hear still more. Tell me, can anyone love another person if he first hates himself? Can anyone agree with a friend if he has already quarreled with his own judgment? Can anyone please another person if he is a constant torment to himself? Such a contradiction is too absurd for anyone to defend. Yet without me, people would be far from able to put up with others. They would find even themselves unbearable, and so could enjoy neither peace nor satisfaction. Nature treats some of her creations more like a stepmother than a loving parent. She has given some people such an unhappy, peevish temper that they loathe everything belonging to themselves. Meanwhile, they greatly admire whatever belongs to others. So they cannot enjoy anything their birth or fortune has given them. What charm does the greatest beauty have if frowns and sulkiness always cloud it? What energy does youth have if a touchy, stubborn, spiteful temper wears it down? None, surely. Nor could we achieve anything creditable in any walk of life without self-love. Without its support, we would sink helplessly into misery and despair. Self-love is, so to speak, Folly’s elder sister, as well as her constant friend and helper. For what could be sillier than loving and admiring ourselves? Yet without self-love, nothing we said or did would have any flavor. Take away this one quality of a fool, and the speaker becomes as silent as the pulpit he stands in. The musician hangs his untouched instruments on the wall. The finest actors are hissed off the stage. The poet becomes a laughingstock through his own miserable verses. The painter himself vanishes into an imaginary landscape. And the doctor needs food more than his patients need medicine. In short, without self-love, you would think yourself an eighty-year-old hag instead of beautiful. Instead of youthful, you would seem ready to drop into the grave. Instead of eloquent, you would be a mere stammerer. Instead of gracious and agreeable, you would seem a complete country bumpkin. Everyone must think well of himself before he can expect others to think well of him. Finally, the chief and essential part of happiness is wanting to be nothing other than what we already are. This happiness, too, comes entirely from self-love. Self-love fills people with such a fine opinion of themselves that nobody regrets his appearance, intelligence, education, or country. So the filthy, half-drowned Hollander would not move to Italy’s pleasant plains. The uncivilized Thracian would not exchange his boggy land for the finest spot in Athens. Nor would the brutish Scythian leave his thorny wilderness to live in the Fortunate Islands. Oh, what an incomparable arrangement Nature has made! She has balanced everything so neatly that wherever she gives fewer gifts, she supplies a larger dose of self-love. Self-love makes up for those shortcomings and evens everything out. To take the argument further, I may confidently claim responsibility for every great deed and every useful invention. I am the creator and director of them all. First, what could be grander or more heroic than war? Yet what could be more foolish? Some petty, trivial insult provokes revenge that is certain to leave both sides worse off. And the quarrel must be settled at the cost of so many limbs and lives. When battle begins, what use are pale-faced scholars who have exhausted their strength and energy toiling at wisdom’s oars? No, only rough, sturdy fellows are useful. They have little sense and therefore all the more courage. Unless, of course, you would make a soldier of another Demosthenes. He threw down his weapons at the sight of the enemy. In the camp, he lost the reputation he had won on the speaking platform.

But counsel, deliberation, and advice (say you), are very necessary for the management of war: very true, but not such counsel as shall be prescribed by the strict rules of wisdom and justice; for a battle shall be more successfully fought by serving-men, porters, bailiffs, padders, rogues, gaol-birds, and such like tag-rags of mankind, than by the most accomplished philosophers; which last, how unhappy they are in the management of such concerns, Socrates (by the oracle adjudged to be the wisest of mortals) is a notable example; who when he appeared in the attempt of some public performance before the people, he faltered in the first onset, and could never recover himself, but was hooted and hissed home again: yet this philosopher was the less a fool, for refusing the appellation of wise, and not accepting the oracle's compliment; as also for advising that no philosophers should have any hand in the government of the commonwealth; he should have likewise at the same time, added, that they should be banished all human society.

But planning, discussion, and advice, you say, are essential for managing a war. Very true, but not advice dictated by the strict rules of wisdom and justice. For servants, porters, bailiffs, highwaymen, rogues, jailbirds, and similar human riffraff will fight a battle more successfully than the finest philosophers. Socrates is a striking example of how badly philosophers handle such affairs. The oracle declared him the wisest of mortals. Yet when he tried to perform some public task before the people, he stumbled at the very start. He never recovered, and the crowd sent him home with hoots and hisses. Still, this philosopher was less of a fool for refusing to be called wise and rejecting the oracle's compliment. He also showed some sense by advising that no philosophers should take part in governing the state. At the same time, he should have added that philosophers should be banished from all human society.

And what made this great man poison himself to prevent the malice of his accusers? What made him the instrument of his own death, but only his excessiveness of wisdom? whereby, while he was searching into the nature of clouds, while he was plodding and contemplating upon ideas, while he was exercising his geometry upon the measure of a flea, and diving into the recesses of nature, for an account how little insects, when they were so small, could make so great a buzz and hum; while he was intent upon these fooleries he minded nothing of the world, or its ordinary concerns.

What made this great man poison himself to escape the malice of his accusers? What made him bring about his own death, if not his excessive wisdom? Because of that wisdom, he spent his time studying the nature of clouds and pondering ideas. He used geometry to measure a flea. He probed nature’s secrets to explain how such tiny insects could make such a loud buzz and hum. While absorbed in these absurd pursuits, he paid no attention to the world or its everyday concerns.

Next to Socrates comes his scholar Plato, a famous orator indeed, that could be so dashed out of countenance by an illiterate rabble, as to demur, and hawk, and hesitate, before he could get to the end of one short sentence. Theo-phrastus was such another coward, who beginning to make an oration, was presently struck down with fear, as if he had seen some ghost, or hobgoblin. Isocrates was so bashful and timorous, that though he taught rhetoric, yet he could never have the confidence to speak in public. Cicero, the master of Roman eloquence, was wont to begin his speeches with a low, quivering voice, just like a school-boy, afraid of not saying his lesson perfect enough to escape whipping: and yet Fabius commends this property of Tully as an argument of a considerate orator, sensible of the difficulty of acquitting himself with credit: but what hereby does he do more than plainly confess that wisdom is but a rub and impediment to the well management of any affair? How would these heroes crouch, and shrink into nothing, at the sight of drawn swords, that are thus quashed and stunned at the delivery of bare words?

Next after Socrates comes his student Plato, a famous speaker indeed. An illiterate mob could fluster him so badly that he stumbled, cleared his throat, and hesitated through one short sentence. Theo-phrastus was another such coward. As soon as he began a speech, fear overwhelmed him, as if he had seen a ghost or hobgoblin. Isocrates was so shy and timid that, although he taught rhetoric, he never had the confidence to speak in public. Cicero, the master of Roman eloquence, used to begin his speeches in a low, trembling voice. He sounded just like a schoolboy afraid he would not recite his lesson well enough to escape a whipping. Yet Fabius praises this habit of Tully as the mark of a thoughtful speaker. Such a speaker understands how difficult it is to perform creditably. But what does Fabius do here except plainly admit that wisdom only hinders the successful handling of any business? How these heroes would cower and shrink into nothing at the sight of drawn swords! After all, merely speaking words leaves them so crushed and stunned.

Now then let Plato's fine sentence be cried up, that "happy are those commonwealths where either philosophers are elected kings, or kings turn philosophers." Alas, this is so far from being true, that if we consult all historians for an account of past ages, we shall find no princes more weak, nor any people more slavish and wretched, than where the administrations of affairs fell on the shoulders of some learned bookish governor. Of the truth whereof, the two Catos are exemplary instances: the first of which embroiled the city, and tired out the senate by his tedious harangues of defending himself, and accusing others; the younger was an unhappy occasion of the loss of the peoples' liberty, while by improper methods he pretended to maintain it To these may be added Brutus, Cassius, the two Gracchi, and Cicero himself, who was no less fatal to Rome, than his parallel Demosthenes was to Athens: as likewise Marcus Antoninus, whom we may allow to have been a good emperor, yet the less such for his being a philosopher; and certainly he did not do half that kindness to his empire by his own prudent management of affairs, as he did mischief by leaving such a degenerate successor as his son Commodus proved to be; but it is a common observation, that A wise father has many times a foolish son, nature so contriving it, lest the taint of wisdom, like hereditary distempers, should otherwise descend by propagation. Thus Tully's son Marcus, though bred at Athens, proved but a dull, insipid soul; and Socrates his children had (as one ingeniously expresses it) "more of the mother than the father," a phrase for their being fools. However, it were the more excusable, though wise men are so awkward and unhandy in the ordering of public affairs, if they were not so bad, or worse in the management of their ordinary and domestic concerns; but alas, here they are much to seek: for place a formal wise man at a feast, and he shall, either by his morose silence put the whole table out of humour, or by his frivolous questions disoblige and tire out all that sit near him. Call him out to dance, and he shall move no more nimbly than a camel: invite him to any public performance, and by his very looks he shall damp the mirth of all the spectators, and at last be forced, like Cato, to leave the theatre, because he cannot unstarch his gravity, nor put on a more pleasant countenance. If he engage in any discourse, he either breaks off abruptly, or tires out the patience of the whole company, if he goes on: if he have any contract, sale, or purchase to make, or any other worldly business to transact, he behaves himself more like a senseless stock than a rational man; so as he can be of no use nor advantage to himself, to his friends, or to his country; because he knows nothing how the world goes, and is wholly unacquainted with the humour of the vulgar, who cannot but hate a person so disagreeing in temper from themselves.

Now then, let everyone praise Plato's fine saying: "happy are those states where philosophers are elected kings, or kings become philosophers." Alas, nothing could be further from the truth. If we consult all historians about past ages, we will find no weaker rulers or more enslaved and miserable peoples. Such is the result wherever government falls into the hands of some learned, bookish ruler. The two Catos provide clear examples. The first threw the city into turmoil and exhausted the senate with long speeches defending himself and accusing others. The younger helped bring about the loss of the people's liberty while claiming to defend it through misguided methods. To these we may add Brutus, Cassius, the two Gracchi, and Cicero himself. Cicero was no less disastrous for Rome than his counterpart Demosthenes was for Athens. Then there is Marcus Antoninus, whom we may admit was a good emperor, though less so for being a philosopher. Certainly, his wise government did not benefit the empire half as much as his choice of successor harmed it. For he left the empire to his son Commodus, who proved so corrupt. But people commonly observe that A wise father often has a foolish son. Nature arranges matters this way to prevent wisdom's taint from passing down through families like an inherited disease. Thus Tully's son Marcus, though educated at Athens, turned out to be a dull, lifeless soul. And Socrates' children had, as someone cleverly puts it, "more of the mother than the father," meaning they were fools. Still, we could more easily forgive wise men for being so clumsy and impractical in public affairs under one condition. They would have to be less incompetent in their everyday and household business. But alas, in these matters they are just as bad, or worse. Put a solemn wise man at a feast. His sullen silence will spoil everyone's mood, or his pointless questions will annoy and exhaust everyone sitting near him. Ask him to dance, and he will move no more nimbly than a camel. Invite him to a public performance, and his very expression will spoil the fun for all the spectators. At last, like Cato, he will have to leave the theatre. For he cannot relax his stiff solemnity or put on a more cheerful face. If he joins a conversation, he either breaks off abruptly or, if he continues, exhausts everyone's patience. If he must arrange a contract, sale, purchase, or any other worldly business, he acts like a mindless block of wood. He hardly behaves like a rational man. So he can be of no use or benefit to himself, his friends, or his country. For he knows nothing of how the world works and is completely unfamiliar with ordinary people's ways. And ordinary people cannot help hating someone whose temperament differs so much from their own.

And indeed the whole proceedings of the world are nothing but one continued scene of Folly, all the actors being equally fools and madmen; and therefore if any be so pragmatically wise as to be singular, he must even turn a second Timon, or man-hater, and by retiring into some unfrequented desert, become a recluse from all mankind.

Indeed, everything in the world is one continuous performance of Folly, and all the actors are equally foolish and mad. So if anyone is so meddlesomely wise that he stands apart, he must become another Timon, a hater of humanity. He must retreat to some deserted wilderness and live apart from all mankind.

But to return to what I first proposed, what was it in the infancy of the world that made men, naturally savage, unite into civil societies, but only flattery, one of my chiefest virtues? For there is nothing else meant by the fables of Amphion and Orpheus with their harps; the first making the stones jump into a well-built wall, the other inducing the trees to pull their legs out of the ground, and dance the mor-rice after him. What was it that quieted and appeased the Roman people, when they brake out into a riot for the redress of grievances? Was it any sinewy starched oration? No, alas, it was only a silly, ridiculous story, told by Menenius Agrippa, how the other members of the body quarrelled with the belly, resolving no longer to continue her drudging caterers, till by the penance they thought thus in revenge to impose, they soon found their own strength so far diminished, that paying the cost of experiencing a mistake, they willingly returned to their respective duties. Thus when the rabble of Athens murmured at the exaction of the magistrates, Themistocles satisfied them with such another tale of the fox and the hedge-hog; the first whereof being stuck fast in a miry bog, the flies came swarming about him, and almost sucked out all his blood, the latter officiously offers his service to drive them away; no, says the fox, if these which are almost glutted be frighted off, there will come a new hungry set that will be ten times more greedy and devouring: the moral of this he meant applicable to the people, who if they had such magistrates removed as they complained of for extortion, yet their successors would certainly be worse.

But to return to my original point, what first brought naturally savage men together into civilized societies? Nothing but flattery, one of my greatest virtues. That is all the fables of Amphion and Orpheus and their harps mean. Amphion made stones leap into place to form a well-built wall. Orpheus persuaded trees to pull their legs out of the ground and follow him in a morris dance. What calmed the Roman people when they rioted to demand that their grievances be addressed? Was it some forceful, stiffly formal speech? No, alas, only a silly, ridiculous story told by Menenius Agrippa. The other parts of the body, he said, quarreled with the belly. They decided to stop slaving away to supply the belly with food. But the punishment they meant to inflict in revenge soon weakened the other parts themselves. Having paid the price of learning their mistake through experience, they willingly returned to their separate duties. Likewise, when the common people of Athens grumbled about the magistrates' demands for money, Themistocles satisfied them with another such tale. His story concerned a fox and a hedgehog. The fox was stuck fast in a muddy bog. Flies swarmed around the fox and sucked out almost all his blood. The hedgehog stepped forward, eagerly offering to drive the flies away. No, said the fox. If these almost-full flies are frightened off, a new, hungry swarm will come. The new flies will be ten times greedier and more ravenous. Themistocles meant the moral to apply to the people. If the magistrates accused of extortion were removed, their successors would certainly be worse.

With what highest advances of policy could Sertorius have kept the Barbarians so well in awe, as by a white hart, which he pretended was presented to him by Diana, and brought him intelligence of all his enemies' designs? What was Lycurgus his grand argument for demonstrating the force of education, but only the bringing out two whelps of the same bitch, differently brought up, and placing before them a dish, and a live hare; the one, that had been bred to hunting, ran after the game; while the other, whose kennel had been a kitchen, presently fell a licking the platter. Thus the before-mentioned Sertorius made his soldiers sensible that wit and contrivance would do more than bare strength, by setting a couple of men to the plucking off two horses' tails; the first pulling at all in one handful, tugged in vain; while the other, though much the weaker, snatching off one by one, soon performed his appointed task.

What brilliant political strategy could have kept the Barbarians so awed by Sertorius as his white stag did? He claimed Diana had given him the stag, and that it told him all his enemies’ plans. What was Lycurgus’s great argument for the power of education? He simply brought out two pups from the same mother, raised differently, and set down a dish and a live hare. The pup trained to hunt chased the hare. The other, raised in a kitchen, immediately began licking the dish. In the same way, Sertorius showed his soldiers that intelligence and planning could achieve more than brute strength. He set two men to pulling out the hair from two horses’ tails. The first grabbed all the hair in one handful and tugged in vain. The other, though much weaker, pulled out the hairs one by one and soon finished his assigned task.

Instances of like nature are Minos and king Numa, both which fooled the people into obedience by a mere cheat and juggle; the first by pretending he was advised by Jupiter, the latter by making the vulgar believe he had the goddess AEgeria assistant to him in all debates and transactions. And indeed it is by such wheedles that the common people are best gulled, and imposed upon.

Similar examples are Minos and king Numa, who both tricked the people into obedience through nothing but fraud and deception. Minos pretended that Jupiter advised him. Numa made the common people believe the goddess AEgeria helped him in all discussions and dealings. And indeed, such tricks are the best way to fool and deceive the common people.

For farther, what city would ever submit to the rigorous laws of Plato, to the severe injunctions of Aristotle? or the more unpracticable tenets of Socrates? No, these would have been too straight and galling, there not being allowance enough made for the infirmities of the people.

Besides, what city would ever accept Plato’s strict laws or Aristotle’s harsh commands? Or the even less practical teachings of Socrates? No, these rules would have been too restrictive and oppressive because they made too little allowance for people’s weaknesses.

To pass to another head, what was it made the Decii so forward to offer themselves up as a sacrifice for an atonement to the angry gods, to rescue and stipulate for their indebted country? What made Curtius, on a like occasion, so desperately to throw away his life, but only vainglory, that is condemned, and unanimously voted for a main branch of Folly by all wise men? What is more unreasonable and foppish (say they) than for any man, out of ambition to some office, to bow, to scrape and cringe to the gaping rabble, to purchase their favour by bribes and donatives, to have their names cried up in the streets, to be carried about as it were for a fine sight upon the shoulders of the crowd, to have their effigies carved in brass, and put up in the market place for a monument of their popularity? Add to this, the affectation of new titles and distinctive badges of honour; nay, the very deifying of such as were the most bloody tyrants. These are so extremely ridiculous, that there is need of more than one Democritus to laugh at them. And yet hence only have been occasioned those memorable achievements of heroes, that have so much employed the pens of many laborious writers.

To turn to another subject, what made the Decii so eager to sacrifice themselves to appease the angry gods? Why did they offer their lives to rescue their country and settle its debt? What made Curtius, in similar circumstances, throw his life away so recklessly? Nothing but empty glory, which all wise men condemn and unanimously declare a major branch of Folly. What could be more unreasonable and foolish, these wise men ask, than the behavior of someone seeking public office? He bows, scrapes, and cringes before the gaping mob. He buys their favor with bribes and gifts, and has his name shouted in the streets. He lets the crowd carry him on their shoulders as though he were some grand spectacle. He has bronze statues of himself set up in the marketplace as monuments to his popularity. Add to all this the craving for new titles and special badges of honor. There is even the practice of making gods of the bloodiest tyrants. Such things are so utterly ridiculous that one Democritus would not be enough to laugh at them. And yet these follies alone have inspired the memorable achievements of heroes, which have kept so many hardworking writers busy.

It is Folly—that, in a several dress, governs cities, appoints magistrates, and supports judicatures; and, in short, makes the whole course of man's life a mere children's play, and worse than push-pin diversion. The invention of all arts and sciences are likewise owing to the same cause: for what sedentary, thoughtful men would have beat their brains in the search of new and unheard-of-mysteries, if not egged on by the bubbling hopes of credit and reputation? They think a little glittering flash of vain-glory is a sufficient reward for all their sweat, and toil, and tedious drudgery, while they that are supposedly more foolish, reap advantage of the others' labours.

It is Folly, in a different disguise, that governs cities, appoints officials, and keeps the courts running. In short, Folly turns the whole course of human life into mere child's play, worse than a game of push-pin. The invention of all arts and sciences also owes its existence to Folly. For why would people who sit and think have racked their brains to discover new and unheard-of mysteries? Would they have done so if not spurred on by bubbling hopes of recognition and fame? These thinkers consider a little glittering flash of empty glory enough reward for all their sweat, toil, and tedious drudgery. Meanwhile, those supposedly more foolish reap the benefits of the thinkers' work.

And now since I have made good my title to valour and industry, what if I challenge an equal share of wisdom? How! this (you will say) is absurd and contradictory; the east and west may as soon shake hands as Folly and Wisdom be reconciled. Well, but have a little patience and I will warrant you I will make out my claim. First then, if wisdom (as must be confessed) is no more than a readiness of doing good, and an expedite method of becoming serviceable to the world, to whom does this virtue more properly belong? To the wise man, who partly out of modesty, partly out of cowardice, can proceed resolutely in no attempt; or to the fool, that goes hand over head, leaps before he looks, and so ventures through the most hazardous undertaking without any sense or prospect of danger? In the undertaking any enterprize the wise man shall run to consult with his books, and daze himself with poring upon musty authors, while the dispatchful fool shall rush blundy on, and have done the business, while the other is thinking of it. For the two greatest lets and impediments to the issue of any performance are modesty, which casts a mist before men's eyes; and fear, which makes them shrink back, and recede from any proposal: both these are banished and cashiered by Folly, and in their stead such a habit of fool-hardiness introduced, as mightily contributes to the success of all enterprizes. Farther, if you will have wisdom taken in the other sense, of being a right judgment of things, you shall see how short wise men fall of it in this acceptation.

Now that I have proved my claim to courage and hard work, why not claim an equal share of wisdom? What! You will say my claim is absurd and contradictory. East and west could shake hands as easily as Folly and Wisdom could agree. But have a little patience, and I promise to prove my claim. First, everyone must admit that wisdom means simply being ready to do good and quick to serve the world. If so, who has the better claim to wisdom? The wise man cannot act decisively in any undertaking, partly from modesty and partly from cowardice. Or is wisdom more properly the fool’s? The fool plunges headfirst, leaps before looking, and tackles the most dangerous undertaking without noticing or anticipating danger. When starting any enterprise, the wise man runs to consult his books and muddles his mind over musty authors. Meanwhile, the quick-working fool rushes blindly ahead and finishes the job while the wise man is still thinking about it. For the two greatest obstacles to getting anything done are modesty and fear. Modesty clouds people’s vision, while fear makes them shrink back and retreat from any proposal. Folly banishes and dismisses both. In their place, Folly establishes a habit of recklessness that greatly contributes to the success of all enterprises. Further, if you take wisdom in its other sense, as sound judgment, you will see how far wise men fall short.

First, then, it is certain that all things, like so many Janus's, carry a double face, or rather bear a false aspect, most things being really in themselves far different from what they are in appearance to others: so as that which at first blush proves alive, is in truth dead; and that again which appears as dead, at a nearer view proves to be alive: beautiful seems ugly, wealthy poor, scandalous is thought creditable, prosperous passes for unlucky, friendly for what is most opposite, and innocent for what is hurtful and pernicious. In short, if we change the tables, all things are found placed in a quite different posture from what just before they appeared to stand in.

First, then, all things certainly have two faces, like Janus, or rather present a false appearance. Most things are very different in themselves from how they appear to others. So what seems alive at first glance is actually dead. And what seems dead turns out, on closer inspection, to be alive. Beauty seems ugly, wealth seems poor, and disgrace is thought respectable. Prosperity passes for misfortune, friendliness for its very opposite, and innocence for something harmful and destructive. In short, if we turn things around, all things appear in a completely different light from just before.

If this seem too darkly and unintelligibly expressed, I will explain it by the familiar instance of some great king or prince, whom every one shall suppose to swim in a luxury of wealth, and to be a powerful lord and master; when, alas, on the one hand he has poverty of spirit enough to make him a mere beggar, and on the other side he is worse than a galley-slave to his own lusts and passions.

If my point seems too obscure and hard to understand, I will explain it with a familiar example. Take some great king or prince whom everyone imagines swimming in wealth and luxury, a powerful lord and master. Yet, alas, his spirit is so poor that he is no better than a beggar. And he is more enslaved to his own lusts and passions than a galley slave is to his master.

If I had a mind farther to expatiate, I could enlarge upon several instances of like nature, but this one may at present suffice.

If I wanted to say more, I could discuss several similar examples in detail. But this one may be enough for now.

Well, but what is the meaning (will some say) of all this? Why, observe the application. If any one in a play-house be so impertinent and rude as to rifle the actors of their borrowed clothes, make them lay down the character assumed, and force them to return to their naked selves, would not such a one wholly discompose and spoil the entertainment? And would he not deserve to be hissed and thrown stones at till the pragmatical fool could learn better manners? For by such a disturbance the whole scene will be altered: such as acted the men will perhaps appear to be women: he that was dressed up for a young brisk lover, will be found a rough old fellow; and he that represented a king, will remain but a mean ordinary serving-man. The laying things thus open is marring all the sport, which consists only in counterfeit and disguise. Now the world is nothing else but such another comedy, where every one in the tire-room is first habited suitably to the part he is to act; and as it is successively their turn, out they come on the stage, where he that now personates a prince, shall in another part of the same play alter his dress, and become a beggar, all things being in a mask and particular disguise, or otherwise the play could never be presented Now if there should arise any starched, formal don, that would point at the several actors, and tell how this, that seems a petty god, is in truth worse than a brute, being made captive to the tyranny of passion; that the other, who bears the character of a king, is indeed the most slavish of serving-men, in being subject to the mastership of lust and sensuality; that a third, who vaunts so much of his pedigree, is no better than a bastard for degenerating from virtue, which ought to be of greatest consideration in heraldry, and so shall go on in exposing all the rest; would not any one think such a person quite frantic, and ripe for bedlam? For as nothing is more silly than preposterous wisdom, so is there nothing more indiscreet than an unreasonable reproof. And therefore he is to be hooted out of all society that will not be pliable, conformable, and willing to suit his humour with other men's, remembering the law of clubs and meetings, that he who will not do as the rest must get him out of the company. And it is certainly one great degree of wisdom for every one to consider that he is but a man, and therefore he should not pitch his soaring thoughts beyond the level of mortality, but imp the wings of his towering ambition, and obligingly submit and condescend to the weakness of others, it being many times a piece of complaisance to go out of the road for company's sake.

Well, some will ask, what does all this mean? Look at how it applies. Suppose someone in a theater were rude and meddlesome enough to strip the actors of their borrowed costumes. Suppose he made them abandon their roles and forced them to appear as their bare selves. Wouldn’t he completely disrupt and spoil the entertainment? And wouldn’t he deserve hisses and stones until the interfering fool learned better manners? For his interference would change the whole scene. Actors playing men might turn out to be women. The lively young lover would turn out to be a rough old fellow. And the king would be nothing more than an ordinary, lowly servant. Exposing everything like this ruins all the fun, which depends entirely on pretending and disguise. Now the world is nothing but another such comedy. Everyone first receives a costume in the dressing room to suit the part he must play. Then each comes onto the stage when his turn arrives. The actor now playing a prince will change costumes and become a beggar later in the same play. Everything depends on masks and disguises. Otherwise, the play could never be performed. Now suppose some stiff, pompous scholar came along and pointed out the truth about the various actors. One man seems a minor god, yet is really worse than an animal, enslaved by the tyranny of passion. Another plays a king, yet is really the most slavish of servants, ruled by lust and sensual pleasure. A third boasts of his ancestry, yet is no better than a bastard because he has strayed from virtue. And virtue ought to count for most in judging noble descent. Suppose the scholar went on exposing all the rest in the same way. Wouldn’t everyone think him completely mad and ready for the madhouse? For nothing is sillier than wisdom applied at the wrong time. Likewise, nothing shows less judgment than an unreasonable rebuke. So anyone unwilling to adapt, fit in, and adjust his mood to other people’s should be jeered out of all society. He should remember the rule of clubs and gatherings: whoever refuses to do as the others must leave the company. And a great part of wisdom certainly lies in remembering that we are only human. We should therefore not let our thoughts soar beyond the limits of mortal life. Instead, we should clip the wings of our soaring ambition and graciously make allowances for other people’s weaknesses. For often, going out of our way for company’s sake is simply a matter of courtesy.

No (say you), this is a grand piece of Folly: true, but yet all our living is no more than such kind of fooling: which though it may seem harsh to assert, yet it is not so strange as true.

No (you say), this is a great piece of Folly. True, but all our life is nothing more than this kind of fooling. Though this claim may sound harsh, it is more true than strange.

For the better making it out it might perhaps be requisite to invoke the aid of the muses, to whom the poets devoutly apply themselves upon far more slender occasions. Come then and assist, ye Heliconian lasses, while I attempt to prove that there is no method for an arrival at wisdom, and consequently no track to the goal of happiness, without the instructions and directions of Folly.

To make my case clearer, perhaps I should call on the muses for help. Poets turn to them devoutly for far less. Come, then, and help me, Heliconian girls, as I try to prove my point. There is no way to reach wisdom, and therefore no path to happiness, without Folly’s teaching and guidance.

And here, in the first place it has been already acknowledged, that all the passions are listed under my regiment, since this is resolved to be the only distinction betwixt a wise man and a fool, that this latter is governed by passion, the other guided by reason: and therefore the Stoics look upon passions no other than as the infection and malady of the soul that disorders the constitution of the whole man, and by putting the spirits into a feverish ferment many times occasion some mortal distemper. And yet these, however decried, are not only our tutors to instruct us towards the attainment of wisdom, but even bolden us likewise, and spur us on to a quicker dispatch of all our undertakings. This, I suppose, will be stomached by the stoical Seneca, who pretends that the only emblem of wisdom is the man without passion; whereas the supposing any person to be so, is perfectly to unman him, or else transforming him into some fabulous deity that never was, nor ever will be; nay, to speak more plain, it is but the making him a mere statue, immoveable, senseless, and altogether inactive. And if this be their wise man, let them take him to themselves, and remove him into Plato's commonwealth, the new Atlantis, or some other-like fairy land. For who would not hate and avoid such a person as should be deaf to all the dictates of common sense? that should have no more power of love or pity than a block or stone, that remains heedless of all dangers? that thinks he can never mistake, but can foresee all contingencies at the greatest distance, and make provision for the worst presages? that feeds upon himself and his own thoughts, that monopolises health, wealth, power, dignity, and all to himself? that loves no man, nor is beloved of any? that has the impudence to tax even divine providence of ill contrivance, and proudly grudges, nay, tramples under foot all other men's reputation; and this is he that is the Stoic's complete wise man. But prithee what city would choose such a magistrate? what army would be willing to serve under such a commander? or what woman would be content with such a do-little husband? who would invite such a guest? or what servant would be retained by such a master? The most illiterate mechanic would in all respects be a more acceptable man, who would be frolicsome with his wife, free with his friends, jovial at a feast, pliable in converse, and obliging to all company. But I am tired out with this part of my subject, and so must pass to some other topics.

First, we have already agreed that all the passions serve under my command. For the only distinction between a wise man and a fool is this: passion rules the fool, while reason guides the wise man. So the Stoics see passions as nothing but infections and diseases of the soul. They upset the whole person’s constitution and send his vital spirits into a fever, often causing some fatal illness. Yet these much-criticized passions not only teach us how to reach wisdom. They also give us courage and spur us to finish all our undertakings more quickly. I suppose the Stoic Seneca will find this hard to swallow. He claims that only a man without passion represents wisdom. But to imagine anyone without passion is to strip him of his humanity. Or else it turns him into some mythical god who never existed and never will. To speak more plainly, it makes him a mere statue, motionless, unfeeling, and entirely inactive. And if this is their wise man, let them keep him. Let them send him to Plato's commonwealth, the new Atlantis, or some other such fairyland. For who would not hate and avoid a man deaf to everything common sense tells him? Who could love or pity no more than a block of wood or a stone, and who disregards all dangers? Who thinks he can never be mistaken? Who believes he can foresee every possible event far in advance and prepare for the worst that the signs predict? Who feeds on himself and his own thoughts? Who claims health, wealth, power, dignity, and everything else for himself alone? Who loves no one and is loved by no one? Who has the impudence to accuse even divine providence of poor planning? Who arrogantly resents, indeed tramples on, everyone else's reputation? And this is the Stoics' perfect wise man. But tell me, what city would choose such a magistrate? What army would willingly serve under such a commander? What woman would be content with such a do-nothing husband? Who would invite such a guest? What servant would stay with such a master? The most uneducated craftsman would be more welcome in every way. He would be playful with his wife, open with his friends, and cheerful at a feast. He would be easygoing in conversation and considerate toward everyone present. But I am tired of this part of my subject, so I must move on to other topics.

ENLARGE

ENLARGE

And now were any one placed on that tower, from whence Jove is fancied by the poets to survey the world, he would all around discern how many grievances and calamities our whole life is on every side encompassed with: how unclean our birth, how troublesome our tendance in the cradle, how liable our childhood is to a thousand misfortunes, how toilsome and full of drudgery our riper years, how heavy and uncomfortable our old age, and lastly, how unwelcome the unavoidableness of death. Farther, in every course of life how many wracks there may be of torturing diseases, how many unhappy accidents may casually occur, how many unexpected disasters may arise, and what strange alterations may one moment produce? Not to mention such miseries as men are mutually the cause of, as poverty, imprisonment, slander, reproach, revenge, treachery, malice, cousenage, deceit, and so many more, as to reckon them all would be as puzzling arithmetic as the numbering of the sands.

Now suppose someone stood on the tower from which, as poets imagine, Jove surveys the world. Looking around, that person would see how many hardships and disasters surround our entire lives on every side. How unclean our birth is, how troublesome our care in the cradle, how vulnerable childhood is to a thousand misfortunes. How full of toil and drudgery our adult years are, how burdensome and comfortless our old age. And finally, how unwelcome the certainty of death is. Moreover, whatever our way of life, how often may agonizing diseases torment us? How many unhappy accidents may happen, how many unexpected disasters may arise? And what strange changes may a single moment bring? Not to mention the miseries people cause one another: poverty, imprisonment, slander, insults, revenge, treachery, malice, swindling, deceit. There are so many more that counting them all would be as bewildering as counting the grains of sand.

How mankind became environed with such hard circumstances, or what deity imposed these plagues, as a penance on rebellious mortals, I am not now at leisure to enquire: but whoever seriously takes them into consideration must needs commend the valour of the Milesian virgins, who voluntarily killed themselves to get rid of a troublesome world: and how many wise men have taken the same course of becoming their own executioners; among whom, not to mention Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, and other heroes, the self-denying Chiron is never enough to be commended; who, when he was offered by Apollo the privilege of being exempted from death, and living on to the world's end, he refused the enticing proposal, as deservedly thinking it a punishment rather than a reward.

I have no time now to ask how humanity came to face such hardships. Nor can I ask what deity imposed these plagues as punishment for rebellious mortals. But anyone who seriously considers these hardships must praise the courage of the Milesian virgins. They willingly killed themselves to escape a troublesome world. And how many wise men have likewise become their own executioners! I need hardly mention Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, and other heroes. But among them, the self-denying Chiron can never be praised enough. Apollo offered him freedom from death and the chance to live until the world's end. Chiron refused the tempting offer, rightly considering such a life a punishment rather than a reward.

But if all were thus wise you see how soon the world would be unpeopled, and what need there would be of a second Prometheus, to plaister up the decayed image of mankind. I therefore come and stand in this gap of danger, and prevent farther mischief; partly by ignorance, partly by inadvertence; by the oblivion of whatever would be grating to remember, and the hopes of whatever may be grateful to expect, together palliating all griefs with an intermixture of pleasure; whereby I make men so far from being weary of their lives, that when their thread is spun to its full length, they are yet unwilling to die, and mighty hardly brought to take their last farewell of their friends. Thus some decrepit old fellows, that look as hollow as the grave into which they are falling, that rattle in the throat at every word they speak, that can eat no meat but what is tender enough to suck, that have more hair on their beard than they have on their head, and go stooping toward the dust they must shortly return to; whose skin seems already drest into parchment, and their bones already dried to a skeleton; these shadows of men shall be wonderful ambitious of living longer, and therefore fence off the attacks of death with all imaginable sleights and impostures; one shall new dye his grey hairs, for fear their colour should betray his age; another shall spruce himself up in a light periwig; a third shall repair the loss of his teeth with an ivory set; and a fourth perhaps shall fall deeply in love with a young girl, and accordingly court her with as much of gaiety and briskness as the liveliest spark in the whole town: and we cannot but know, that for an old man to marry a young wife without a portion, to be a cooler to other men's lust, is grown so common, that it is become the a-la-mode of the times. And what is yet more comical, you shall have some wrinkled old women, whose very looks are a sufficient antidote to lechery, that shall be canting out, Ah, life is a sweet thing, and so run a caterwauling, and hire some strong-backed stallions to recover their almost lost sense of feeling; and to set themselves off the better, they shall paint and daub their faces, always stand a tricking up themselves at their looking-glass, go naked-necked, bare-breasted, be tickled at a smutty jest, dance among the young girls, write love-letters, and do all the other little knacks of decoying hot-blooded suitors; and in the meanwhile, however they are laughed at, they enjoy themselves to the full, live up to their hearts' desire, and want for nothing that may complete their happiness. As for those that think them herein so ridiculous, I would have them give an ingenuous answer to this one query, whether if folly or hanging were left to their choice, they had not much rather live like fools, than die like dogs? But what matter is it if these things are resented by the vulgar? Their ill word is no injury to fools, who are either altogether insensible of any affront, or at least lay it not much to heart. If they were knocked on the head, or had their brains dashed out, they would have some cause to complain; but alas, slander, calumny, and disgrace, are no other way injurious than as they are interpreted; nor otherwise evil, than as they are thought to be so: what harm is it then if all persons deride and scoff you, if you bear but up in your own thoughts, and be yourself thoroughly conceited of your deserts? And prithee, why should it be thought any scandal to be a fool, since the being so is one part of our nature and essence; and as so, our not being wise can no more reasonably be imputed as a fault, than it would be proper to laugh at a man because he cannot fly in the air like birds and fowls; because he goes not on all four as beasts of the field; because he does not wear a pair of visible horns as a crest on his forehead, like bulls or stags: by the same figure we may call a horse unhappy, because he was never taught his grammar; and an ox miserable, for that he never learnt to fence: but sure as a horse for not knowing a letter is nevertheless valuable, so a man, for being a fool, is never the more unfortunate, it being by nature and providence so ordained for each.

But if everyone were so wise, you can see how soon the world would lose its people. We would need a second Prometheus to patch up the crumbling image of mankind. So I step into this dangerous gap and prevent further harm. I do this partly through ignorance and partly through carelessness. I help people forget whatever would hurt to remember and hope for whatever would please them. And I soften every sorrow by mixing in some pleasure. As a result, I keep people far from growing tired of life. Even when their thread has been spun to its full length, they are still unwilling to die. They can hardly bring themselves to say a final goodbye to their friends. Consider some worn-out old men who look as hollow as the graves they are falling into. Their throats rattle with every word they speak. They can eat nothing unless it is soft enough to suck. They have more hair on their chins than on their heads. They stoop toward the dust they must soon return to. Their skin already seems turned to parchment, and their bones seem dried into skeletons. Yet these shadows of men are wonderfully eager to live longer. So they fend off death with every imaginable trick and deception. One dyes his gray hair again, afraid its color will betray his age. Another smartens himself up with a jaunty wig. A third replaces his missing teeth with an ivory set. A fourth perhaps falls deeply in love with a young girl. He courts her with as much cheer and energy as the liveliest young rake in town. And we all know how common it has become for an old man to marry a young wife without a dowry. He provides an outlet for other men's lust. Such marriages have become the fashion of the times. Even more comically, some wrinkled old women behave much the same way. Their looks alone are enough to cure lust. Yet they keep singing out, Ah, life is sweet, and go prowling for lovers. They hire strong-backed stallions to revive their almost vanished sensations. To make themselves more attractive, they paint and plaster their faces with makeup. They are forever dressing themselves up before the mirror. They expose their necks and breasts, delight in dirty jokes, dance among young girls, and write love letters. They practice all the other little tricks for luring hot-blooded suitors. Meanwhile, however much people laugh at them, these women enjoy themselves to the full. They live as their hearts desire and lack nothing that could complete their happiness. As for those who find such people ridiculous, I would like an honest answer to one question. If you had to choose between folly and hanging, wouldn't you much rather live like fools than die like dogs? But what does it matter if ordinary people disapprove of such behavior? Their harsh words do fools no harm. Fools either feel no insult at all or, at least, take little of it to heart. If someone struck them on the head or dashed their brains out, they would have some cause to complain. But slander, false accusations, and disgrace hurt only through the way people interpret them. They are bad only because people think them bad. So what harm is there if everyone mocks and jeers at you? You need only keep your spirits up and remain thoroughly convinced of your own worth. And tell me, why should being a fool be considered disgraceful? Folly is part of our nature and our very being. So blaming us for lacking wisdom is no more reasonable than laughing at a man because he cannot fly like birds. You might as well laugh because he does not walk on all fours like animals in the fields. Or because he has no visible pair of horns crowning his forehead, like bulls or stags. By the same reasoning, we might call a horse unhappy because nobody ever taught him grammar. We might call an ox miserable because he never learned to fence. But surely a horse is still valuable even though he cannot recognize a single letter. In the same way, a man is no more unfortunate for being a fool. Nature and providence have appointed these conditions to each.

Ay, but (say our patrons of wisdom) the knowledge of arts and sciences is purposely attainable by men, that the defect of natural parts may be supplied by the help of acquired: as if it were probable that nature, which had been so exact and curious in the mechanism of flowers, herbs, and flies, should have bungled most in her masterpiece, and made man as it were by halves, to be afterward polished and refined by his own industry, in the attainment of such sciences as the Egyptians feigned were invented by their god Theuth, as a sure plague and punishment to mankind, being so far from augmenting their happiness, that they do not answer that end they were first designed for, which was the improvement of memory, as Plato in his Phaedrus does wittily observe.

Yes, but (say our champions of wisdom) men can learn the arts and sciences for a reason. Acquired knowledge can make up for shortcomings in their natural abilities. As if nature, so precise and painstaking in making flowers, herbs, and flies, could have botched her masterpiece most! As if she had left man half-finished, to polish and refine himself through his own efforts at learning these sciences! The Egyptians claimed that their god Theuth invented these sciences as a certain plague and punishment for mankind. Far from adding to human happiness, these sciences do not even serve their original purpose: improving memory. Plato makes this witty observation in his Phaedrus.

In the first golden age of the world there was no need of these perplexities; there was then no other sort of learning but what was naturally collected from every man's common sense, improved by an easy experience. What use could there have been of grammar, when all men spoke the same mother-tongue, and aimed at no higher pitch of oratory, than barely to be understood by each other? What need of logic, when they were too wise to enter into any dispute? Or what occasion for rhetoric, where no difference arose to require any laborious decision? And as little reason had they to be tied up by any laws, since the dictates of nature and common morality were restraint and obligation sufficient: and as to all the mysteries of providence, they made them rather the object of their wonder, than their curiosity; and therefore were not so presumptuous as to dive into the depths of nature, to labour for the solving all phenomena in astronomy, or to wrack their brains in the splitting of entities, and unfolding the nicest speculations, judging it a crime for any man to aim at what is put beyond the reach of his shallow apprehension.

In the world’s first golden age, there was no need for these complications. The only learning came naturally from everyone’s common sense, developed through simple experience. What use was grammar, when everyone spoke the same native language and aimed only to make themselves understood? What need was there for logic, when people were too wise to get into any dispute? Or for rhetoric, when no disagreements arose that needed painstaking settlement? People had just as little reason to be bound by laws. Nature and ordinary morality provided enough restraint and guidance. As for all the mysteries of providence, people regarded them with wonder rather than curiosity. So people were not presumptuous enough to probe nature’s depths or struggle to explain every phenomenon in astronomy. Nor did people rack their brains drawing fine distinctions about existence and unraveling the most subtle theories. They considered it a crime for anyone to reach for what lay beyond their limited understanding.

Thus was ignorance, in the infancy of the world, as much the parent of happiness as it has been since of devotion: but as soon as the golden age began by degrees to degenerate into more drossy metals, then were arts likewise invented; yet at first but few in number, and those rarely understood, till in farther process of time the superstition of the Chaldeans, and the curiosity of the Grecians, spawned so many subtleties, that now it is scarce the work of an age to be thoroughly acquainted with all the criticisms in grammar only. And among all the several Arts, those are proportionably most esteemed that come nearest to weakness and folly. For thus divines may bite their nails, and naturalists may blow their fingers, astrologers may know their own fortune is to be poor, and the logician may shut his fist and grasp the wind.

So, in the world’s infancy, ignorance produced happiness just as much as it has since produced devotion. But the golden age gradually declined into ages of baser metals, and the arts began to be invented. At first, these arts were few, and few people understood them. Over time, however, the superstition of the Chaldeans and the curiosity of the Grecians bred countless subtleties. Now, even a lifetime is hardly enough to master all the finer points of grammar alone. And of all the arts, those closest to weakness and folly are valued most highly. So theologians may bite their nails, and students of nature may blow on their fingers. Astrologers may know that their own fate is poverty, and the logician may close his fist and grasp the wind.

And in this profession, those that have most confidence, though the least skill, shall be sure of the greatest custom; and indeed this whole art as it is now practised, is but one incorporated compound of craft and imposture.

And in this profession, those with the most confidence, though the least skill, are sure to attract the most customers. Indeed, the whole practice as it stands today is nothing but a blend of trickery and fraud.

Next to the physician comes (he, who perhaps will commence a suit with me for not being placed before him, I mean) the lawyer, who is so silly as to be ignoramus to a proverb, and yet by such are all difficulties resolved, all controversies determined, and all affairs managed so much to their own advantage, that they get those estates to themselves which they are employed to recover for their clients: while the poor divine in the mean time shall have the lice crawl upon his thread-bare gown, before, by all his sweat and drudgery, he can get money enough to purchase a new one. As those arts therefore are most advantageous to their respective professors which are farthest distant from wisdom, so are those persons incomparably most happy that have least to do with any at all, but jog on in the common road of nature, which will never mislead us, except we voluntarily leap over those boundaries which she has cautiously set to our finite beings. Nature glitters most in her own plain, homely garb, and then gives the greatest lustre when she is unsullied from all artificial garnish.

Next after the physician comes the lawyer. (He may perhaps sue me for not placing him first.) The lawyer is so foolish that he is a proverbial ignoramus. Yet such men resolve all difficulties, settle all disputes, and manage all affairs. They do so to such personal advantage that they acquire the estates they were hired to recover for their clients. Meanwhile, the poor theologian must let lice crawl over his threadbare gown. All his sweat and toil cannot earn him enough to buy a new one before then. Just as the professions furthest from wisdom bring their practitioners the greatest rewards, so certain people are incomparably happier. These are the people who have least to do with any profession and simply follow nature’s ordinary path. Nature will never lead us astray unless we willingly cross the boundaries she has carefully set for our limited beings. Nature shines brightest in her own plain, simple clothes. Her splendor is greatest when no artificial decoration spoils her.

Thus if we enquire into the state of all dumb creatures, we shall find those fare best that are left to nature's conduct: as to instance in bees, what is more to be admired than the industry and contrivance of these little animals?

So if we examine the lives of all animals, we will find that those guided by nature fare best. Take bees, for example. What could be more admirable than the hard work and ingenuity of these little creatures?

What architect could ever form so curious a structure as they give a model of in their inimitable combs? What kingdom can be governed with better discipline than they exactly observe in their respective hives? While the horse, by turning a rebel to nature, and becoming a slave to man, undergoes the worst of tyranny: he is sometimes spurred on to battle so long till he draw his guts after him for trapping, and at last falls down, and bites the ground instead of grass; not to mention the penalty of his jaws being curbed, his tail docked, his back wrung, his sides spur-galled, his close imprisonment in a stable, his rapshin and fetters when he runs a grass, and a great many other plagues, which he might have avoided, if he had kept to that first station of freedom which nature placed him in. How much more desirable is the unconfined range of flies and birds, who living by instinct, would want nothing to complete their happiness, if some well-employed Domitian would not persecute the former, nor the sly fowler lay snares and gins for the entrapping of the other? And if young birds, before their unfledged wings can carry them from their nests, are caught, and pent up in a cage, for the being taught to sing, or whistle, all their new tunes make not half so sweet music as their wild notes, and natural melody: so much does that which is but rough-drawn by nature surpass and excel all the additional paint and varnish of art And we cannot sure but commend and admire that Pythagorean cock, which (as Lucian relates) had been successively a man, a woman, a prince, a subject, a fish, a horse, and a frog; after all his experience, he summed up his judgment in this censure, that man was the most wretched and deplorable of all creatures, all other patiently grazing within the enclosures of nature, while man only broke out, and strayed beyond those safer limits, which he was justly confined to. And Gryllus is to be adjudged wiser than the much-counselling Ulysses, in as much as when by the enchantment of Circe he had been turned into a hog, he would not lay down his swinishness, nor forsake his beloved sty, to run the peril of a hazardous voyage. For a farther confirmation whereof I have the authority of Homer, that captain of all poetry, who, as he gives to mankind in general, the epithet of wretched and unhappy, so he bestows in particular upon Ulysses the title of miserable, which he never attributes to Paris, Ajax, Achilles, or any other of the commanders; and that for this reason, because Ulysses was more crafty, cautious, and wise, than any of the rest.

What architect could ever build anything as intricate as the bees’ matchless honeycombs? What kingdom is governed with better discipline than the bees maintain in their hives? The horse, meanwhile, rebels against nature and becomes a slave to man, suffering the worst tyranny. Sometimes he is spurred into battle until his guts trail behind him like ornamental harness. At last he falls and bites the ground instead of grass. Then there is the bit restraining his jaws, his shortened tail, his chafed back, and his spur-torn sides. There is his close confinement in a stable, his tether and shackles when he goes out to graze. And there are many other torments besides. He could have avoided them all if he had kept the original freedom nature gave him. How much more desirable is the unrestricted freedom of flies and birds! Living by instinct, they would lack nothing needed for happiness, if only some Domitian had no better occupation than persecuting flies. And if only cunning birdcatchers did not set traps and snares for birds! Young birds may be caught before their undeveloped wings can carry them from their nests. They are then shut in cages to be taught to sing or whistle. But all their new tunes are not half as sweet as their wild notes and natural melodies. So far does even nature’s rough sketch surpass all the paint and polish that art can add. And surely we must praise and admire that Pythagorean cock described by Lucian. He had been, in turn, a man, a woman, a prince, a subject, a fish, a horse, and a frog. After all that experience, he concluded that man was the most wretched and miserable of all creatures. All the others grazed contentedly within nature’s boundaries. Man alone broke out and wandered beyond those safer limits, within which he was rightly confined. And Gryllus must be judged wiser than Ulysses, with all his counsel. Circe’s magic had turned Gryllus into a pig. Yet he refused to give up being a pig or leave his beloved sty to risk a dangerous voyage. For further confirmation, I have the authority of Homer, that commander of all poetry. Homer calls mankind in general wretched and unhappy. But he singles out Ulysses for the title of miserable. He never gives that title to Paris, Ajax, Achilles, or any other commander. His reason is that Ulysses was more crafty, cautious, and wise than all the rest.

As those therefore fall shortest of happiness that reach highest at wisdom, meeting with the greater repulse for soaring beyond the boundaries of their nature, and without remembering themselves to be but men, like the fallen angels, daring them to vie with Omnipotence, and giant-like scale heaven with the engines of their own brain; so are those most exalted in the road of bliss that degenerate nearest into brutes, and quietly divest themselves of all use and exercise of reason.

Those who aim highest at wisdom therefore fall furthest short of happiness. They suffer a greater rebuff for soaring beyond the limits of their nature and forgetting they are only human. Like the fallen angels, they dare to compete with Omnipotence. Like giants, they try to scale heaven using devices built by their own minds. By contrast, those who sink closest to the level of beasts rise highest on the path to bliss. They quietly give up all use and exercise of reason.

And this we can prove by a familiar instance. As namely, can there be any one sort of men that enjoy themselves better than those which we call idiots, changelings, fools and naturals? It may perhaps sound harsh, but upon due consideration it will be found abundantly true, that these persons in all circumstances fare best, and live most comfortably; as first, they are void of all fear, which is a very great privilege to be exempted from; they are troubled with no remorse, nor pricks of conscience; they are not frighted with any bugbear stories of another world; they startle not at the fancied appearance of ghosts, or apparitions; they are not wracked with the dread of impending mischiefs, nor bandied with the hopes of any expected enjoyments: in short, they are unassaulted by all those legions of cares that war against the quiet of rational souls; they are ashamed of nothing, fear no man, banish the uneasiness of ambition, envy, and love; and to add the reversion of a future happiness to the enjoyment of a present one, they have no sin neither to answer for; divines unanimously maintaining, that a gross and unavoidable ignorance does not only extenuate and abate from the aggravation, but wholly expiate the guilt of any immorality.

We can prove this with a familiar example. Does any group enjoy life more than those we call idiots, changelings, fools, and simpletons? This may sound harsh. But on careful reflection, we find it abundantly true that these people fare best and live most comfortably in all circumstances. First, they have no fear at all, and freedom from fear is a great privilege. They suffer no remorse or pangs of conscience. No frightening tales of the next world alarm them. They do not start at imagined ghosts or apparitions. They are neither tormented by fear of approaching troubles nor tossed about by hopes of future pleasures. In short, none of the armies of worry that attack the peace of rational minds can touch them. They are ashamed of nothing and afraid of no one. They are free from the distress of ambition, envy, and love. And besides enjoying happiness now, they have happiness to come, since they have no sins to answer for either. Theologians unanimously maintain that profound, unavoidable ignorance does more than lessen the seriousness of wrongdoing. It completely removes the guilt of any immoral act.

Come now then as many of you as challenge the respect of being accounted wise, ingenuously confess how many insurrections of rebellious thoughts, and pangs of a labouring mind, ye are perpetually thrown and tortured with; reckon up all those inconveniences that you are unavoidably subject to, and then tell me whether fools, by being exempted from all these embroilments, are not infinitely more free and happy than yourselves? Add to this, that fools do not barely laugh, and sing, and play the good-fellow alone to themselves: but as it is the nature of good to be communicative, so they impart their mirth to others, by making sport for the whole company they are at any time engaged in, as if providence purposely designed them for an antidote to melancholy: whereby they make all persons so fond of their society, that they are welcomed to all places, hugged, caressed, and defended, a liberty given them of saying or doing anything; so well beloved, that none dares to offer them the least injury; nay, the most ravenous beasts of prey will pass them by untouched, as if by instinct they were warned that such innocence ought to receive no hurt. Farther, their converse is so acceptable in the court of princes, that few kings will banquet, walk, or take any other diversion, without their attendance; nay, and had much rather have their company, than that of their gravest counsellors, whom they maintain more for fashion-sake than good-will; nor is it so strange that these fools should be preferred before graver politicians, since these last, by their harsh, sour advice, and ill-timing the truth, are fit only to put a prince out of the humour, while the others laugh, and talk, and joke, without any danger of disobliging.

Come now, all of you who claim the respect due to the wise, and confess honestly. How many uprisings of rebellious thoughts and pangs of a troubled mind constantly torment you? Count all the troubles you cannot escape. Then tell me, are fools not infinitely freer and happier than you, since they are spared all these struggles? Besides, fools do not keep their laughter, songs, and good company to themselves. Just as goodness naturally spreads, fools share their cheer by entertaining everyone in whatever company they find themselves. It is as if providence had deliberately designed fools as a cure for melancholy. In this way, fools make everyone so fond of their company that they are welcomed everywhere, embraced, cherished, and protected. They are allowed to say or do anything. Fools are so dearly loved that no one dares to cause them the slightest harm. Even the most ravenous beasts of prey pass them by untouched. It is as if instinct warned those beasts that such innocence must not be harmed. Furthermore, fools are such welcome company at royal courts that few kings feast, walk, or enjoy other amusements without them. Indeed, kings much prefer fools to their most serious advisers, whom they keep more for appearances than from affection. Nor is it so strange that fools should be preferred to serious statesmen. With their harsh, sour advice and badly timed truths, these statesmen are good for nothing but spoiling a prince's mood. Fools, meanwhile, laugh, chatter, and joke without any danger of giving offense.

It is one farther very commendable property of fools, that they always speak the truth, than which there is nothing more noble and heroical. For so, though Plato relate it as a sentence of Alcibiades, that in the sea of drunkenness truth swims uppermost, and so wine is the only teller of truth, yet this character may more justly be assumed by me, as I can make good from the authority of Euripides, who lays down this as an axiom uwpa uwpos heyei. Children and fools always speak the truth. Whatever the fool has in his heart he betrays it in his face; or what is more notifying, discovers it by his words: while the wise man, as Euripides observes, carries a double tongue; the one to speak what may be said, the other what ought to be; the one what truth, the other what the time requires: whereby he can in a trice so alter his judgment, as to prove that to be now white, which he had just before swore to be black; like the satyr at his porridge, blowing hot and cold at the same breath; in his lips professing one thing, when in his heart he means another.

Fools have another highly admirable quality: they always speak the truth. Nothing is more noble or heroic. Plato reports a saying of Alcibiades that truth floats to the top in the sea of drunkenness. By that account, wine alone tells the truth. Yet I can more rightly claim that distinction, with support from Euripides, who states this principle: uwpa uwpos heyei. Children and fools always speak the truth. Whatever a fool has in his heart shows on his face. Or, more plainly still, he reveals his thoughts in his words. The wise man, however, as Euripides observes, has two tongues. One says what may be said, the other what ought to be said. One tells the truth, the other says what the moment demands. In this way, he can change his judgment in an instant. He can prove something white after swearing just moments before that it was black. He is like the satyr with his porridge, blowing hot and cold with the same breath. His lips declare one thing while his heart means another.

Furthermore, princes in their greatest splendour seem upon this account unhappy, in that they miss the advantage of being told the truth, and are shammed off by a parcel of insinuating courtiers, that acquit themselves as flatterers more than as friends. But some will perchance object, that princes do not love to hear the truth, and therefore wise men must be very cautious how they behave themselves before them, lest they should take too great a liberty in speaking what is true, rather than what is acceptable. This must be confessed, truth indeed is seldom palatable to the ears of kings; yet fools have so great a privilege as to have free leave, not only to speak bare truths, but the most bitter ones too; so as the same reproof, which had it come from the mouth of a wise man would have cost him his head, being blurted out by a fool, is not only pardoned, but well taken, and rewarded. For truth has naturally a mixture of pleasure, if it carry with it nothing of offence to the person whom it is applied to; and the happy knack of ordering it so is bestowed only on fools. 'Tis for the same reason that this sort of men are more fondly beloved by women, who like their tumbling them about, and playing with them, though never so boisterously; pretending to take that only in jest, which they would have to be meant in earnest, as that sex is very ingenious in palliating, and dissembling the bent of their wanton inclinations.

Furthermore, princes at the height of their glory seem unfortunate in one respect: they miss the benefit of hearing the truth. Instead, a crowd of scheming courtiers deceives them, acting more like flatterers than friends. But some may object that princes do not like hearing the truth. Wise men must therefore be very careful around princes. They must avoid taking too much freedom to say what is true rather than what is welcome. We must admit that truth is indeed seldom pleasing to kings. Yet fools enjoy such privilege that they may freely speak not only plain truths, but the bitterest ones too. A rebuke from a wise man might cost him his head. But when a fool blurts out the same rebuke, the king not only forgives it, but welcomes and rewards it. For truth naturally brings some pleasure, provided it gives no offense to the person hearing it. Only fools have the happy knack of presenting truth that way. For the same reason, women are more fond of these fools. Women enjoy being tossed about and played with by them, however roughly. They pretend to treat as a joke what they would like to be meant seriously. For women are very clever at excusing and disguising their lustful desires.

But to return. An additional happiness of these fools appears farther in this, that when they have run merrily on to their last stage of life, they neither find any fear nor feel any pain to die, but march contentedly to the other world, where their company sure must be as acceptable as it was here upon earth.

But to return to the point. These fools have another source of happiness. After moving cheerfully through life to its final stage, they face death without fear or pain. Instead, they march contentedly into the next world. Surely their company must be as welcome there as it was here on earth.

Let us draw now a comparison between the condition of a fool and that of a wise man, and see how infinitely the one outweighs the other.

Now let's compare a fool's life with a wise man's. Let's see how infinitely better one is than the other.

Give me any instance then of a man as wise as you can fancy him possible to be, that has spent all his younger years in poring upon books, and trudging after learning, in the pursuit whereof he squanders away the pleasantest time of his life in watching, sweat, and fasting; and in his latter days he never tastes one mouthful of delight, but is always stingy, poor, dejected, melancholy, burthensome to himself, and unwelcome to others, pale, lean, thin-jawed, sickly, contracting by his sedentariness such hurtful distempers as bring him to an untimely death, like roses plucked before they shatter. Thus have you, the draught of a wise man's happiness, more the object of a commiserating pity, than of an ambitioning envy.

Show me, then, a man as wise as you can possibly imagine. He has spent all his youth poring over books and laboring to gain knowledge. In pursuit of learning, he wastes the most pleasant years of his life in sleepless nights, sweat, and fasting. And in his later years, he never tastes a single bit of pleasure. Instead, he is always stingy, poor, dejected, and miserable, a burden to himself and unwelcome to others. He is pale, lean, hollow-cheeked, and sickly. His sedentary life brings on harmful diseases that send him to an early grave, like roses picked before their petals fall. There you have a picture of the wise man's happiness, more deserving of compassionate pity than envious ambition.

But now again come the croaking Stoics, and tell me in mood and figure, that nothing is more miserable than the being mad: but the being a fool is the being mad, therefore there is nothing more miserable than the being a fool. Alas, this is but a fallacy, the discovery whereof solves the force of the whole syllogism. Well then, they argue subtlety, 'tis true; but as Socrates in Plato makes two Venuses and two Cupids, and shews how their actions and properties ought not to be confounded; so these disputants, if they had not been mad themselves, should have distinguished between a double madness in others: and there is certainly a great difference in the nature as well as in the degrees of them, and they are not both equally scandalous: for Horace seems to take delight in one sort, when he says:—

But here come those croaking Stoics again, laying out their formal logic for me. Nothing, they say, is more miserable than being mad. But being a fool means being mad. Therefore, nothing is more miserable than being a fool. Alas, this argument rests on a fallacy. Expose the fallacy, and the whole argument loses its force. Well, their reasoning is clever, certainly. But in Plato, Socrates describes two Venuses and two Cupids, showing that their actions and qualities must not be confused. In the same way, these debaters should have distinguished between two kinds of madness in others, unless they were mad themselves. These kinds certainly differ greatly, both in nature and in degree, and are not equally shameful. For Horace seems to delight in one kind when he says:

Does welcome frenzy make me thus mistake?

Is welcome madness making me get things wrong like this?

And Plato in his Phaedon ranks the madness of poets, of prophets, and of lovers among those properties which conduce to a happy life. And Virgil, in the sixth AEneid, gives this epithet to his industrious AEneas:—

And Plato, in his Phaedon, counts the madness of poets, prophets, and lovers among the qualities that promote a happy life. And Virgil, in the sixth book of the AEneid, describes his hardworking AEneas with these words:

If you will proceed to these your mad attempts.

If you insist on going ahead with these mad attempts of yours.

And indeed there is a two-fold sort of madness; the one that which the furies bring from hell; those that are herewith possessed are hurried on to wars and contentions, by an inexhaustible thirst of power and riches, inflamed to some infamous and unlawful lust, enraged to act the parricide, seduced to become guilty of incest, sacrilege, or some other of those crimson-dyed crimes; or, finally, to be so pricked in conscience as to be lashed and stung with the whips and snakes of grief and remorse. But there is another sort of madness that proceeds from Folly, so far from being any way injurious or distasteful that it is thoroughly good and desirable; and this happens when by a harmless mistake in the judgment of things the mind is freed from those cares which would otherwise gratingly afflict it, and smoothed over with a content and satisfaction it could not under other circumstances so happily enjoy. And this is that comfortable apathy or insensibleness which Cicero, in an epistle to his friend Atticus, wishes himself master of, that he might the less take to heart those insufferable outrages committed by the tyrannizing triumvirate, Lepidus, Antonius, and Augustus. That Grecian likewise had a happy time of it, who was so frantic as to sit a whole day in the empty theatre laughing, shouting, and clapping his hands, as if he had really seen some pathetic tragedy acted to the life, when indeed all was no more than the strength of imagination, and the efforts of delusion, while in all other respects the same person behaved himself very discreetly was,

There are indeed two kinds of madness. One is the madness the furies bring from hell. Those possessed by it are driven into wars and conflicts by an endless thirst for power and riches. They burn with some shameful and unlawful lust, or rage drives them to murder a parent. They are led into incest, sacrilege, or some other bloodstained crime. Or, finally, their consciences torment them with the whips and snakes of grief and remorse. But another kind of madness comes from Folly. Far from being harmful or unpleasant in any way, this madness is entirely good and desirable. It arises when a harmless error in judgment frees the mind from worries that would otherwise painfully torment it. Instead, the mind enjoys a peace and satisfaction it could not otherwise find so happily. This is the comforting indifference or numbness Cicero wishes for in a letter to his friend Atticus. He hopes to take less to heart the unbearable outrages committed by the tyrannical triumvirate, Lepidus, Antonius, and Augustus. That Greek man also had a happy time of it. His madness led him to spend a whole day in an empty theatre, laughing, shouting, and clapping his hands. He behaved as if he were watching a moving tragedy performed with perfect realism. In fact, the whole performance existed only in his imagination and delusion. Yet in every other respect, the same man behaved very sensibly.

And when by a course of physic he was recovered from this frenzy, he looked upon his cure so far from a kindness, that he thus reasons the case with his friends:

And when medical treatment cured him of his madness, he saw the cure as anything but a kindness. So he argued his case with his friends as follows:

And certainly they were the more mad of the two who endeavoured to bereave him of so pleasing a delirium, and recall all the aches of his head by dispelling the mists of his brain.

And certainly, those who tried to rob him of such a pleasant delusion were madder than he was. They tried to bring back all his headaches by clearing the fog from his mind.

ENLARGE

ENLARGE

I have not yet determined whether it be proper to include all the defects of sense and understanding under the common genius of madness. For if anyone be so short-sighted as to take a mule for an ass, or so shallowpated as to admire a paltry ballad for an elegant poem, he is not thereupon immediately censured as mad. But if anyone let not only his senses but his judgment be imposed upon in the most ordinary common concerns, he shall come under the scandal of being thought next door to a madman. As suppose any one should hear an ass bray, and should take it for ravishing music; or if any one, born a beggar, should fancy himself as great as a prince, or the like. But this sort of madness, if (as is most usual) it be accompanied with pleasure, brings a great satisfaction both to those who are possessed with it themselves, and those who deride it in others, though they are not both equally frantic. And this species of madness is of larger extent than the world commonly imagines. Thus the whole tribe of madmen make sport among themselves, while one laughs at another; he that is more mad many times jeering him that is less so. But indeed the greater each man's madness is, the greater is his happiness, if it be but such a sort as proceeds from an excess of folly, which is so epidemical a distemper that it is hard to find any one man so uninfected as not to have sometimes a fit or two of some sort of frenzy. There is only this difference between the several patients, he that shall take a broom-stick for a strait-bodied woman is without more ado sentenced for a madman, because this is so strange a blunder as very seldom happens; whereas he whose wife is a common jilt, that keeps a warehouse free for all customers, and yet swears she is as chaste as an untouched virgin, and hugs himself in his contented mistake, is scarce taken notice of, because he fares no worse than a great many more of his good-natured neighbours. Among these are to be ranked such as take an immoderate delight in hunting, and think no music comparable to the sounding of horns and the yelping of beagles; and were they to take physic, would not question to think the most sovereign virtues to be in the album Graecum of a dog's, turd. When they have run down their game, what strange pleasure they take in cutting of it up! Cows and sheep may be slaughtered by common butchers, but what is killed in hunting must be broke up by none under a gentleman, who shall throw down his hat, fall devoutly on his knees, and drawing out a slashing hanger (for a common knife is not good enough), after several ceremonies shall dissect all the parts as artificially as the best skilled anatomist, while all that stand round shall look very intently, and seem to be mightily surprised with the novelty, though they have seen the same an hundred times before; and he that can but dip his finger, and taste of the blood, shall think his own bettered by it: and though the constant feeding on such diet does but assimilate them to the nature of those beasts they eat of, yet they will swear that venison is meat for princes, and that their living upon it makes them as great as emperors.

I have not yet decided whether all defects of the senses and understanding should fall under the general heading of madness. Someone may be so shortsighted that he mistakes a mule for a donkey. Or he may be so simpleminded that he admires a worthless ballad as a fine poem. Neither mistake immediately gets him called mad. But suppose someone lets not only his senses but also his judgment deceive him in the most ordinary everyday matters. He will earn a reputation for being almost mad. Suppose, for example, he hears a donkey bray and takes the sound for enchanting music. Or suppose someone born a beggar imagines himself as great as a prince, or something similar. But this kind of madness usually brings pleasure. When it does, it gives great satisfaction both to those who experience it and to those who mock it in others. The two groups, however, are not equally mad. And this kind of madness is more widespread than people generally imagine. So the whole tribe of madmen amuse themselves by laughing at one another. Often, the madder man mocks the less mad. Indeed, the greater a man's madness, the greater his happiness, provided his madness comes from an excess of folly. Folly is such a widespread disease that hardly anyone escapes an occasional fit of one frenzy or another. There is only this difference between the various patients. A man who mistakes a broomstick for a slender woman is immediately declared mad. His mistake is so strange that it very rarely happens. But consider a man whose wife is a common slut, keeping her shop open to every customer. He swears she is as chaste as an untouched virgin and congratulates himself on his happy mistake. Hardly anyone notices him, because he fares no worse than so many of his good-natured neighbors. Among these madmen we must also count those who take excessive delight in hunting. They think no music compares with the sound of horns and the yelping of beagles. And if they needed medicine, they would readily believe that album Graecum, a dog's white dung, had the greatest healing powers. What strange pleasure they take in cutting up the game they have hunted down! Common butchers may slaughter cows and sheep. But an animal killed in hunting must be cut up by no one below the rank of gentleman. The gentleman throws down his hat and drops devoutly to his knees. He draws a broad hunting sword, because an ordinary knife is not good enough. After various ceremonies, he dissects every part as skillfully as the best anatomist. Everyone standing around watches intently and seems utterly astonished by the novelty. Yet they have seen the same thing a hundred times before. Anyone who merely dips his finger into the blood and tastes it thinks his own blood improved by the taste. Yet constantly eating such food only makes them more like the beasts they eat. Even so, they swear that venison is food for princes, and that living on it makes them as great as emperors.

Near a kin to these are such as take a great fancy for building: they raise up, pull down, begin anew, alter the model, and never rest till they run themselves out of their whole estate, taking up such a compass for buildings, till they leave themselves not one foot of land to live upon, nor one poor cottage to shelter themselves from cold and hunger: and yet all the while are mighty proud of their contrivances, and sing a sweet requiem to their own happiness.

Closely related to these are people with a passion for building. They build, tear down, start again, change the plans, and never stop until they have spent their entire fortune. Their buildings spread so far that they leave themselves not one foot of land to live on. They have not even a poor cottage left to shelter them from cold and hunger. Yet all the while, they are enormously proud of their designs and sing a sweet requiem for their own happiness.

To these are to be added those plodding virtuosos, that plunder the most inward recesses of nature for the pillage of a new invention, and rake over sea and land for the turning up some hitherto latent mystery; and are so continually tickled with the hopes of success, that they spare for no cost nor pains, but trudge on, and upon a defeat in one attempt, courageously tack about to another, and fall upon new experiments, never giving over till they have calcined their whole estate to ashes, and have not money enough left unmelted to purchase one crucible or limbeck. And yet after all, they are not so much discouraged, but that they dream fine things still, and animate others what they can to the like undertakings; nay, when their hopes come to the last gasp, after all their disappointments, they have yet one salvo for their credit, that:—

To these we must add those dogged experimenters who plunder nature’s deepest secrets in search of a new invention. They scour sea and land to uncover some mystery hidden until now. The hope of success keeps them so delighted that they spare neither money nor effort, but keep trudging on. When one attempt fails, they bravely change course and launch into new experiments. They never stop until they have burned their entire fortune to ashes. Not enough money remains unmelted to buy a single crucible or distilling flask. And yet, after all this, they are not so discouraged that they stop dreaming of wonderful things. They also do all they can to encourage others to attempt the same. Indeed, when their hopes are breathing their last after all their disappointments, they still have one defense of their reputation:

In great exploits our bare attempts suffice.

When we attempt great things, simply trying is enough.

And so inveigh against the shortness of their life, which allows them not time enough to bring their designs to maturity and perfection.

And so they rail against how short their lives are. They do not have enough time to fully develop and perfect their plans.

Whether dice-players may be so favourably dealt with as to be admitted among the rest is scarce yet resolved upon: but sure it is hugely vain and ridiculous, when we see some persons so devoutly addicted to this diversion, that at the first rattle of the box their heart shakes within them, and keeps consort with the motion of the dice: they are egg'd on so long with the hopes of always winning, till at last, in a literal sense, they have thrown away their whole estate, and made shipwreck of all they have, scarce escaping to shore with their own clothes to their backs; thinking it in the meanwhile a great piece of religion to be just in the payment of their stakes, and will cheat any creditor sooner than him who trusts them in play: and that poring old men, that cannot tell their cast without the help of spectacles, should be sweating at the same sport; nay, that such decrepit blades, as by the gout have lost the use of their fingers, should look over, and hire others to throw for them. This indeed is prodigiously extravagant; but the consequence of it ends so oft in downright madness, that it seems rather to belong to the furies than to folly.

Whether dice players deserve the same favor and a place among the rest is still hardly settled. But some people’s devotion to this pastime is certainly absurd and ridiculous. At the first rattle of the dice box, their hearts tremble in time with the dice. The hope of winning every time drives these gamblers on until they have literally thrown away their entire estates. They wreck their fortunes and barely reach shore with the clothes on their backs. Meanwhile, they consider paying their gambling debts a sacred duty. They would sooner cheat any other creditor than someone who lends them money to gamble. And then there are shortsighted old men who sweat over the same game, unable to read their throws without glasses. Worse still, some decrepit old fellows have lost the use of their fingers to gout. Yet they watch and pay others to throw for them. Such behavior is indeed outrageously excessive. But gambling so often ends in outright madness that it seems to belong more to the Furies than to Folly.

The next to be placed among the regiment of fools are such as make a trade of telling or inquiring after incredible stories of miracles and prodigies: never doubting that a lie will choke them, they will muster up a thousand several strange relations of spirits, ghosts, apparitions, raising of the devil, and such like bugbears of superstition, which the farther they are from being probably true, the more greedily they are swallowed, and the more devoudy believed. And these absurdities do not only bring an empty pleasure, and cheap divertisement, but they are a good trade, and procure a comfortable income to such priests and friars as by this craft get their gain. To these again are nearly related such others as attribute strange virtues to the shrines and images of saints and martyrs, and so would make their credulous proselytes believe, that if they pay their devotion to St. Christopher in the morning, they shall be guarded and secured the day following from all dangers and misfortunes: if soldiers, when they first take arms, shall come and mumble over such a set prayer before the picture of St. Barbara, they shall return safe from all engagements: or if any pray to Erasmus on such particular holidays, with the ceremony of wax candles, and other fopperies, he shall in a short time be rewarded with a plentiful increase of wealth and riches. The Christians have now their gigantic St. George, as well as the pagans had their Hercules; they paint the saint on horseback, and drawing the horse in splendid trappings, very gloriously accoutred, they scarce refrain in a literal sense from worshipping the very beast. What shall I say of such as cry up and maintain the cheat of pardons and indulgences? that by these compute the time of each soul's residence in purgatory, and assign them a longer or shorter continuance, according as they purchase more or fewer of these paltry pardons, and saleable exemptions? Or what can be said bad enough of others, who pretend that by the force of such magical charms, or by the fumbling over their beads in the rehearsal of such and such petitions (which some religious impostors invented, either for diversion, or what is more likely for advantage), they shall procure riches, honour, pleasure, health, long life, a lusty old age, nay, after death a sitting at the right hand of our Saviour in His kingdom; though as to this last part of their happiness, they care not how long it be deferred, having scarce any appetite toward a tasting the joys of heaven, till they are surfeited, glutted with, and can no longer relish their enjoyments on earth. By this easy way of purchasing pardons, any notorious highwayman, any plundering soldier, or any bribe-taking judge, shall disburse some part of their unjust gains, and so think all their grossest impieties sufficiently atoned for; so many perjuries, lusts, drunkenness, quarrels, bloodsheds, cheats, treacheries, and all sorts of debaucheries, shall all be, as it were, struck a bargain for, and such a contract made, as if they had paid off all arrears, and might now begin upon a new score.

Next in the ranks of fools are those who make a business of telling or seeking incredible stories about miracles and wonders. Never fearing that a lie might choke them, they produce a thousand strange tales. These concern spirits, ghosts, apparitions, summoning the devil, and other such terrors born of superstition. The less likely these stories are to be true, the more eagerly people swallow them and the more devoutly they believe. And these absurdities offer more than empty pleasure and cheap entertainment. They also provide a profitable trade and a comfortable income for priests and friars who make money through this trickery. Closely related are those who claim that shrines and images of saints and martyrs have extraordinary powers. They would have their gullible followers believe that morning devotion to St. Christopher protects them from all danger and misfortune that day. If soldiers mumble a prescribed prayer before St. Barbara's picture when first taking up arms, they will return safely from every battle. Or if anyone prays to Erasmus on certain holy days, with wax candles and other foolish ceremonies, wealth will soon follow. Christians now have their gigantic St. George, just as the pagans had their Hercules. They paint the saint on horseback, with the horse splendidly dressed in magnificent trappings. They come close to literally worshipping the animal itself. What shall I say about those who promote and defend the fraud of pardons and indulgences? They use these to calculate how long each soul must stay in purgatory. They assign longer or shorter stays according to whether people buy fewer or more of these worthless pardons and exemptions. Or what condemnation could be strong enough for those who trust in magical charms or prayers mumbled while fingering their beads? They imagine that these charms and prescribed prayers will bring them riches, honor, pleasure, health, long life, and vigorous old age. Some religious frauds invented these prayers for amusement, or, more likely, for profit. These believers even expect a seat at our Savior's right hand in his kingdom after death. Yet they do not care how long that final happiness is delayed. They have hardly any appetite for heaven's joys until they are stuffed with earthly pleasures and can enjoy them no longer. With this easy way of buying pardons, any notorious highwayman, plundering soldier, or bribe-taking judge can spend some ill-gotten gains. They then think they have fully atoned for all their worst sins. All those false oaths, lusts, drunken bouts, quarrels, bloodshed, frauds, betrayals, and every kind of debauchery become part of a bargain. The deal is struck as though they had paid every outstanding debt and could now start a fresh account.

And what can be more ridiculous, than for some others to be confident of going to heaven by repeating daily those seven verses out of the Psalms, which the devil taught St. Bernard, thinking thereby to have put a trick upon him, but that he was over-reached in his cunning.

And what could be more ridiculous than some people's certainty that repeating those seven verses from the Psalms daily will get them into heaven? The devil taught those verses to St. Bernard, hoping to trick him. But St. Bernard outsmarted the devil instead.

Several of these fooleries, which are so gross and absurd, as I myself am even ashamed to own, are practised and admired, not only by the vulgar, but by such proficients in religion as one might well expect should have more wit.

Several of these foolish practices are so crude and absurd that even I am ashamed to claim them as mine. Yet they are practiced and admired not only by ordinary people, but also by those well versed in religion. You would expect such people to have more sense.

From the same principles of folly proceeds the custom of each country's challenging their particular guardian-saint; nay, each saint has his distinct office allotted to him, and is accordingly addressed to upon the respective occasions: as one for the tooth-ache, a second to grant an easy delivery in child-birth, a third to help persons to lost goods, another to protect seamen in a long voyage, a fifth to guard the farmer's cows and sheep, and so on; for to rehearse all instances would be extremely tedious.

The same principles of folly lead each country to claim its own guardian saint. Indeed, each saint has a specific job and is called upon when needed. One is asked to relieve toothache, a second to grant an easy childbirth, a third to help people find lost belongings. Another protects sailors on long voyages, a fifth guards the farmer’s cows and sheep, and so on. Listing every example would be extremely tedious.

There are some more catholic saints petitioned to upon all occasions, as more especially the Virgin Mary, whose blind devotees think it manners now to place the mother before the Son.

Some saints are more all-purpose and are prayed to on all occasions, especially the Virgin Mary. Her blind devotees now think it good manners to put the mother before the Son.

And of all the prayers and intercessions that are made to these respective saints the substance of them is no more than downright Folly. Among all the trophies that for tokens of gratitude are hung upon the walls and ceilings of churches, you shall find no relics presented as a memorandum of any that were ever cured of Folly, or had been made one dram the wiser. One perhaps after shipwreck got safe to shore; another recovered when he had been run through by an enemy; one, when all his fellow-soldiers were killed upon the spot, as cunningly perhaps as cowardly, made his escape from the field; another, while he was a hanging, the rope broke, and so he saved his neck, and renewed his licence for practising his old trade of thieving; another broke gaol, and got loose; a patient, against his physician's will, recovered of a dangerous fever; another drank poison, which putting him into a violent looseness, did his body more good than hurt, to the great grief of his wife, who hoped upon this occasion to have become a joyful widow; another had his waggon overturned, and yet none of his horses lamed; another had caught a grievous fall, and yet recovered from the bruise; another had been tampering with his neighbour's wife, and escaped very narrowly from being caught by the enraged cuckold in the very act. After all these acknowledgments of escapes from such singular dangers, there is none (as I have before intimated) that return thanks for being freed from Folly; Folly being so sweet and luscious, that it is rather sued for as a happiness, than deprecated as a punishment But why should I launch out into so wide a sea of superstitions?

All the prayers and appeals made to these various saints amount to nothing but pure Folly. Churches have their walls and ceilings hung with offerings of thanks. Yet you will find none commemorating anyone cured of Folly or made even a little wiser. One man, perhaps, reached shore safely after a shipwreck. Another recovered after an enemy ran him through. Another escaped the battlefield when all his fellow soldiers were killed on the spot. His escape was perhaps as cunning as it was cowardly. Another was being hanged when the rope broke. So he saved his neck and gained a fresh license to return to his old trade of stealing. Another broke out of jail and went free. A patient recovered from a dangerous fever, against his doctor's wishes. Another drank poison, but the poison gave him such violent diarrhea that his body benefited more than it suffered. His wife was deeply disappointed, for she had hoped the poisoning would make her a happy widow. Another had his wagon overturn, yet none of his horses was lamed. Another took a terrible fall, yet recovered from his injuries. Another had been fooling around with his neighbor's wife. He narrowly escaped being caught in the act by the furious husband he was deceiving. After all these expressions of thanks for escaping such extraordinary dangers, no one gives thanks for being freed from Folly. As I have already pointed out, Folly is so sweet and delicious that people pray for Folly as a blessing. They do not pray to be spared Folly as a punishment. But why should I sail out into so vast a sea of superstitions?

Had I as many tongues as Argus eyes, Briareus hands, they all would not suffice Folly in all her shapes t' epitomise.

Even if I had as many tongues as Argus has eyes or Briareus has hands, I could not sum up Folly in all her forms.

Almost all Christians being wretchedly enslaved to blindness and ignorance, which the priests are so far from preventing or removing, that they blacken the darkness, and promote the delusion; wisely foreseeing that the people (like cows, which never give down their milk so well as when they are gently stroked), would part with less if they knew more, their bounty proceeding only from a mistake of charity. Now if any grave wise man should stand up, and unseasonably speak the truth, telling every one that a pious life is the only way of securing a happy death; that the best title to a pardon of our sins is purchased by a hearty abhorrence of our guilt, and sincere resolutions of amendment; that the best devotion which can be paid to any saints is to imitate them in their exemplary life: if he should proceed thus to inform them of their several mistakes, there would be quite another estimate put upon tears, watchings, masses, fastings, and other severities, which before were so much prized, as persons will now be vexed to lose that satisfaction they formerly found in them.

Almost all Christians are miserably enslaved to blindness and ignorance. Far from preventing or removing this ignorance, priests deepen the darkness and encourage the delusion. They wisely foresee that people would give less if they knew more. People are like cows, which give their milk most freely when gently stroked. Their generosity comes only from a mistaken idea of charity. Now suppose some serious, wise man stood up and spoke the truth at an inconvenient moment. Suppose he told everyone that a godly life is the only way to secure a happy death. Suppose he said that forgiveness of sins is best earned by heartfelt hatred of our guilt and sincere determination to change. Suppose he added that the best devotion to any saints is to follow the example of their lives. If he went on exposing people's various mistakes this way, tears, vigils, masses, fasts, and other harsh religious practices would be judged quite differently. People would resent losing the satisfaction they once found in these practices, which they had valued so highly.

In the same predicament of fools are to be ranked such, as while they are yet living, and in good health, take so great a care how they shall be buried when they die, that they solemnly appoint how many torches, how many escutcheons, how many gloves to be given, and how many mourners they will have at their funeral; as if they thought they themselves in their coffins could be sensible of what respect was paid to their corpse; or as if they doubted they should rest a whit the less quiet in the grave if they were with less state and pomp interred.

Among these fools we must also count those who, while still alive and healthy, worry so much about their burial. They solemnly specify how many torches, shields bearing their coats of arms, gloves to give away, and mourners they want. As if, lying in their coffins, they could sense the respect paid to their bodies. Or as if they feared they would rest any less peacefully in the grave if buried with less pomp and ceremony.

Now though I am in so great haste, as I would not willingly be stopped or detained, yet I cannot pass by without bestowing some remarks upon another sort of fools; who, though their first descent was perhaps no better than from a tapster or tinker, yet highly value themselves upon their birth and parentage. One fetches his pedigree from AEneas, another from Brute, a third from king Arthur: they hang up their ancestors' worm-eaten pictures as records of antiquity, and keep a long list of their predecessors, with an account of all their offices and tides, while they themselves are but transcripts of their forefathers' dumb statues, and degenerate even into those very beasts which they carry in their coat of arms as ensigns of their nobility: and yet by a strong presumption of their birth and quality, they live not only the most pleasant and unconcerned themselves, but there are not wanting others too who cry up these brutes almost equal to the gods. But why should I dwell upon one or two instances of Folly, when there are so many of like nature. Conceitedness and self-love making many by strength of Fancy believe themselves happy, when otherwise they are really wretched and despicable. Thus the most ape-faced, ugliest fellow in the whole town, shall think himself a mirror of beauty: another shall be so proud of his parts, that if he can but mark out a triangle with a pair of compasses, he thinks he has mastered all the difficulties of geometry, and could outdo Euclid himself. A third shall admire himself for a ravishing musician, though he have no more skill in the handling of any instrument than a pig playing on the organs: and another that rattles in the throat as hoarse as a cock crows, shall be proud of his voice, and think he sings like a nightingale.

Though I am in a great hurry and would rather not be delayed, I cannot pass over another kind of fool. I must say a few words about them. Their earliest ancestor was perhaps no better than a bartender or tinker. Yet they think very highly of themselves because of their birth and family. One traces his ancestry to AEneas, another to Brute, and a third to king Arthur. They hang up worm-eaten portraits of their ancestors as proof of their ancient lineage. They keep long lists of their forebears, recording all their offices and titles. Yet they themselves are mere copies of their ancestors’ speechless statues. They even sink to the level of the beasts displayed on their coats of arms as symbols of nobility. Still, their firm belief in their noble birth and rank lets them live the most pleasant, carefree lives. Nor is there any shortage of people who praise these brutes almost as highly as the gods. But why dwell on one or two examples of Folly when there are so many of the same kind? Vanity and self-love lead many people to imagine themselves happy, though they are really miserable and contemptible. So the ugliest, most ape-faced fellow in town thinks himself the very model of beauty. Another is so proud of his abilities that drawing a triangle with compasses makes him think he has mastered geometry. He believes he has overcome all its difficulties and could outdo Euclid himself. A third admires himself as a spellbinding musician. Yet he has no more skill with any instrument than a pig playing the organ. Another has a voice that rattles in his throat, as hoarse as a rooster’s crow. Yet he is proud of his voice and thinks he sings like a nightingale.

There is another very pleasant sort of madness, whereby persons assume to themselves whatever of accomplishment they discern in others. Thus the happy rich churl in Seneca, who had so short a memory, as he could not tell the least story without a servant standing by to prompt him, and was at the same time so weak that he could scarce go upright, yet he thought he might adventure to accept a challenge to a duel, because he kept at home some lusty, sturdy fellows, whose strength he relied upon instead of his own.

There is another very pleasant kind of madness: people claim for themselves whatever talents they see in others. Take the happy rich boor in Seneca. His memory was so poor that he could not tell even the simplest story without a servant nearby prompting him. He was also so weak that he could hardly stand upright. Yet he thought he could safely accept a challenge to a duel. After all, he kept some strong, sturdy men at home and relied on their strength instead of his own.

It is almost needless to insist upon the several professors of arts and sciences, who are all so egregiously conceited, that they would sooner give up their title to an estate in lands, than part with the reversion of their wits: among these, more especially stage-players, musicians, orators, and poets, each of which, the more of duncery they have, and the more of pride, the greater is their ambition: and how notoriously soever dull they be, they meet with their admirers; nay, the more silly they are the higher they are extolled; Folly (as we have before intimated) never failing of respect and esteem. If therefore every one, the more ignorant he is, the greater satisfaction he is to himself, and the more commended by others, to what purpose is it to sweat and toil in the pursuit of true learning, which shall cost so many gripes and pangs of the brain to acquire, and when obtained, shall only make the laborious student more uneasy to himself, and less acceptable to others?

There is hardly any need to dwell on the various teachers of the arts and sciences. They are all so absurdly conceited that they would sooner surrender their claim to landed property than their claim to intelligence. Actors, musicians, public speakers, and poets stand out among them. The more stupidity and pride each has, the greater their ambition. However notoriously dull they are, they find admirers. Indeed, the sillier they are, the more highly they are praised. As we have already suggested, Folly never fails to win respect and admiration. So if greater ignorance brings everyone greater self-satisfaction and more praise from others, why sweat and toil for true learning? Acquiring real knowledge costs so much mental pain and effort. And once acquired, such learning only makes the hardworking student less content with themselves and less welcome to others.

As nature in her dispensation of conceited-ness has dealt with private persons, so has she given a particular smatch of self-love to each country and nation. Upon this account it is that the English challenge the prerogative of having the most handsome women, of the being most accomplished in the skill of music, and of keeping the best tables: the Scotch brag of their gentility, and pretend the genius of their native soil inclines them to be good disputants: the French think themselves remarkable for complaisance and good breeding: the Sorbonists of Paris pretend before any others to have made the greatest proficiency in polemic divinity: the Italians value themselves for learning and eloquence; and, like the Grecians of old, account all the world barbarians in respect of themselves; to which piece of vanity the inhabitants of Rome are more especially addicted, pretending themselves to be owners of all those heroic virtues, which their city so many ages since was deservedly famous for. The Venetians stand upon their birth and pedigree. The Grecians pride themselves in having been the first inventors of most arts, and in their country being famed for the product of so many eminent philosophers. The Turks, and all the other refuse of Mahometism, pretend they profess the only true religion, and laugh at all Christians for superstitious, narrow-souled fools. The Jews to this day expect their Messias as devoudy as they believe in their first prophet Moses. The Spaniards challenge the repute of being accounted good soldiers. And the Germans are noted for their tall, proper stature, and for their skill in magick. But not to mention any more, I suppose you are already convinced how great an improvement and addition to the happiness of human life is occasioned by self-love: next step to which is flattery; for as self-love is nothing but the coaxing up of ourselves, so the same currying and humouring of others is termed flattery.

Just as nature has given individuals their share of conceit, she has given each country and nation its own self-love. That is why the English claim to have the most beautiful women, the greatest musical skill, and the finest meals. The Scotch boast of their noble birth. They also claim that their native soil gives them a natural talent for debate. The French think they stand out for their courtesy and good manners. The Sorbonists of Paris claim to surpass everyone else in the art of theological controversy. The Italians pride themselves on learning and eloquence. Like the ancient Grecians, they consider everyone else in the world barbarians compared with themselves. The people of Rome are especially prone to this vanity. They claim to possess all the heroic virtues for which their city was justly famous so many centuries ago. The Venetians insist on the importance of their birth and ancestry. The Grecians pride themselves on having invented most arts and on their country's fame for producing so many distinguished philosophers. The Turks, and all the other dregs of Mahometism, claim to practice the only true religion. They laugh at all Christians as superstitious, narrow-minded fools. To this day, the Jews await their Messiah as devoutly as they believe in their first prophet, Moses. The Spaniards claim a reputation as good soldiers. And the Germans are known for their tall, well-built bodies and their skill in magic. But without listing any more, I suppose you are already convinced how greatly self-love improves and adds to human happiness. Next to self-love comes flattery. For just as self-love is nothing but sweet-talking ourselves, flattery is the same coaxing and indulging directed at others.

Flattery, it is true, is now looked upon as a scandalous name, but it is by such only as mind words more than things. They are prejudiced against it upon this account, because they suppose it justles out all truth and sincerity? whereas indeed its property is quite contrary, as appears from the examples of several brute creatures. What is more fawning than a spaniel?

Flattery, admittedly, now has a shameful reputation, but only among people who care more about words than things. These people are biased against flattery because they suppose it pushes out all truth and sincerity. But flattery actually does the opposite, as examples from several animals show. What could be more fawning than a spaniel?

And yet what is more faithful to his master? What is more fond and loving than a tame squirrel? And yet what is more sporting and inoffensive? This little frisking creature is kept up in a cage to play withal, while lions, tigers, leopards, and such other savage emblems of rapine and cruelty are shewn only for state and rarity, and otherwise yield no pleasure to their respective keepers.

And yet what is more loyal to its master? What is more affectionate and loving than a tame squirrel? And yet what is more playful and harmless? This lively little creature is kept in a cage for people to play with. Lions, tigers, leopards, and other savage symbols of plunder and cruelty, however, are displayed only for prestige and rarity. Otherwise, these animals give their keepers no pleasure.

There is indeed a pernicious destructive sort of flattery wherewith rookers and sharks work their several ends upon such as they can make a prey of, by decoying them into traps and snares beyond recovery: but that which is the effect of folly is of a much different nature; it proceeds from a softness of spirit, and a flexibleness of good humour, and comes far nearer to virtue than that other extreme of friendship, namely, a stiff, sour, dogged moroseness: it refreshes our minds when tired, enlivens them when melancholy, reinforces them when languishing, invigorates them when heavy, recovers them when sick, and pacifies them when rebellious: it puts us in a method how to procure friends, and how to keep them; it entices children to swallow the bitter rudiments of learning; it gives a new ferment to the almost stagnated souls of old men; it both reproves and instructs principles without offence under the mask of commendation: in short, it makes every man fond and indulgent of himself, which is indeed no small part of each man's happiness, and at the same time renders him obliging and complaisant in all company, where it is pleasant to see how the asses rub and scratch one another.

There is indeed a harmful, destructive kind of flattery. Cheats and swindlers use it to achieve their ends by luring their victims into traps from which they cannot escape. But the flattery that comes from folly is very different. It springs from a gentle spirit and an easygoing good humor. It comes much closer to virtue than friendship’s opposite extreme: stiff, sour, stubborn ill temper. Such flattery refreshes our minds when tired, cheers them when gloomy, and strengthens them when weak. It energizes them when sluggish, restores them when sick, and calms them when rebellious. It shows us how to make friends and keep them. It tempts children to swallow the bitter basics of learning. It stirs new life in the almost stagnant souls of old men. Under the cover of praise, it offers correction and instruction on principles without causing offense. In short, such flattery makes everyone fond and forgiving of themselves, no small part of anyone’s happiness. At the same time, it makes everyone helpful and agreeable in all company. There, it is pleasant to watch the donkeys rub and scratch one another.

This again is a great accomplishment to an orator, a greater to a physician, and the only one to a poet: in fine, it is the best sweetener to all afflictions, and gives a true relish to the otherwise insipid enjoyments of our whole life. Ay, but (say you) to flatter is to deceive; and to deceive is very harsh and hurtful: no, rather just contrary; nothing is more welcome and bewitching than the being deceived. They are much to be blamed for an undistinguishing head, that make a judgment of things according to what they are in themselves, when their whole nature consists barely in the opinions that are had of them. For all sublunary matters are enveloped in such a cloud of obscurity, that the short-sightedness of human understanding, cannot pry through and arrive to any comprehensive knowledge of them: hence the sect of academic philosophers have modestly resolved, that all things being no more than probable, nothing can be known as certain; or if there could, yet would it but interrupt and abate from the pleasure of a more happy ignorance. Finally, our souls are so fashioned and moulded, that they are sooner captivated by appearances, than by real truths; of which, if any one would demand an example, he may find a very familiar one in churches, where, if what is delivered from the pulpit be a grave, solid, rational discourse, all the congregation grow weary, and fall asleep, till their patience be released; whereas if the preacher (pardon the impropriety of the word, the prater I would have said) be zealous, in his thumps of the cushion, antic gestures, and spend his glass in the telling of pleasant stories, his beloved shall then stand up, tuck their hair behind their ears, and be very devoutly attentive. So among the saints, those are most resorted to who are most romantic and fabulous: as for instance, a poetic St. George, a St. Christopher, or a St. Barbara, shall be oftener prayed to than St. Peter, St. Paul, nay, perhaps than Christ himself; but this, it is possible, may more properly be referred to another place.

Flattery, again, is a great skill for an orator, a greater one for a physician, and a poet’s only skill. In short, flattery is the best remedy for all suffering. It gives real flavor to all the otherwise tasteless pleasures of our lives. But, you say, flattering means deceiving, and deception is cruel and harmful. No, quite the opposite. Nothing is more welcome or enchanting than being deceived. People show a serious lack of judgment when they judge things by what those things are in themselves. The whole nature of things consists only in the opinions people hold about them. For everything in this earthly world is wrapped in such a cloud of uncertainty that human understanding cannot see through it. Our limited minds cannot reach a complete understanding of anything. So the Academic philosophers have modestly concluded that everything is merely probable, and nothing can be known for certain. Even if certain knowledge were possible, it would only disrupt and diminish the pleasures of a happier ignorance. Finally, our minds are made to be more easily captivated by appearances than by actual truths. Anyone who wants an example can find a very familiar one in church. If the sermon is serious, sound, and reasonable, the whole congregation grows bored and falls asleep until the ordeal ends. But suppose the preacher pounds the pulpit cushion enthusiastically, makes ridiculous gestures, and spends his allotted hour telling amusing stories. Forgive me for calling him a preacher. I meant a babbler. Then his beloved listeners stand up, tuck their hair behind their ears, and listen with great devotion. Likewise, among the saints, people turn most often to those whose stories are most fanciful and legendary. A storybook St. George, St. Christopher, or St. Barbara receives more prayers than St. Peter or St. Paul. Indeed, perhaps they receive more prayers than Christ himself. But perhaps this subject belongs elsewhere.

In the mean while observe what a cheap purchase of happiness is made by the strength of fancy. For whereas many things even of inconsiderable value, would cost a great deal of pains and perhaps pelf, to procure; opinion spares charges, and yet gives us them in as ample a manner by conceit, as if we possessed them in reality. Thus he who feeds on such a stinking dish of fish, as another must hold his nose at a yard's distance from, yet if he feed heartily, and relish them palateably, they are to him as good as if they were fresh caught: whereas on the other hand, if any one be invited to never so dainty a joul of sturgeon, if it go against his stomach to eat any, he may sit a hungry, and bite his nails with greater appetite than his victuals. If a woman be never so ugly and nauseous, yet if her husband can but think her handsome, it is all one to him as if she really were so: if any man have never so ordinary and smutty a draught, yet if he admires the excellency of it, and can suppose it to have been drawn by some old Apelles, or modern Vandyke, he is as proud of it as if it had really been done by one of their hands. I knew a friend of mine that presented his bride with several false and counterfeit stones, making her believe that they were right jewels, and cost him so many hundred thousand crowns; under his mistake the poor woman was as choice of pebbles, and painted glass, as if they had been so many natural rubies and diamonds, while the subtle husband saved a great deal in his pocket, and yet made his wife as well pleased as if he had been at ten hundred times the cost What difference is there between them that in the darkest dungeon, can with a platonic brain survey the whole world in idea, and him that stands in the open air, and takes a less deluding prospect of the universe? If the beggar in Lucian, that dreamt he was a prince, had never waked, his imaginary kingdom had been as great as a real one. Between him therefore that truly is happy, and him that thinks himself so, there is no perceivable distinction; or if any, the fool has the better of it: first, because his happiness costs him less, standing him only in the price of a single thought; and then, secondly, because he has more fellow-companions and partakers of his good fortune: for no enjoyment is comfortable where the benefit is not imparted to others; nor is any one station of life desirable, where we can have no converse with persons of the same condition with ourselves: and yet this is the hard fate of wise men, who are grown so scarce, that like Phoenixes, they appear but one in an age. The Grecians, it is true, reckoned up seven within the narrow precincts of their own country; yet I believe, were they to cast up their accounts anew, they would not find a half, nay, not a third part, of one in far larger extent.

Meanwhile, notice how cheaply imagination buys happiness. Many things, even things of little value, take great effort and perhaps money to obtain. But belief saves us the expense. Through imagination, belief gives us those things as fully as if we really possessed them. Take someone eating fish so foul that another person must hold his nose a yard away. If the eater enjoys the fish and eats heartily, the fish tastes as good to him as freshly caught fish. On the other hand, someone may be offered the finest cut of sturgeon. But if the thought of eating it turns his stomach, he may sit there hungry. He may even bite his nails more eagerly than he eats his food. A woman may be utterly ugly and disgusting. Yet if her husband thinks her beautiful, the effect on him is the same as if she really were. A man may own a thoroughly ordinary, grimy drawing. Yet suppose he admires its excellence and imagines an old master like Apelles or a modern one like Vandyke drew it. He is as proud of the drawing as if one of those artists had really made it. I knew a friend who gave his bride several imitation gems. He made her believe they were genuine jewels that had cost him hundreds of thousands of crowns. Under this false impression, the poor woman treasured pebbles and painted glass as if they were real rubies and diamonds. Meanwhile, her cunning husband saved a great deal of money. Yet he pleased his wife as much as if he had spent a thousand times more. What difference is there between people in the darkest dungeon and someone standing in the open air? With minds like Plato's, the prisoners can survey the whole world in their imaginations. The person outside takes a less deceptive view of the universe. Lucian tells of a beggar who dreamed he was a prince. If the beggar had never woken, his imaginary kingdom would have been as great as a real one. So there is no noticeable difference between someone who truly is happy and someone who thinks himself happy. If there is any difference, the fool has the advantage. First, his happiness costs him less, only a single thought. Second, he has more companions who share his good fortune. For no pleasure brings comfort unless others share its benefits. Nor is any position in life desirable without the company of people in the same condition as ourselves. Yet wise men face just this harsh fate. They have become so rare that, like Phoenixes, only one appears in an age. The Grecians, it is true, counted seven within the narrow borders of their own country. Yet I believe that, if they counted again across a far larger area, they would not find even half a wise man. Indeed, they would not find even a third of one.

Farther, when among the several good properties of Bacchus this is looked upon as the chief, namely, that he drowns the cares and anxieties of the mind, though it be indeed but for a short while; for after a small nap, when our brains are a little settled, they all return to their former corrodings: how much greater is the more durable advantage which I bring? while by one uninterrupted fit of being drunk in conceit, I perpetually cajole the mind with riots, revels, and all the excess and energy of joy.

Moreover, Bacchus has many good qualities, but his greatest is said to be drowning the mind’s worries and anxieties. Yet his relief lasts only a short while. After a brief nap, when our heads have cleared a little, all those worries return to gnaw at us. How much greater, then, is the lasting benefit I bring? I keep the mind constantly drunk on its own imaginings. With this unbroken intoxication, I endlessly charm the mind with wild parties, revelry, and all the excess and energy of joy.

Add to this, that I am so communicative and bountiful, as to let no one particular person pass without some token of my favour; whereas other deities bestow their gifts sparingly to their elect only. Bacchus has not thought fit that every soil should bear the same juice-yielding grape: Venus has not given to all a like portion of beauty: Mercury endows but few with the knack of an accomplished eloquence: Hercules gives not to all the same measure of wealth and riches: Jupiter has ordained but a few to be born to a kingdom: Mars in battle gives a complete victory but to one party; nay, he often makes them both losers: Apollo does not answer the expectation of all that consult his oracles: Jove oft thunders: Phoebus sometimes shoots the plague, or some other infection, at the point of his darts: and Neptune swallows down more than he bears up: not to mention their Ve-Jupiters, their Plutos, their Ate goddess of loss, their evil geniuses, and such other monsters of divinity, as had more of the hangman than the god in them, and were worshipped only to deprecate that hurt which used to be inflicted by them: I say, not to mention these, I am that high and mighty goddess, whose liberality is of as large an extent as her omnipotence: I give to all that ask: I never appear sullen, nor out of humour, nor ever demand any atonement or satisfaction for the omission of any ceremonious punctilio in my worship: I do not storm or rage, if mortals, in their addresses to the other gods pass me by unregarded, without the acknowledgment of any respect or application: whereas all the other gods are so scrupulous and exact, that it often proves less dangerous manfully to despise them, than sneakingly to attempt the difficulty of pleasing them. Thus some men are of that captious, froward humour, that a man had better be wholly strangers to them, than never so intimate friends.

Add to this that I am so generous and free with my gifts that everyone receives some sign of my favor. Other deities, however, give their gifts sparingly, and only to their chosen few. Bacchus has not seen fit to let every soil grow the same juicy grapes. Venus has not given everyone an equal share of beauty. Mercury grants only a few the gift of polished eloquence. Hercules does not give everyone the same measure of wealth and riches. Jupiter has ordained that only a few should be born to rule a kingdom. In battle, Mars gives complete victory to only one side. Indeed, he often makes both sides lose. Apollo does not meet the expectations of everyone who consults his oracles. Jove often thunders. Phoebus sometimes shoots plague or some other infection from the tips of his arrows. And Neptune swallows more than he keeps afloat. I need hardly mention their Ve-Jupiters, their Plutos, their Ate, goddess of loss, their evil spirits, and similar divine monsters. These had more of the executioner than the god about them. People worshipped them only to ward off the harm they were accustomed to inflicting. But leaving these aside, I am that high and mighty goddess whose generosity reaches as far as her unlimited power. I give to all who ask. I am never sullen or ill-tempered. Nor do I ever demand amends or compensation for anyone’s failure to observe some tiny detail in my worship. I do not storm or rage if mortals pray to other gods and pass me by without respect or appeal. All the other gods, however, are so fussy and demanding that openly defying them often proves less dangerous. Trying timidly to satisfy their difficult demands is often more dangerous. In the same way, some people are so touchy and difficult that you are better off remaining complete strangers. Even the closest friendship with them is worse.

Well, but there are none (say you) build any altars, or dedicate any temple to Folly. I admire (as I have before intimated) that the world should be so wretchedly ungrateful. But I am so good natured as to pass by and pardon this seeming affront, though indeed the charge thereof, as unnecessary, may well be saved; for to what purpose should I demand the sacrifice of frankincense, cakes, goats, and swine, since all persons everywhere pay me that more acceptable service, which all divines agree to be more effectual and meritorious, namely, an imitation of my communicable attributes? I do not therefore any way envy Diana for having her altars bedewed with human blood: I think myself then most religiously adored, when my respective devotees (as is their usual custom) conform themselves to my practice, transcribe my pattern, and so live the copy of me their original. And truly this pious devotion is not so much in use among christians as is much to be wished it were: for how many zealous votaries are there that pay so profound respect to the Virgin Mary, as to place lighted tapers even at noon day upon her altars? And yet how few of them copy after her untouched chastity, her modesty, and her other commendable virtues, in the imitation whereof consists the truest esteem of divine worship? Farther, why should I desire a temple, since the whole world is but one ample continued choir, entirely dedicated to my use and service? Nor do I want worshippers at any place where the earth wants not inhabitants. And as to the manner of my worship, I am not yet so irrecoverably foolish, as to be prayed to by proxy, and to have my honour intermediately bestowed upon senseless images and pictures, which quite subvert the true end of religion; while the unwary supplicants seldom distinguish betwixt the things themselves and the objects they represent The same respect in the meanwhile is paid to me in a more legitimate manner; for to me there are as many statues erected as there are moving fabrics of mortality; every person, even against his own will, carrying the image of me, i.e. the signal of Folly instamped on his countenance. I have not therefore the least tempting inducement to envy the more seeming state and splendour of the other gods, who are worshipped at set times and places; as Phoebus at Rhodes, Venus in her Cyprian isle, Juno in the city Argos, Minerva at Athens, Jupiter on the hill Olympus, Neptune at Tarentum, and Priapus in the town of Lampsacum; while my worship extending as far as my influence, the whole world is my one altar, whereon the most valuable incense and sacrifice is perpetually offered up.

But, you say, no one builds altars or dedicates temples to Folly. As I have already hinted, I am amazed that the world should be so miserably ungrateful. Still, I am good-natured enough to overlook and forgive this apparent insult. Indeed, people might well spare themselves the expense, since such offerings are unnecessary. Why should I demand sacrifices of frankincense, cakes, goats, and pigs? Everyone everywhere already gives me a more welcome form of service: imitating those qualities of mine that others can share. All theologians agree that such imitation is more effective and earns greater spiritual merit. So I have no reason to envy Diana her altars drenched in human blood. I consider myself most devoutly worshipped when my followers do as they usually do. They follow my example, copy my pattern, and live as copies of me, their original. Christians, in truth, practice this kind of devotion far less than one could wish. How many eager worshippers show such deep respect for the Virgin Mary that they light candles on her altars at noon? Yet how few imitate her spotless chastity, her modesty, and her other admirable virtues. Imitating those virtues is the truest expression of reverence in divine worship. Besides, why should I want a temple? The whole world is one vast, unbroken choir, devoted entirely to my service. Nor do I lack worshippers anywhere that people live. As for how I am worshipped, I am not yet so hopelessly foolish as to accept prayers through a stand-in. Nor would I have the honor due to me given indirectly to lifeless statues and pictures. Such images completely defeat religion's true purpose. Unwary worshippers seldom distinguish the images themselves from what the images represent. Meanwhile, I receive the same respect in a more proper way. There are as many statues erected to me as there are living human bodies. Everyone, even against their will, carries my image, that is, the mark of Folly stamped on their face. So I have not the slightest reason to envy the outward pomp and splendor of the other gods. They are worshipped at fixed times and places. Phoebus is worshipped at Rhodes, Venus on her island of Cyprus, and Juno in the city of Argos. Minerva is worshipped at Athens, Jupiter on the hill Olympus, Neptune at Tarentum, and Priapus in the town of Lampsacum. My worship, by contrast, reaches as far as my influence. The whole world is my single altar, where the most valuable incense and sacrifices are offered without end.

But lest I should seem to speak this with more of confidence than truth, let us take a nearer view of the mode of men's lives, whereby it will be rendered more apparently evident what largesses I everywhere bestow, and how much I am respected and esteemed of persons, from the highest to the basest quality. For the proof whereof, it being too tedious to insist upon each particular, I shall only mention such in general as are most worthy the remark, from which by analogy we may easily judge of the remainder. And indeed to what purpose would it be singly to recount the commonalty and rabble of mankind, who beyond all question are entirely on my side? and for a token of their vassalage do wear my livery in so many older shapes, and more newly invented modes of Folly, that the lungs of a thousand Democrituses would never hold out to such a laughter as this subject would excite; and to these thousand must be superadded one more, to laugh at them as much as they do at the other.

But lest I seem more confident than truthful, let us look more closely at how people live. This will show more clearly how generously I give everywhere. It will also show how much people respect and value me, from the highest ranks to the lowest. To prove this, going through every case would be too tedious. I shall mention only the most noteworthy groups, so we may easily judge the rest by comparison. Indeed, why list the common people and the rabble one by one? Beyond all question, they are entirely on my side. As a sign of their service to me, they wear my uniform in countless forms of Folly, old and newly invented. The lungs of a thousand Democrituses could never sustain all the laughter such a spectacle would provoke. And we must add one more to those thousand, to laugh at them as much as they laugh at others.

It is indeed almost incredible to relate what mirth, what sport, what diversion, the grovelling inhabitants here on earth give to the above-seated gods in heaven: for these exalted deities spend their fasting sober hours in listening to those petitions that are offered up, and in succouring such as they are appealed to by for redress; but when they are a little entered at a glass of nectar, they then throw off all serious concerns, and go and place themselves on the ascent of some promontory in heaven, and from thence survey the little mole-hill of earth. And trust me, there cannot be a more delightsome prospect, than to view such a theatre so stuffed and crammed with swarms of fools. One falls desperately in love, and the more he is slighted the more does his spaniel-like passion increase; another is wedded to wealth rather than to a wife; a third pimps for his own spouse, and is content to be a cuckold so he may wear his horns gilt; a fourth is haunted with a jealousy of his visiting neighbours; another sobs and roars, and plays the child, for the death of a friend or relation; and lest his own tears should not rise high enough to express the torrent of his grief, he hires other mourners to accompany the corpse to the grave, and sing its requiem in sighs and lamentations; another hypocritically weeps at the funeral of one whose death at heart he rejoices for; here a gluttonous cormorant, whatever he can scrape up, thrusts all into his guts to pacify the cryings of a hungry stomach; there a lazy wretch sits yawning and stretching, and thinks nothing so desirable as sleep and idleness; some are extremely industrious in other men's business, and sottishly neglectful of their own; some think themselves rich because their credit is great, though they can never pay, till they break, and compound for their debts; one is so covetous that he lives poor to die rich; one for a little uncertain gain will venture to cross the roughest seas, and expose his life for the purchase of a livelihood; another will depend on the plunders of war, rather than on the honest gains of peace; some will close with and humour such warm old blades as have a good estate, and no children of their own to bestow it upon; others practice the same art of wheedling upon good old women, that have hoarded and coffered up more bags than they know how to dispose of; both of these sly flatteries make fine sport for the gods, when they are beat at their own weapons, and (as oft happens) are gulled by those very persons they intended to make a prey of.

It is almost unbelievable how much laughter, amusement, and entertainment the lowly inhabitants of earth provide for the gods above. These lofty deities spend their sober hours before drinking listening to prayers and helping those who appeal to them. But once the gods have had a little nectar, they put aside all serious concerns. They settle on a high ridge in heaven and look down at earth, that little molehill. And believe me, no sight could be more delightful than a stage so packed with swarms of fools. One man falls desperately in love, and the more he is rejected, the stronger his doglike devotion grows. Another is married to money rather than to his wife. A third acts as a pimp for his own wife. He is happy to wear a cuckold’s horns, as long as the horns are gilded. A fourth is tormented by jealousy of the neighbors who visit his home. Another sobs, howls, and behaves like a child over the death of a friend or relative. And fearing his own tears cannot express the full flood of his grief, he hires other mourners. They accompany the body to the grave and sing its requiem in sighs and lamentations. Another sheds false tears at the funeral of someone whose death secretly delights him. Here, a greedy glutton stuffs everything he can scrape together into his belly to silence his hungry stomach. There, a lazy wretch sits yawning and stretching, finding nothing more desirable than sleep and idleness. Some work extremely hard at other people’s business while foolishly neglecting their own. Some think themselves rich because they can borrow so much. Yet they can never repay their debts until they go bankrupt and negotiate a settlement. One man is so greedy that he lives poor so he can die rich. Another risks the roughest seas for a small, uncertain profit, endangering his life to earn a living. Another would rather live on the spoils of war than the honest earnings of peace. Some befriend and flatter wealthy old fellows who have no children to inherit their estates. Others use the same tricks on kindly old women who have hoarded more money than they know what to do with. Both sorts of sly flatterers give the gods fine entertainment when their own tricks are turned against them. As often happens, the flatterers are fooled by the very people they meant to prey on.

There is another sort of base scoundrels in gentility, such scraping merchants, who although, for the better vent of their commodities they lie, swear, cheat, and practice all the intrigues of dishonesty, yet think themselves no way inferior to persons of the highest quality, only because they have raked together a plentiful estate; and there are not wanting such insinuating hangers on, as shall caress and compliment them with the greatest respect, in hopes to go snacks in some of their dishonest gains; there are others so infected with the philosophical paradox of banishing property, and having all things in common, that they make no conscience of fastening on, and purloining whatever they can get, and converting it to their own use and possession; there are some who are rich only in wishes, and yet while they barely dream of vast mountains of wealth, they are as happy as if their imaginary fancies commenced real truths; some put on the best side outermost, and starve themselves at home to appear gay and splendid abroad; one with an open-handed freedom spends all he lays his fingers on; another with a logic-fisted gripingness catches at and grasps all he can come within the reach of; one apes it about in the streets to court popularity; another consults his ease, and sticks to the confinement of a chimney-corner; many others are tugging hard at law for a trifle, and drive on an endless suit, only to enrich a deferring judge, or a knavish advocate; one is for new-modelling a settled government; another is for some notable heroical attempt; and a third by all means must travel a pilgrim to Rome, Jerusalem, or some shrine of a saint elsewhere, though he have no other business than the paying of a formal impertinent visit, leaving his wife and children to fast, while he himself forsooth is gone to pray.

There is another kind of low scoundrel who passes for a gentleman: the money-grubbing merchant. To sell their goods more readily, such merchants lie, swear, cheat, and practice every trick of dishonesty. Yet they think themselves equal to people of the highest rank, simply because they have scraped together a fortune. Nor do they lack flattering hangers-on who greet them warmly and treat them with the greatest respect. These flatterers hope to share in some of the merchants’ dishonest profits. Others are so infected with the philosophical paradox of abolishing private property and sharing everything that they steal without a qualm. They seize and steal whatever they can get, turning it into their own property for their own use. Some are rich only in their wishes. Yet merely dreaming of vast mountains of wealth makes them as happy as if those fantasies had come true. Some show only their best side, starving themselves at home so they can look fashionable and splendid in public. One spends everything he gets his hands on with open-handed generosity. Another clutches greedily at everything within reach and holds on with a tight fist. One struts about the streets like a performing monkey to win popularity. Another prefers his comfort and stays tucked away by the fire. Many others fight hard in court over a trifle, dragging out endless lawsuits. These suits only enrich a judge who keeps delaying matters or a crooked lawyer. One wants to reshape an established government. Another is bent on some grand heroic undertaking. A third simply must go on pilgrimage to Rome, Jerusalem, or some saint’s shrine elsewhere. Yet he has no business there beyond paying a pointless ceremonial visit. He leaves his wife and children to go hungry while he, of course, has gone off to pray.

In short, if (as Lucian fancies Menippus to have done heretofore,) any man could now again look down from the orb of the moon, he would see thick swarms as it were of flies and gnats, that were quarrelling with each other, justling, fighting, fluttering, skipping, playing, just new produced, soon after decaying, and then immediately vanishing; and it can scarce be thought how many tumults and tragedies so inconsiderate a creature as man does give occasion to, and that in so short a space as the small span of life; subject to so many casualties, that the sword, pestilence, and other epidemic accidents, shall many times sweep away whole thousands at a brush.

In short, suppose someone could once again look down from the moon, as Lucian imagined Menippus once did. That observer would see dense swarms of people, like flies and gnats, quarreling, jostling, fighting, fluttering, leaping, and playing. Newly born, they would soon decay and then vanish altogether. It is almost unimaginable how much turmoil and tragedy so insignificant a creature as man causes. And all of it happens within the brief span of human life. Human beings face so many hazards that war, plague, and other widespread disasters often sweep away thousands at a stroke.

But hold; I should but expose myself too far, and incur the guilt of being roundly laughed at, if I proceed to enumerate the several kinds of the folly of the vulgar. I shall confine therefore my following discourse only to such as challenge the repute of wisdom, and seemingly pass for men of the soundest intellectuals. Among whom the Grammarians present themselves in the front, a sort of men who would be the most miserable, the most slavish, and the most hateful of all persons, if I did not in some way alleviate the pressures and miseries of their profession by blessing them with a bewitching sort of madness: for they are not only liable to those five curses, which they so oft recite from the first five verses of Homer, but to five hundred more of a worse nature; as always damned to thirst and hunger, to be choked with dust in their unswept schools (schools, shall I term them, or rather elaboratories, nay, bridewells, and houses of correction?), to wear out themselves in fret and drudgery; to be deafened with the noise of gaping boys; and in short, to be stifled with heat and stench; and yet they cheerfully dispense with all these inconveniences, and, by the help of a fond conceit, think themselves as happy as any men living: taking a great pride and delight in frowning and looking big upon the trembling urchins, in boxing, slashing, striking with the ferula, and in the exercise of all their other methods of tyranny; while thus lording it over a parcel of young, weak chits, they imitate the Cuman ass, and think themselves as stately as a lion, that domineers over all the inferior herd. Elevated with this conceit, they can hold filth and nastiness to be an ornament; can reconcile their nose to the most intolerable smells; and finally, think their wretched slavery the most arbitrary kingdom, which they would not exchange for the jurisdiction of the most sovereign potentate: and they are yet more happy by a strong persuasion of their own parts and abilities; for thus when their employment is only to rehearse silly stories, and poetical fictions, they will yet think themselves wiser than the best experienced philosopher; nay, they have an art of making ordinary people, such as their school boys' fond parents, to think them as considerable as their own pride has made them. Add hereunto this other sort of ravishing pleasure: when any of them has found out who was the mother of Anchises, or has lighted upon some old unusual word, such as bubsequa, bovinator, manticulator, or other like obsolete cramp terms; or can, after a great deal of poring, spell out the inscription of some battered monument; Lord! what joy, what triumph, what congratulating their success, as if they had conquered Africa, or taken Babylon the Great! When they recite some of their frothy, bombast verses, if any happen to admire them, they are presendy flushed with the least hint of commendation, and devoudy thank Pythagoras for his grateful hypothesis, whereby they are now become actuated with a descent of Virgil's poetic soul. Nor is any divertisement more pleasant, than when they meet to flatter and curry one another; yet they are so critical, that if any one hap to be guilty of the least slip, or seeming blunder, another shall presendy correct him for it, and then to it they go in a tongue-combat, with all the fervour, spleen, and eagerness imaginable. May Priscian himself be my enemy if what I am now going to say be not exactly true. I knew an old Sophister that was a Grecian, a latinist, a mathematician, a philosopher, a musician, and all to the utmost perfection, who, after threescore years' experience in the world, had spent the last twenty of them only in drudging to conquer the criticisms of grammar, and made it the chief part of his prayers, that his life might be so long spared till he had learned how righdy to distinguish betwixt the eight parts of speech, which no grammarian, whether Greek or Latin, had yet accurately done. If any chance to have placed that as a conjunction which ought to have been used as an adverb, it is a sufficient alarm to raise a war for doing justice to the injured word. And since there have been as many several grammars, as particular grammarians (nay, more, for Aldus alone wrote five distinct grammars for his own share), the schoolmaster must be obliged to consult them all, sparing for no time nor trouble, though never so great, lest he should be otherwise posed in an unobserved criticism, and so by an irreparable disgrace lose the reward of all his toil. It is indifferent to me whether you call this folly or madness, since you must needs confess that it is by my influence these school-tyrants, though in never so despicable a condition, are so happy in their own thoughts, that they would not change fortunes with the most illustrious Sophi of Persia.

But wait. I would expose myself too much and deserve a good laugh if I listed every kind of ordinary people's folly. So I will limit what follows to those who claim a reputation for wisdom and supposedly have the soundest minds. First among these come the Grammarians. These men would be the most miserable, most enslaved, and most hated people of all without my help. I ease the burdens and miseries of their profession by blessing them with an enchanting kind of madness. They suffer not only the five curses they so often recite from Homer's first five verses, but five hundred worse ones. They are forever condemned to thirst and hunger, choking on dust in their unswept schools. Should I call them schools, or rather workshops of torment, or even prisons and houses of correction? They wear themselves out with worry and drudgery. The noise of open-mouthed boys deafens them. In short, heat and stench suffocate them. Yet they cheerfully put up with all these hardships. Thanks to a foolish opinion of themselves, they believe they are as happy as anyone alive. They take enormous pride and pleasure in scowling and looking fierce at the trembling children. They slap them, whip them, strike them with a schoolmaster's rod, and practice every other method of tyranny. By lording it over a crowd of young, helpless children, they imitate the Cuman ass. They imagine themselves as majestic as a lion ruling all the lesser animals. Carried away by this belief, they can regard filth and dirt as ornaments. They can train their noses to accept the most unbearable smells. Finally, they think their miserable slavery is a kingdom where they rule without restraint. They would not exchange it for the authority of the mightiest ruler. Their firm belief in their own talents and abilities makes them happier still. Although their work consists only of repeating silly stories and poetic inventions, they consider themselves wiser than the most experienced philosopher. Indeed, they know how to persuade ordinary people, such as their pupils' doting parents, to share their inflated self-esteem. Add another kind of overwhelming pleasure. One of them discovers who Anchises' mother was, or comes across an old, unusual word. Perhaps it is bubsequa, bovinator, manticulator, or some other equally obscure, obsolete term. Or, after long study, he manages to decipher the inscription on some battered monument. Lord, what joy, what triumph, what congratulations on his success! You would think he had conquered Africa or captured Babylon the Great! When they recite some of their empty, pompous verses, the slightest praise makes them glow, if anyone happens to admire them. They devoutly thank Pythagoras for his delightful theory, according to which Virgil's poetic soul has now passed into them. Nor is any entertainment more pleasant than their meetings to flatter and butter one another up. Yet they are so critical that the slightest slip, or apparent mistake, immediately draws a correction from another. Then they launch into a battle of words, with all the passion, spite, and eagerness imaginable. May Priscian himself be my enemy if what I am about to say is not exactly true. I knew an old scholar skilled in debate. He was a master of Greek, Latin, mathematics, philosophy, and music, all to the highest degree of perfection. After sixty years in the world, he had spent the last twenty laboring over the fine points of grammar alone. His chief prayer was to live long enough to learn how to distinguish correctly between the eight parts of speech. No Greek or Latin grammarian had yet done so accurately. If anyone happens to classify as a conjunction a word that should be an adverb, that is enough. The alarm sounds for a war to defend the wronged word. And there have been as many different grammars as individual grammarians. Indeed, there have been more, since Aldus alone wrote five distinct grammars. So the schoolmaster must consult them all, sparing neither time nor trouble, however great. Otherwise, he risks being stumped by some overlooked fine point. Such an irreparable disgrace would cost him the reward for all his labor. I do not care whether you call this folly or madness. You must admit that my influence makes these school tyrants happy in their own minds, however contemptible their circumstances. They would not exchange their fortunes for those of the most illustrious Sophi of Persia.

The Poets, however somewhat less beholden to me, own a professed dependence on me, being a sort of lawless blades, that by prescription claim a license to a proverb, while the whole intent of their profession is only to smooth up and tickle the ears of fools, that by mere toys and fabulous shams, with which (however ridiculous) they are so bolstered up in an airy imagination, as to promise themselves an everlasting name, and promise, by their balderdash, at the same time to celebrate the never-dying memory of others. To these rapturous wits self-love and flattery are never-failing attendants; nor do any prove more zealous or constant devotees to folly.

The Poets, though somewhat less indebted to me, openly admit their dependence on me. They are a lawless bunch who claim, by long-established custom, a freedom so great it has become proverbial. Yet their profession aims only to flatter fools and tickle their ears with mere trifles and made-up tales. Ridiculous as these inventions are, they fill the Poets with such wild fantasies that they expect everlasting fame. Through the same nonsense, the Poets also promise to keep the memory of others alive forever. Self-love and flattery are constant companions to these inspired wits. Nor does anyone serve folly with greater zeal or devotion.

The Rhetoricians likewise, though they are ambitious of being ranked among the Philosophers, yet are apparently of my faction, as appears among other arguments, by this more especially; in that among their several topics of completing the art of oratory, they all particularly insist upon the knack of jesting, which is one species of folly; as is evident from the books of oratory wrote to Herennius, put among Cicero's work, but done by some other unknown author; and in Quintilian, that great master of eloquence, there is one large chapter spent in prescribing the methods of raising laughter: in short, they may well attribute a great efficacy to folly, since on any argument they can many times by a slight laugh over what they could never seriously confute.

Teachers of rhetoric likewise hope to be ranked among the Philosophers, but they clearly belong to my faction. Among other evidence, one point makes their allegiance especially clear. In teaching the art of public speaking, they all particularly stress the knack of joking, one form of folly. The books on public speaking addressed to Herennius make this clear. These books appear among Cicero's works, but some other, unknown author wrote them. And Quintilian, that great master of eloquence, devotes an entire long chapter to methods of making people laugh. In short, teachers of rhetoric may well credit folly with great power. For in any argument, a little laughter can often dismiss what they could never seriously refute.

Of the same gang are those scribbling fops, who think to eternize their memory by setting up for authors: among which, though they are all some way indebted to me, yet are those more especially so, who spoil paper in blotting it with mere trifles and impertinences. For as to those graver drudgers to the press, that write learnedly, beyond the reach of an ordinary reader, who durst submit their labours to the review of the most severe critic, these are not so liable to be envied for their honour, as to be pitied for their sweat and slavery. They make additions, alterations, blot out, write anew, amend, interline, turn it upside down, and yet can never please their fickle judgment, but that they shall dislike the next hour what they penned the former; and all this to purchase the airy commendations of a few understanding readers, which at most is but a poor reward for all their fastings, watchings, confinements, and brain-breaking tortures of invention. Add to this the impairing of their health, the weakening of their constitution, their contracting sore eyes, or perhaps turning stark blind; their poverty, their envy, their debarment from all pleasures, their hastening on old age, their untimely death, and what other inconveniences of a like or worse nature can be thought upon: and yet the recompense for all this severe penance is at best no more than a mouthful or two of frothy praise. These, as they are more laborious, so are they less happy than those other hackney scribblers which I first mentioned, who never stand much to consider, but write what comes next at a venture, knowing that the more silly their composures are, the more they will be bought up by the greater number of readers, who are fools and blockheads: and if they hap to be condemned by some few judicious persons, it is an easy matter by clamour to drown their censure, and to silence them by urging the more numerous commendations of others. They are yet the wisest who transcribe whole discourses from others, and then reprint them as their own. By doing so they make a cheap and easy seizure to themselves of that reputation which cost the first author so much time and trouble to procure. If they are at any time pricked a little in conscience for fear of discovery, they feed themselves however with this hope, that if they be at last found plagiaries, yet at least for some time they have the credit of passing for the genuine authors. It is pleasant to see how all these several writers are puffed up with the least blast of applause, especially if they come to the honour of being pointed at as they walk along the streets, when their several pieces are laid open upon every bookseller's stall, when their names are embossed in a different character upon the tide-page, sometime only with the two first letters, and sometime with fictitious cramp terms, which few shall understand the meaning of; and of those that do, all shall not agree in their verdict of the performance; some censuring, others approving it, men's judgments being as different as their palates, that being toothsome to one which is unsavoury and nauseous to another: though it is a sneaking piece of cowardice for authors to put feigned names to their works, as if, like bastards of their brain, they were afraid to own them. Thus one styles himself Telemachus, another Stelenus, a third Polycrates, another Thrasyma-chus, and so on. By the same liberty we may ransack the whole alphabet, and jumble together any letters that come next to hand. It is farther very pleasant when these coxcombs employ their pens in writing congratulatory episdes, poems, and panegyricks, upon each other, wherein one shall be complimented with the title of Alcaeus, another shall be charactered for the incomparable Callimachus; this shall be commended for a completer orator than Tully himself; a fourth shall be told by his fellow-fool that the divine Plato comes short of him for a philosophic soul. Sometime again they take up the cudgels, and challenge out an antagonist, and so get a name by a combat at dispute and controversy, while the unwary readers draw sides according to their different judgments: the longer the quarrel holds the more irreconcilable it grows; and when both parties are weary, they each pretend themselves the conquerors, and both lay claim to the credit of coming off with victory. These fooleries make sport for wise men, as being highly absurd, ridiculous and extravagant True, but yet these paper-combatants, by my assistance, are so flushed with a conceit of their own greatness, that they prefer the solving of a syllogism before the sacking of Carthage; and upon the defeat of a poor objection carry themselves more triumphant than the most victorious Scipio.

In the same gang are those vain scribblers who hope to make their names immortal by becoming authors. All owe something to me. But those who waste paper on sheer nonsense and irrelevance owe me most. As for the serious slaves of the printing press, they write learned works beyond the ordinary reader’s reach. They dare to submit their work to the harshest critic. Such writers deserve less envy for their glory than pity for their exhausting slavery. They add, alter, cross out, rewrite, correct, squeeze words between lines, and turn everything upside down. Yet they can never satisfy their shifting judgment. The next hour, they dislike what they wrote the hour before. And all this buys them only the empty praise of a few knowledgeable readers. At best, that is a poor reward for their fasting, sleepless nights, confinement, and brain-racking struggles to invent something. Add their damaged health, weakened bodies, sore eyes, and perhaps complete blindness. Add their poverty, their envy, their exclusion from all pleasures, their premature aging, and their early deaths. Add whatever other troubles of the same kind, or worse, anyone can imagine. Yet the reward for all this harsh penance is, at best, a mouthful or two of frothy praise. These writers work harder but are less happy than the hacks I mentioned first. Those hacks hardly pause to think. They write whatever comes into their heads, trusting to chance. They know that the sillier their writing, the more copies the larger reading public will buy. Those readers are fools and blockheads. And if a few discerning people happen to condemn their work, the hacks can easily shout down their criticism. They silence the critics by pointing to the greater number who praise them. The wisest writers of all copy entire works by others and then publish them as their own. They cheaply and easily seize the reputation that cost the original author so much time and trouble. If fear of discovery gives their conscience a little prick, they still comfort themselves with a hope. Even if they are eventually exposed as plagiarists, they have at least enjoyed passing for the real authors. It is delightful to see all these writers swell with pride at the slightest breath of applause. They are especially pleased if people honor them by pointing them out as they walk through the streets. Their works lie open on every bookseller’s stall. Their names appear in distinctive lettering on the title page. Sometimes they use only their first two initials. Sometimes they use strange, contrived names whose meaning few will understand. And even those who understand will not all agree about the work. Some condemn it, while others approve. People’s judgments differ as much as their tastes. What delights one person tastes foul and sickening to another. Still, authors show sneaking cowardice when they put false names on their works. They seem afraid to acknowledge these illegitimate children of their brains. So one calls himself Telemachus, another Stelenus, a third Polycrates, another Thrasyma-chus, and so on. With the same freedom, we might ransack the whole alphabet and jumble together whatever letters come to hand. It is also delightful when these conceited fools write congratulatory letters, poems, and songs of praise for one another. One receives the flattering title of Alcaeus. Another is described as the incomparable Callimachus. Another is praised as a more accomplished orator than Tully himself. A fourth hears from his fellow fool that even the divine Plato lacks his philosophical spirit. At other times, these writers take up arms and challenge an opponent. They make a name for themselves through battles of argument and controversy. Meanwhile, unsuspecting readers take sides according to their different judgments. The longer the quarrel lasts, the less chance there is of reconciliation. When both sides are exhausted, each claims to have won. Both demand the credit for coming away victorious. These follies amuse wise people because they are so absurd, ridiculous, and extravagant. True enough. Yet, with my help, these paper warriors are so puffed up with their own importance that they value solving a syllogism above sacking Carthage. After defeating some feeble objection, they strut more triumphantly than Scipio at his most victorious.

Nay, even the learned and more judicious, that have wit enough to laugh at the other's folly, are very much beholden to my goodness; which (except ingratitude have drowned their ingenuity), they must be ready upon all occasions to confess. Among these I suppose the lawyers will shuffle in for precedence, and they of all men have the greatest conceit of their own abilities. They will argue as confidently as if they spoke gospel instead of law; they will cite you six hundred several precedents, though not one of them come near to the case in hand; they will muster up the authority of judgments, deeds, glosses, and reports, and tumble over so many musty records, that they make their employ, though in itself easy, the greatest slavery imaginable; always accounting that the best plea which they have took most pains for.

Even the learned and more sensible, who are clever enough to laugh at others’ folly, owe much to my kindness. They must be ready to admit this debt at every opportunity, unless ingratitude has drowned their honesty. Among them, I suppose the lawyers will elbow their way to the front. Of all men, they have the highest opinion of their own abilities. They argue as confidently as if they were preaching the gospel rather than stating the law. They quote six hundred different precedents, though not one comes close to the case at hand. They pile up authoritative judgments, deeds, commentaries, and reports, and rummage through so many musty records. In doing so, they turn their work, though easy in itself, into the worst drudgery imaginable. They always consider the best argument to be the one they have worked hardest on.

To these, as bearing great resemblance to them, may be added logicians and sophisters, fellows that talk as much by rote as a parrot; who shall run down a whole gossiping of old women, nay, silence the very noise of a belfry, with louder clappers than those of the steeple; and if their unappeasable clamorousness were their only fault it would admit of some excuse; but they are at the same time so fierce and quarrelsome, that they will wrangle bloodily for the least trifle, and be so over intent and eager, that they many times lose their game in the chase and fright away that truth they are hunting for. Yet self-conceit makes these nimble disputants such doughty champions, that armed with three or four close-linked syllogisms, they shall enter the lists with the greatest masters of reason, and not question the foiling of them in an irresistible way, nay, their obstinacy makes them so confident of their being in the right, that all the arguments in the world shall never convince them to the contrary.

To these we may add logicians and sophists, who closely resemble them. These fellows chatter by rote like parrots. They can drown out a whole gathering of gossiping old women. Indeed, they can silence a bell tower, with tongues louder than the clappers of its bells. If their endless racket were their only fault, we could make some excuse for them. But they are also so fierce and quarrelsome that they will fight bitterly over the smallest trifle. They pursue their arguments so eagerly that they often lose their prey in the chase, frightening away the truth they seek. Yet vanity makes these quick-witted debaters into such mighty champions. Armed with three or four tightly linked syllogisms, they will challenge the greatest masters of reasoning. They have no doubt they will defeat these masters with an irresistible argument. Indeed, their stubbornness makes them so certain they are right that all the arguments in the world cannot convince them otherwise.

Next to these come the philosophers in their long beards and short cloaks, who esteem themselves the only favourites of wisdom, and look upon the rest of mankind as the dirt and rubbish of the creation: yet these men's happiness is only a frantic craziness of brain; they build castles in the air, and infinite worlds in a vacuum. They will give you to a hair's breadth the dimensions of the sun, moon, and stars, as easily as they would do that of a flaggon or pipkin: they will give a punctual account of the rise of thunder, of the origin of winds, of the nature of eclipses, and of all the other abstrusest difficulties in physics, without the least demur or hesitation, as if they had been admitted into the cabinet council of nature, or had been eye-witnesses to all the accurate methods of creation; though alas nature does but laugh at all their puny conjectures; for they never yet made one considerable discovery, as appears in that they are unanimously agreed in no one point of the smallest moment; nothing so plain or evident but what by some or other is opposed and contradicted. But though they are ignorant of the artificial contexture of the least insect, they vaunt however, and brag that they know all things, when indeed they are unable to construe the mechanism of their own body: nay, when they are so purblind as not to be able to see a stone's cast before them, yet they shall be as sharp-sighted as possible in spying-out ideas, universals separate forms, first matters, quiddities, formalities, and a hundred such like niceties, so diminutively small, that were not their eyes extremely magnifying, all the art of optics could never make them discernible. But they then most despise the low grovelling vulgar when they bring out their parallels, triangles, circles, and other mathematical figures, drawn up in battalia, like so many spells and charms of conjuration in muster, with letters to refer to the explication of the several problems; hereby raising devils as it were, only to have the credit of laying them, and amusing the ordinary spectators into wonder, because they have not wit enough to understand the juggle. Of these some undertake to profess themselves judicial astrologers, pretending to keep correspondence with the stars, and so from their information can resolve any query; and though it is all but a presumptuous imposture, yet some to be sure will be so great fools as to believe them.

Next come the philosophers, with their long beards and short cloaks. They consider themselves wisdom’s only favorites and regard the rest of humanity as the dirt and rubbish of creation. Yet their happiness is nothing but raving madness. They build castles in the air and infinite worlds in a vacuum. They can give you the dimensions of the sun, moon, and stars down to a hair’s breadth. They do so as easily as they would measure a jug or a small cooking pot. They explain exactly how thunder arises, where winds come from, what causes eclipses, and every other obscure problem in physics. They do so without the slightest doubt or hesitation, as if nature had admitted them to her private council. Or as if they had watched every precise step of creation themselves. Yet alas, nature only laughs at all their feeble guesses. For they have never made a single significant discovery. The evidence is that they cannot unanimously agree on even one point of the slightest importance. Nothing is so plain or obvious that some philosopher does not dispute and contradict it. Although they cannot understand how the smallest insect is put together, they boast and brag that they know everything. In fact, they cannot even explain how their own bodies work. They are so shortsighted that they cannot see a stone’s throw ahead. Yet they have the keenest possible eyesight when spotting ideas, universals, separate forms, first matters, quiddities, formalities, and a hundred similar subtleties. These are so tiny that, without their enormously magnifying eyes, no optical device could ever make them visible. But their contempt for the lowly, earthbound masses reaches its height when they bring out their mathematical figures. Their parallel lines, triangles, circles, and other figures stand in battle formation, like so many spells and charms assembled together. Letters point to explanations of the various problems. In this way, they seem to raise devils only to claim the credit for banishing them. They dazzle ordinary spectators into wonder because the spectators lack the wit to understand the trick. Some of these philosophers set themselves up as judicial astrologers, claiming to predict events from the stars. They pretend to exchange messages with the stars and so can answer any question from the information received. Although all this is nothing but an arrogant fraud, some people are sure to be foolish enough to believe them.

The divines present themselves next; but it may perhaps be most safe to pass them by, and not to touch upon so harsh a string as this subject would afford. Beside, the undertaking may be very hazardous; for they are a sort of men generally very hot and passionate; and should I provoke them, I doubt not would set upon me with a full cry, and force me with shame to recant, which if I stubbornly refuse to do, they will presently brand me for a heretic, and thunder out an excommunication, which is their spiritual weapon to wound such as lift up a hand against them. It is true, no men own a less dependence on me, yet have they reason to confess themselves indebted for no small obligations. For it is by one of my properties, self-love, that they fancy themselves, with their elder brother Paul, caught up into the third heaven, from whence, like shepherds indeed, they look down upon their flock, the laity, grazing as it were, in the vales of the world below. They fence themselves in with so many surrounders of magisterial definitions, conclusions, corollaries, propositions explicit and implicit, that there is no falling in with them; or if they do chance to be urged to a seeming non-plus, yet they find out so many evasions, that all the art of man can never bind them so fast, but that an easy distinction shall give them a starting-hole to escape the scandal of being baffled. They will cut asunder the toughest argument with as much ease as Alexander did the gordian knot; they will thunder out so many rattling terms as shall fright an adversary into conviction. They are exquisitely dexterous in unfolding the most intricate mysteries; they will tell you to a tittle all the successive proceedings of Omnipotence in the creation of the universe; they will explain the precise manner of original sin being derived from our first parents; they will satisfy you in what manner, by what degrees, and in how long a time, our Saviour was conceived in the Virgin's womb, and demonstrate in the consecrated wafer how accidents may subsist without a subject. Nay, these are accounted trivial, easy questions; they have yet far greater difficulties behind, which notwithstanding they solve with as much expedition as the former; as namely, whether supernatural generation requires any instant of time for its acting? whether Christ, as a son, bears a double specifically distinct relation to God the Father, and his virgin mother? whether this proposition is possible to be true, the first person of the Trinity hated the second? whether God, who took our nature upon him in the form of a man, could as well have become a woman, a devil, a beast, a herb, or a stone? and were it so possible that the Godhead had appeared in any shape of an inanimate substance, how he should then have preached his gospel? or how have been nailed to the cross? whether if St. Peter had celebrated the eucharist at the same time our Saviour was hanging on the cross, the consecrated bread would have been transubstantiated into the same body that remained on the tree? whether in Christ's corporal presence in the sacramental wafer, his humanity be not abstracted from his Godhead? whether after the resurrection we shall carnally eat and drink as we do in this life?

The theologians come next. But perhaps it would be safest to pass them by, rather than strike so jarring a note. Besides, the attempt may be very dangerous, since these men are generally hotheaded and quick to anger. If I provoked them, I have no doubt they would attack me with a great outcry. They would force me to recant in shame. If I stubbornly refused, they would immediately brand me a heretic and thunder out an excommunication. Excommunication is their spiritual weapon for wounding anyone who raises a hand against them. True, no men admit to depending on me less. Yet they have reason to acknowledge that they owe me a great deal. Through self-love, one of my qualities, they imagine themselves caught up into the third heaven, like their elder brother Paul. From there, like true shepherds, they look down on their flock, the laity, grazing in the world's valleys below. They barricade themselves behind so many authoritative definitions, conclusions, corollaries, and explicit and implicit propositions that no one can reach them. Even if an argument seems to leave them stumped, they find countless ways to evade it. All human skill cannot pin them down so tightly that some simple distinction cannot offer an escape. So they avoid the disgrace of being defeated. They cut through the toughest argument as easily as Alexander cut the Gordian knot. They thunder out so many clattering technical terms that their opponents are frightened into agreement. They are extraordinarily skilled at explaining the most tangled mysteries. They will tell you exactly how Omnipotence proceeded, step by step, in creating the universe. They will explain precisely how original sin passes down from our first parents. They will explain how our Saviour was conceived in the Virgin's womb, by what stages, and over what time. They will demonstrate how the consecrated wafer's properties can exist without any underlying substance. Indeed, they consider these questions trivial and easy. They have far greater difficulties in reserve, yet solve them just as quickly. For example, does supernatural generation require even an instant of time to take place? Does Christ, as a son, have two specifically different relationships, one to God the Father and another to his virgin mother? Could the statement that the first person of the Trinity hated the second possibly be true? God took on our nature in the form of a man. Could he just as well have become a woman, a devil, a beast, a plant, or a stone? And if the Godhead could have appeared in some inanimate form, how would he then have preached his gospel? Or how would he have been nailed to the cross? What if St. Peter had celebrated the eucharist while our Saviour was hanging on the cross? Would the consecrated bread have been transubstantiated into the same body that remained on the cross? When Christ is bodily present in the sacramental wafer, is his humanity separated from his Godhead? After the resurrection, shall we physically eat and drink as we do in this life?

There are a thousand other more sublimated and refined niceties of notions, relations, quantities, formalities, quiddities, haeccities, and such like abstrusities, as one would think no one could pry into, except he had not only such cat's eyes as to see best in the dark, but even such a piercing faculty as to see through an inch-board, and spy out what really never had any being. Add to these some of their tenets and opinions, which are so absurd and extravagant, that the wildest fancies of the Stoicks which they so much disdain and decry as paradoxes, seem in comparison just and rational; as their maintaining, that it is a less aggravating fault to kill a hundred men, than for a poor cobbler to set a stitch on the sabbath-day; or, that it is more justifiable to do the greatest injury imaginable to others, than to tell the least lie ourselves. And these subtleties are alchymized to a more refined sublimate by the abstracting brains of their several schoolmen; the Realists, the Nominalists, the Thomists, the Albertists, the Occamists, the Scotists; these are not all, but the rehearsal of a few only, as a specimen of their divided sects; in each of which there is so much of deep learning, so much of unfathomable difficulty, that I believe the apostles themselves would stand in need of a new illuminating spirit, if they were to engage in any controversy with these new divines. St. Paul, no question, had a full measure of faith; yet when he lays down faith to be the substance of things not seen, these men carp at it for an imperfect definition, and would undertake to teach the apostles better logic. Thus the same holy author wanted for nothing of the grace of charity, yet (say they) he describes and defines it but very inaccurately, when he treats of it in the thirteenth chapter of his first epistle to the Corinthians. The primitive disciples were very frequent in administering the holy sacrament, breaking bread from house to house; yet should they be asked of the Terminus a quo and the Terminus ad quern, the nature of transubstantiation? the manner how one body can be in several places at the same time? the difference betwixt the several attributes of Christ in heaven, on the cross, and in the consecrated bread? what time is required for the transubstantiating the bread into flesh? how it can be done by a short sentence pronounced by the priest, which sentence is a species of discreet quantity, that has no permanent punctum? Were they asked (I say) these, and several other confused queries, I do not believe they could answer so readily as our mincing school-men now-a-days take a pride to do. They were well acquainted with the Virgin Mary, yet none of them undertook to prove that she was preserved immaculate from original sin, as some of our divines very hotly contend for. St. Peter had the keys given to him, and that by our Saviour himself, who had never entrusted him except he had known him capable of their manage and custody; and yet it is much to be questioned whether Peter was sensible of that subtlety broached by Scotus, that he may have the key of knowledge effectually for others, who has no knowledge actually in himself. Again, they baptized all nations, and yet never taught what was the formal, material, efficient, and final cause of baptism, and certainly never dreamt of distinguishing between a delible and an indelible character in this sacrament They worshipped in the spirit, following their master's injunction, God is a spirit, and they which worship him, must worship him in spirit, and in truth; yet it does not appear that it was ever revealed to them how divine adoration should be paid at the same time to our blessed Saviour in heaven, and to his picture here below on a wall, drawn with two fingers held out, a bald crown, and a circle round his head. To reconcile these intricacies to an appearance of reason requires three-score years' experience in metaphysics.

There are a thousand other lofty, refined distinctions involving notions, relations, quantities, formalities, quiddities, haeccities, and similar mysteries. You would think no one could investigate them without cat’s eyes that see best in the dark. Even those would not be enough. You would need eyes that could pierce an inch-thick board and spot things that never existed. Add to these some of their teachings and opinions, so absurd and outrageous that they make the wildest Stoic fantasies seem reasonable. Yet these men despise and denounce those fantasies as paradoxes. They maintain, for example, that killing a hundred men is less sinful than a poor cobbler making one stitch on the Sabbath. Or that doing others the greatest imaginable injury is more justifiable than telling the smallest lie ourselves. Their various scholastic thinkers distill these subtleties into something still more refined. These include the Realists, the Nominalists, the Thomists, the Albertists, the Occamists, and the Scotists. This is not the whole list, only a sample of their rival sects. Each sect possesses such profound learning and such unfathomable difficulties that even the apostles, I believe, would need fresh divine enlightenment. Otherwise, how could the apostles debate these new theologians? St. Paul undoubtedly had faith in full measure. Yet when he calls faith the substance of things unseen, these men find fault with his definition as incomplete. They would take it upon themselves to teach the apostles better logic. The same holy writer lacked nothing in the grace of charity. Yet, they say, he describes and defines charity very inaccurately in the thirteenth chapter of his first letter to the Corinthians. The earliest disciples frequently administered the holy sacrament, breaking bread from house to house. But suppose someone asked them about the Terminus a quo and the Terminus ad quern, the starting and ending points of transubstantiation. What is the nature of that transformation? How can one body be in several places at once? How do Christ’s various attributes differ in heaven, on the cross, and in the consecrated bread? How long does transforming the bread into flesh take? How can a short sentence spoken by the priest accomplish this? That sentence is a kind of discrete quantity, with no lasting punctum, or point. If the disciples faced these and several other tangled questions, I doubt they could answer so readily. Yet our dainty scholastic thinkers today pride themselves on doing just that. The disciples knew the Virgin Mary well. Yet none undertook to prove that she had been kept free from original sin, as some theologians now so fiercely insist. St. Peter received the keys from our Saviour himself. Our Saviour would never have entrusted Peter with them without knowing him capable of using and guarding them. Yet it is very doubtful whether Peter understood the subtle distinction Scotus introduced. According to Scotus, someone with no actual knowledge himself may still hold the key of knowledge effectively for others. Again, the apostles baptized all nations. Yet they never taught what the formal, material, efficient, and final causes of baptism were. And they certainly never dreamed of distinguishing between an erasable and an indelible mark in this sacrament. They worshipped in the spirit, following their master’s command: God is a spirit, and his worshippers must worship in spirit and truth. Yet apparently they never received a revelation explaining how to direct divine worship simultaneously to our blessed Saviour in heaven and his picture below. The picture is on a wall, showing him with two fingers extended, a bald crown, and a circle around his head. Making these complications look reasonable takes sixty years of experience in metaphysics.

Farther, the apostles often mention Grace, yet never distinguish between gratia, gratis data, and gratia gratificans. They earnestly exhort us likewise to good works, yet never explain the difference between Opus operans, and Opus operatum. They very frequently press and invite us to seek after charity, without dividing it into infused and acquired, or determining whether it be a substance or an accident, a created or an uncreated being. They detested sin themselves, and warned others from the commission of it; and yet I am sure they could never have defined so dogmatically, as the Scotists have since done. St. Paul, who in other's judgment is no less the chief of the apostles, than he was in his own the chief of sinners, who being bred at the feet of Gamaliel, was certainly more eminently a scholar than any of the rest, yet he often exclaims against vain philosophy, warns us from doting about questions and strifes of words, and charges us to avoid profane and vain babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called; which he would not have done, if he had thought it worth his while to have become acquainted with them, which he might soon have been, the disputes of that age being but small, and more intelligible sophisms, in reference to the vastly greater intricacies they are now improved to. But yet, however, our scholastic divines are so modest, that if they meet with any passage in St. Paul, or any other penman of holy writ, which is not so well modelled, or critically disposed of, as they could wish, they will not roughly condemn it, but bend it rather to a favorable interpretation, out of reverence to antiquity, and respect to the holy scriptures; though indeed it were unreasonable to expect anything of this nature from the apostles, whose lord and master had given unto them to know the mysteries of God, but not those of philosophy. If the same divines meet with anything of like nature unpalatable in St. Chrysostom, St. Basil, St. Hierom, or others of the fathers, they will not stick to appeal from their authority, and very fairly resolve that they lay under a mistake. Yet these ancient fathers were they who confuted both the Jews and Heathens, though they both obstinately adhered to their respective prejudices; they confuted them (I say), yet by their lives and miracles, rather than by words and syllogisms; and the persons they thus proselyted were downright honest, well meaning people, such as understood plain sense better than any artificial pomp of reasoning: whereas if our divines should now set about the gaining converts from paganism by their metaphysical subtleties, they would find that most of the persons they applied themselves to were either so ignorant as not at all to apprehend them, or so impudent as to scoff and deride them; or finally, so well skilled at the same weapons, that they would be able to keep their pass, and fence off all assaults of conviction: and this last way the victory would be altogether as hopeless, as if two persons were engaged of so equal strength, that it were impossible any one should overpower the other.

Furthermore, the apostles often mention Grace. Yet they never distinguish between gratia, gratis data, and gratia gratificans. They also urge us earnestly to do good works. Yet they never explain the difference between Opus operans, and Opus operatum. They very often urge and invite us to seek charity. But they do not divide charity into infused and acquired forms. Nor do they decide whether charity is a substance or an accident, a created or an uncreated being. They hated sin themselves and warned others against committing it. Yet I am sure they could never have defined sin as dogmatically as the Scotists have since done. In the judgment of others, St. Paul is as much the chief of apostles as, in his own, the chief of sinners. He studied under Gamaliel and was certainly a more distinguished scholar than any of the other apostles. Yet he often speaks out against empty philosophy. He warns us against obsessing over questions and quarrels about words. He tells us to avoid irreverent, empty chatter and the opposing claims of what is falsely called knowledge. He would not have done so if he had thought these subjects worth studying. He could soon have mastered them. The disputes of his day involved only minor sophistries, easier to understand than the vastly greater complexities developed since. Still, our scholastic theologians are so modest. They may find a passage in St. Paul or another biblical writer that lacks their preferred structure or precision. But they will not condemn the passage outright. Instead, they bend its meaning toward a favorable interpretation, out of reverence for antiquity and respect for the holy scriptures. Indeed, expecting such precision from the apostles would be unreasonable. Their lord and master had taught them the mysteries of God, but not those of philosophy. If these same theologians find something similarly unpalatable in St. Chrysostom, St. Basil, St. Hierom, or other Church Fathers, they have no hesitation. They challenge the Fathers’ authority and quite simply decide that the Fathers were mistaken. Yet these ancient Fathers refuted both the Jews and the Heathens, though both groups stubbornly clung to their respective prejudices. They refuted them, I say, but through their lives and miracles rather than words and syllogisms. The people they converted were thoroughly honest and well-meaning. Such people understood plain sense better than any elaborate display of reasoning. But suppose our theologians now tried to win converts from paganism through their metaphysical subtleties. Most of those they approached would prove either too ignorant to understand them or too impudent to do anything but mock them. Or else their listeners would be so skilled with the same weapons that they could hold their ground. They could parry every attempt to convince them. In this last case, victory would be just as hopeless as a contest between two people of exactly equal strength. Neither could possibly overpower the other.

If my judgment might be taken, I would advise Christians, in their next expedition to a holy war, instead of those many unsuccessful legions, which they have hitherto sent to encounter the Turks and Saracens, that they would furnish out their clamorous Scotists, their obstinate Occamists, their invincible Albertists, and all their forces of tough, crabbed and profound disputants: the engagement, I fancy, would be mighty pleasant, and the victory we may imagine on our side not to be questioned. For which of the enemies would not veil their turbans at so solemn an appearance? Which of the fiercest Janizaries would not throw away his scimitar, and all the half-moons be eclipsed by the interposition of so glorious an army?

If anyone would take my advice, I would offer Christians a suggestion for their next holy war. So far, they have sent many unsuccessful legions against the Turks and Saracens. Instead, let them send their noisy Scotists, their stubborn Occamists, their invincible Albertists, and all their formidable debaters. These men are tough, difficult, and profound. The battle, I imagine, would be wonderfully entertaining, and we may suppose our victory would be beyond doubt. For what enemy would not lower his turban at so imposing a sight? Which of the fiercest Janizaries would not throw away his scimitar? And would not all the crescent moons be eclipsed by the appearance of so glorious an army?

I suppose you mistrust I speak all this by way of jeer and irony; and well I may, since among divines themselves there are some so ingenious as to despise these captious and frivolous impertinences: they look upon it as a kind of profane sacrilege, and a little less than blasphemous impiety, to determine of such niceties in religion, as ought rather to be the subject of an humble and uncontradicting faith, than of a scrupulous and inquisitive reason: they abhor a defiling the mysteries of Christianity with an intermixture of heathenish philosophy, and judge it very improper to reduce divinity to an obscure speculative science, whose end is such a happiness as can be gained only by the means of practice. But alas, those notional divines, however condemned by the soberer judgment of others, are yet mightily pleased with themselves, and are so laboriously intent upon prosecuting their crabbed studies, that they cannot afford so much time as to read a single chapter in any one book of the whole bible. And while they thus trifle away their misspent hours in trash and babble, they think that they support the Catholic Church with the props and pillars of propositions and syllogisms, no less effectually than Atlas is feigned by the poets to sustain on his shoulders the burden of a tottering world.

I suppose you suspect that I say all this in mockery and irony. And well I may, since even among theologians some are perceptive enough to despise these petty, frivolous quibbles. These theologians consider it a kind of profane sacrilege, and little short of blasphemy, to settle such fine religious questions. Such questions should instead be met with humble, unquestioning faith, not painstaking, probing reason. These theologians abhor mixing pagan philosophy into the mysteries of Christianity and so defiling them. They also think it quite wrong to turn theology into an obscure science of speculation. After all, theology aims at a happiness that can be reached only through practice. But alas, those theorizing theologians remain enormously pleased with themselves, however much others with sounder judgment condemn them. They work so hard at their tangled studies that they cannot spare time to read one chapter of the Bible. And while they waste their hours on rubbish and empty chatter, they think they are supporting the Catholic Church. Their propositions and syllogisms, they believe, serve as its props and pillars. These support the Church just as effectively as Atlas, in the poets’ tales, carries a tottering world on his shoulders.

Their privileges, too, and authority are very considerable: they can deal with any text of scripture as with a nose of wax, knead it into what shape best suits their interest; and whatever conclusions they have dogmatically resolved upon, they would have them as irrepealably ratified as Solon's laws, and in as great force as the very decrees of the papal chair. If any be so bold as to remonstrate to their decisions, they will bring him on his knees to a recantation of his impudence. They shall pronounce as irrevocably as an oracle, this proposition is scandalous, that irreverent; this has a smack of heresy, and that is bald and improper; so that it is not the being baptised into the church, the believing of the scriptures, the giving credit to St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Hierom, St. Augustin, nay, or St. Thomas Aquinas himself, that shall make a man a Christian, except he have the joint suffrage of these novices in learning,-who have blessed the world no doubt with a great many discoveries, which had never come to light, if they had not struck the fire of subtlety out of the flint of obscurity. These fooleries sure must be a happy employ.

Their privileges and authority are considerable too. They can treat any passage of scripture like a wax nose, molding it into whatever shape best serves their interests. Whatever conclusions they dogmatically settle on, they want those conclusions to be as unchangeable as Solon's laws. They want them to carry as much force as the decrees of the papal chair itself. If anyone dares to challenge their decisions, they will bring him to his knees to take back his impudent objections. They pronounce judgments as final as an oracle's: this statement is scandalous, that one irreverent. This one smells of heresy, and that one is crude and improper. So baptism into the church will not make a man a Christian. Nor will belief in the scriptures or trust in St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Hierom, or St. Augustin. No, not even trust in St. Thomas Aquinas himself will do, unless these beginners in learning jointly approve him. These beginners have no doubt blessed the world with a great many discoveries. Such discoveries would never have come to light without their striking sparks of subtle reasoning from the flint of obscurity. Surely these foolish pursuits must be a delightful occupation.

Farther, they make as many partitions and divisions in hell and purgatory, and describe as many different sorts and degrees of punishment as if they were very well acquainted with the soil and situation of those infernal regions. And to prepare a seat for the blessed above, they invent new orbs, and a stately empyrean heaven, so wide and spacious as if they had purposely contrived it, that the glorified saints might have room enough to walk, to feast, or to take any recreation.

Furthermore, they divide hell and purgatory into countless sections and describe just as many kinds and degrees of punishment. They do so as if they knew the terrain and layout of those infernal regions intimately. And to make a home for the blessed above, they invent new celestial spheres and a grand empyrean heaven. This highest heaven is so vast that they seem to have designed it for the glorified saints’ convenience. It is as if they wanted the saints to have ample room to walk, feast, or enjoy any recreation.

With these, and a thousand more such like toys, their heads are more stuffed and swelled than Jove, when he went big of Pallas in his brain, and was forced to use the midwifery of Vulcan's axe to ease him of his teeming burden.

These trifles, and a thousand more like them, leave their heads even more stuffed and swollen than Jove’s. His brain was pregnant with Pallas, and he had to use Vulcan’s axe as a midwife to deliver her.

Do not wonder, therefore, that at public disputations they bind their heads with so many caps one over another; for this is to prevent the loss of their brains, which would otherwise break out from their uneasy confinement. It affords likewise a pleasant scene of laughter, to listen to these divines in their hotly managed disputations; to see how proud they are of talking such hard gibberish, and stammering out such blundering distinctions, as the auditors perhaps may sometimes gape at, but seldom apprehend: and they take such a liberty in their speaking of Latin, that they scorn to stick at the exactness of syntax or concord; pretending it is below the majesty of a divine to talk like a pedagogue, and be tied to the slavish observance of the rules of grammar.

So do not be surprised that theologians pile so many caps on their heads during public debates. The caps keep their brains from escaping, since their brains would otherwise burst out of such uncomfortable confinement. Listening to these theologians in their heated debates is also good for a laugh. See how proud they are of speaking such difficult gibberish and stammering out such muddled distinctions. Their listeners may perhaps sometimes gape at these distinctions, but seldom understand them. And these theologians take such liberties with Latin that they scorn correct syntax or agreement between words. They claim that speaking like a schoolteacher is beneath a theologian’s dignity, as is slavishly following the rules of grammar.

Finally, they take a vast pride, among other citations, to allege the authority of their respective master, which word they bear as profound a respect to as the Jews did to their ineffable tetragrammaton, and therefore they will be sure never to write it any otherwise than in great letters, MAGISTER NOSTER; and if any happen to invert the order of the words, and say, noster magister instead of magister noster, they will presently exclaim against him as a pestilent heretic and underminer of the catholic faith.

Finally, among the authorities they cite, they take enormous pride in invoking their own master's authority. They revere the title as deeply as the Jews revered their unutterable tetragrammaton. So they always write it in capital letters: MAGISTER NOSTER. And if anyone reverses the words, writing noster magister instead of magister noster, they immediately denounce the offender. They call him a dangerous heretic who undermines the catholic faith.

The next to these are another sort of brainsick fools, who style themselves monks and of religious orders, though they assume both titles very unjustly: for as to the last, they have very little religion in them; and as to the former, the etymology of the word monk implies a solitariness, or being alone; whereas they are so thick abroad that we cannot pass any street or alley without meeting them. Now I cannot imagine what one degree of men would be more hopelessly wretched, if I did not stand their friend, and buoy them up in that lake of misery, which by the engagements of a holy vow they have voluntarily immerged themselves in. But when these sort of men are so unwelcome to others, as that the very sight of them is thought ominous, I yet make them highly in love with themselves, and fond admirers of their own happiness. The first step whereunto they esteem a profound ignorance, thinking carnal knowledge a great enemy to their spiritual welfare, and seem confident of becoming greater proficients in divine mysteries the less they are poisoned with any human learning. They imagine that they bear a sweet consort with the heavenly choir, when they tone out their daily tally of psalms, which they rehearse only by rote, without permitting their understanding or affections to go along with their voice. Among these some make a good profitable trade of beggary, going about from house to house, not like the apostles, to break, but to beg, their bread; nay, thrust into all public-houses, come aboard the passage-boats, get into the travelling waggons, and omit no opportunity of time or place for the craving people's charity; doing a great deal of injury to common highway beggars by interloping in their traffic of alms. And when they are thus voluntarily poor, destitute, not provided with two coats, nor with any money in their purse, they have the impudence to pretend that they imitate the first disciples, whom their master expressly sent out in such an equipage. It is pretty to observe how they regulate all their actions as it were by weight and measure to so exact a proportion, as if the whole loss of their religion depended upon the omission of the least punctilio. Thus they must be very critical in the precise number of knots to the tying on of their sandals; what distinct colours their respective habits, and what stuff made of; how broad and long their girdles; how big, and in what fashion, their hoods; whether their bald crowns be to a hair's-breadth of the right cut; how many hours they must sleep, at what minute rise to prayers, &c. And these several customs are altered according to the humours of different persons and places. While they are sworn to the superstitious observance of these trifles, they do not only despise all others, but are very inclinable to fall out among themselves; for though they make profession of an apostolic charity, yet they will pick a quarrel, and be implacably passionate for such poor provocations, as the girting on a coat the wrong way, for the wearing of clothes a little too darkish coloured, or any such nicety not worth the speaking of.

Next come another group of mad fools, who call themselves monks and members of religious orders. Neither title is deserved. They have very little religion in them. And the word “monk” means someone who lives alone. Yet they swarm everywhere, so we cannot pass through any street or alley without meeting them. I cannot imagine any group more hopelessly miserable if I did not befriend them and keep them afloat. They have willingly plunged into this lake of misery by binding themselves with sacred vows. Others find them so unwelcome that even the sight of them is considered a bad omen. Yet I make them deeply in love with themselves and full of admiration for their own happiness. They consider deep ignorance the first step toward this happiness. They think worldly knowledge is a great enemy of their spiritual welfare. They seem certain that the less human learning poisons them, the more they will understand divine mysteries. They imagine they harmonize sweetly with the heavenly choir when they chant their daily quota of psalms. Yet they recite the psalms only from memory, without letting their minds or hearts join their voices. Some of these monks make a profitable business of begging, going from house to house. Unlike the apostles, they go not to break bread but to beg for it. Indeed, they barge into every tavern, board passenger boats, and climb into travelers’ wagons. They miss no chance, at any time or place, to beg for charity. By intruding on the alms trade, they do great harm to ordinary roadside beggars. They choose to be poor and destitute, without a second coat or any money in their purse. Then they have the nerve to claim they imitate the first disciples, whose master expressly sent them out so equipped. It is amusing to see how they regulate every action, as though weighing and measuring it to exact proportions. They act as if missing the smallest detail would destroy their entire religion. They must be exact about how many knots they use to tie their sandals. They insist on the particular colors and fabrics of their respective habits. They specify the width and length of their belts, and the size and shape of their hoods. Their shaved crowns must have precisely the right cut, down to a hair’s breadth. They prescribe how many hours to sleep, the exact minute to rise for prayers, and so on. And these customs vary with the whims of different people and places. Bound by oath to observe these trifles superstitiously, they not only despise everyone else but readily quarrel among themselves. They profess the charity of the apostles. Yet they pick fights and fly into unforgiving rages over the pettiest provocations. Someone ties a belt around a robe the wrong way, or wears clothes a little too dark. Any such detail, too trivial even to mention, will do.

Some are so obstinately superstitious that they will wear their upper garment of some coarse dog's hair stuff, and that next their skin as soft as silk: but others on the contrary will have linen frocks outermost, and their shirts of wool, or hair. Some again will not touch a piece of money, though they make no scruple of the sin of drunkenness, and the lust of the flesh. All their several orders are mindful of nothing more than of their being distinguished from each other by their different customs and habits. They seem indeed not so careful of becoming like Christ, and of being known to be his disciples, as the being unlike to one another, and distinguishable for followers of their several founders. A great part of their religion consists in their title: some will be called cordeliers, and these subdivided into capuchines, minors, minims, and mendicants; some again are styled Benedictines, others of the order of St. Bernard, others of that of St. Bridget; some are Augustin monks, some Willielmites, and others Jacobists, as if the common name of Christian were too mean and vulgar. Most of them place their greatest stress for salvation on a strict conformity to their foppish ceremonies, and a belief of their legendary traditions; wherein they fancy to have acquitted themselves with so much of supererogation, that one heaven can never be a condign reward for their meritorious life; little thinking that the Judge of all the earth at the last day shall put them off, with a who hath required these things at your hands; and call them to account only for the stewardship of his legacy, which was the precept of love and charity. It will be pretty to hear their pleas before the great tribunal: one will brag how he mortified his carnal appetite by feeding only upon fish: another will urge that he spent most of his time on earth in the divine exercise of singing psalms: a third will tell how many days he fasted, and what severe penance he imposed on himself for the bringing his body into subjection: another shall produce in his own behalf as many ceremonies as would load a fleet of merchant-men: a fifth shall plead that in threescore years he never so much as touched a piece of money, except he fingered it through a thick pair of gloves: a sixth, to testify his former humility, shall bring along with him his sacred hood, so old and nasty, that any seaman had rather stand bare headed on the deck, than put it on to defend his ears in the sharpest storms: the next that comes to answer for himself shall plead, that for fifty years together, he had lived like a sponge upon the same place, and was content never to change his homely habitation: another shall whisper softly, and tell the judge he has lost his voice by a continual singing of holy hymns and anthems: the next shall confess how he fell into a lethargy by a strict, reserved, and sedentary life: and the last shall intimate that he has forgot to speak, by having always kept silence, in obedience to the injunction of taking heed lest he should have offended with his tongue. But amidst all their fine excuses our Saviour shall interrupt them with this answer, Woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites, verily I know you not; I left you but one precept, of loving one another, which I do not hear any one plead he has faithfully discharged: I told you plainly in my gospel, without any parable, that my father's kingdom was prepared not for such as should lay claim to it by austerities, prayers, or fastings, but for those who should render themselves worthy of it by the exercise of faith, and the offices of charity: I cannot own such as depend on their own merits without a reliance on my mercy: as many of you therefore as trust to the broken reeds of your own deserts may even go search out a new heaven, for you shall never enter into that, which from the foundations of the world was prepared only for such as are true of heart. When these monks and friars shall meet with such a shameful repulse, and see that ploughmen and mechanics are admitted into that kingdom, from which they themselves are shut out, how sneakingly will they look, and how pitifully slink away? Yet till this last trial they had more comfort of a future happiness, because more hopes of it than any other men. And these persons are not only great in their own eyes, but highly esteemed and respected by others, especially those of the order of mendicants, whom none dare to offer any affront to, because as confessors they are intrusted with all the secrets of particular intrigues, which they are bound by oath not to discover; yet many times, when they are almost drunk, they cannot keep their tongue so far within their head, as not to be babbling out some hints, and shewing themselves so full, that they are in pain to be delivered. If any person give them the least provocation they will sure to be revenged of him, and in their next public harangue give him such shrewd wipes and reflections, that the whole congregation must needs take notice at whom they are levelled; nor will they ever desist from this way of declaiming, till their mouth be stopped with a bribe to hold their tongue. All their preaching is mere stage-playing, and their delivery the very transports of ridicule and drollery. Good Lord! how mimical are their gestures? What heights and falls in their voice? What toning, what bawling, what singing, what squeaking, what grimaces, making of mouths, apes' faces, and distorting of their countenance; and this art of oratory as a choice mystery, they convey down by tradition to one another. The manner of it I may adventure thus farther to enlarge upon. First, in a kind of mockery they implore the divine assistance, which they borrowed from the solemn custom of the poets: then if their text suppose be of charity, they shall take their exordium as far off as from a description of the river Nile in Egypt; or if they are to discourse of the mystery of the Cross, they shall begin with a story of Bell and the Dragon; or perchance if their subject be of fasting, for an entrance to their sermon they shall pass through the twelve signs of the zodiac; or lastly, if they are to preach of faith, they shall address themselves in a long mathematical account of the quadrature of the circle. I myself once heard a great fool (a great scholar I would have said) undertaking in a laborious discourse to explain the mystery of the Holy Trinity; in the unfolding whereof, that he might shew his wit and reading, and together satisfy itching ears, he proceeded in a new method, as by insisting on the letters, syllables, and proposition, on the concord of noun and verb, and that of noun substantive, and noun adjective; the auditors all wondered, and some mumbled to themselves that hemistitch of Horace,

Some are so stubbornly superstitious that they wear an outer garment of coarse doghair cloth, with silk-soft fabric against their skin. Others do the opposite, wearing linen robes on the outside and shirts of wool or hair underneath. Some refuse to touch money, though they have no scruples about drunkenness or sexual lust. All their different orders care above all about distinguishing themselves from one another through their customs and clothing. They seem less concerned with resembling Christ and being recognized as his disciples than with looking unlike one another. They want to be recognized as followers of their various founders. Much of their religion consists in their titles. Some insist on being called cordeliers, further divided into capuchines, minors, minims, and mendicants. Others are called Benedictines, or members of the order of St. Bernard or St. Bridget. Some are Augustin monks, some Willielmites, and others Jacobists, as if the shared name of Christian were too low and common. Most stake their salvation chiefly on strict obedience to their ridiculous ceremonies and belief in their traditional legends. They imagine these achievements give them far more merit than duty requires. One heaven could never adequately reward such deserving lives. They scarcely consider how the Judge of all the earth will dismiss them on the last day. He will ask who required these things of them. He will call them to account only for how they managed his legacy, the command to love and show charity. What fun it will be to hear their defenses before the great tribunal! One will boast that he subdued his bodily appetites by eating nothing but fish. Another will point out that he spent most of his earthly life in the holy exercise of singing psalms. A third will list his days of fasting and the harsh penances he imposed to bring his body under control. Another will produce enough ceremonies in his own defense to fill a fleet of merchant ships. A fifth will plead that in sixty years he never touched money, except through a thick pair of gloves. A sixth will bring his sacred hood as evidence of his former humility. The hood will be so old and filthy that any sailor would rather stand bareheaded on deck. Even in the fiercest storm, the sailor would refuse to wear it to protect his ears. The next will plead that for fifty years he stayed rooted in one spot like a sponge. He was content never to leave his humble home. Another will whisper that he lost his voice through constant singing of holy hymns and anthems. The next will admit that his strict, secluded, sedentary life left him in a stupor. The last will explain that he has forgotten how to speak because he always kept silent. He was obeying the command to take care not to sin with his tongue. But amid all their fine excuses, our Saviour will interrupt them with this answer: Woe to you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! Truly, I do not know you. I left you only one command, to love one another. Yet I hear none of you claim to have faithfully obeyed that command. I told you plainly in my gospel, without any parable, whom my father's kingdom was prepared for. Not those who would claim it through harsh self-denial, prayers, or fasting. It was prepared for those who would make themselves worthy through faith and acts of charity. I cannot acknowledge those who depend on their own merits rather than relying on my mercy. So all of you who lean on the broken reeds of your own achievements may go and find another heaven. You will never enter the heaven prepared since the world's foundation only for those whose hearts are true. How will these monks and friars look when they receive such a humiliating rejection? They will see farmworkers and craftsmen admitted to the kingdom from which they themselves are excluded. How sheepishly they will look, and how miserably they will slink away! Yet until this final judgment, they drew more comfort from future happiness than anyone else, because their hopes were greater. These people are important not only in their own eyes. Others also hold them in high esteem, especially members of the mendicant orders. No one dares insult these friars because, as confessors, they are trusted with all the secrets of private intrigues. They are bound by oath not to reveal those secrets. Yet often, when nearly drunk, they cannot control their tongues enough to avoid blurting out hints. They show themselves so full of secrets that keeping them in seems painful. If anyone gives them the slightest provocation, they are sure to take revenge. In their next public sermon, they will deliver such sharp digs that everyone in the congregation recognizes the target. Nor will they stop these attacks until a bribe shuts their mouths. All their preaching is mere playacting, and their delivery is a frenzy of absurdity and clowning. Good Lord, how they gesture and mimic! How their voices rise and fall! What chanting, bellowing, singing, and squeaking! What grimaces, twisted mouths, monkey faces, and distorted expressions! They pass this art of public speaking down to one another as though it were a precious secret. I may venture to explain their method further. First, in a kind of mockery, they ask for divine assistance, borrowing the solemn custom of poets. Then, suppose their text concerns charity. They will begin as far from the subject as a description of the river Nile in Egypt. If they are discussing the mystery of the Cross, they will begin with a story of Bell and the Dragon. Or perhaps, if their subject is fasting, they will open their sermon by working through the zodiac's twelve signs. Finally, if they are preaching about faith, they will begin with a lengthy mathematical account of squaring the circle. I myself once heard a great fool, a great scholar, I meant to say, undertake a laborious explanation of the Holy Trinity. To display his intelligence and learning, while also satisfying ears eager for novelty, he tried a new approach. His explanation dwelt on letters, syllables, propositions, agreement between nouns and verbs, and agreement between nouns and adjectives. The listeners were all astonished, and some muttered to themselves that half-line from Horace,

But at last he brought it thus far, that he could demonstrate the whole Trinity to be represented by these first rudiments of grammar, as clearly and plainly as it was possible for a mathematician to draw a triangle in the sand: and for the making of this grand discovery, this subtle divine had plodded so hard for eight months together, that he studied himself as blind as a beetle, the intenseness of the eye of his understanding overshadowing and extinguishing that of his body; and yet he did not at all repent him of his blindness, but thinks the loss of his sight an easy purchase for the gain of glory and credit.

But at last he managed to show that these basic rules of grammar represented the whole Trinity. His demonstration was as clear and plain as a triangle drawn in the sand by a mathematician. To make this grand discovery, this subtle theologian had toiled for eight months straight. He studied himself as blind as a beetle. The intense light of his mind’s eye overshadowed and extinguished the sight of his bodily eyes. Yet he had no regrets about his blindness. He thinks losing his sight is a small price to pay for glory and recognition.

I heard at another time a grave divine, of fourscore years of age at least, so sour and hard-favoured, that one would be apt to mistrust that it was Scotus Redivivus; he taking upon him to treat of the mysterious name, JESUS, did very subtly pretend that in the very letters was contained, whatever could be said of it: for first, its being declined only with three cases, did expressly point out the trinity of persons, then that the nominative ended in S, the accusative in M, and the ablative in U, did imply some unspeakable mystery, viz., that in words of those initial letters Christ was the summus, or beginning, the medius, or middle, and the ultimus, or end of all things. There was yet a more abstruse riddle to be explained, which was by dividing the word JESUS into two parts, and separating the S in the middle from the two extreme syllables, making a kind of pentameter, the word consisting of five letters: and this intermedial S being in the Hebrew alphabet called sin, which in the English language signifies what the Latins term peecatum, was urged to imply that the holy Jesus should purify us from all sin and wickedness. Thus did the pulpiteer cant, while all the congregation, especially the brotherhood of divines, were so surprised at his odd way of preaching, that wonder served them, as grief did Niobe, almost turned them into stones. I among the rest (as Horace describes Priapus viewing the enchantments of the two sorceresses, Canidia and Sagane) could no longer contain, but let fly a cracking report of the operation it had upon me. These impertinent introductions are not without reason condemned; for of old, whenever Demosthenes among the Greeks, or Tully among the Latins, began their orations with so great a digression from the matter in hand, it was always looked upon as improper and unelegant, and indeed, were such a long-fetched exordium any token of a good invention, shepherds and ploughmen might lay claim to the title of men of greatest parts, since upon any argument it is easiest for them to talk what is least to the purpose. These preachers think their preamble (as we may well term it), to be the most fashionable, when it is farthest from the subject they propose to treat of, while each auditor sits and wonders what they drive at, and many times mutters out the complaint of Virgil:—

On another occasion, I heard a solemn theologian who was at least eighty years old. He looked so sour and harsh that you might have suspected he was Scotus Redivivus, Scotus come back to life. He took it upon himself to explain the mysterious name JESUS. With great ingenuity, he claimed that its very letters contained everything that could be said about it. First, the name had only three grammatical cases, which clearly pointed to the three persons of the Trinity. Then the nominative ended in S, the accusative in M, and the ablative in U. These endings implied some inexpressible mystery. Through words beginning with those letters, Christ was the summus, or beginning, the medius, or middle, and the ultimus, or end of all things. An even more obscure riddle remained. He divided JESUS into two parts, separating the middle S from the syllables at either end. This made a kind of pentameter, since the word consisted of five letters. Now, the middle S was called sin in the Hebrew alphabet. In English, sin means what the Latins call peecatum. He insisted that this meant the holy Jesus would cleanse us of all sin and wickedness. So the preacher spouted his nonsense. The whole congregation, especially his fellow theologians, was so astonished by his strange preaching that wonder almost turned them to stone. Grief had done the same to Niobe. I was among them and could no longer hold it in. Like Priapus watching the spells of the two sorceresses, Canidia and Sagane, in Horace's account, I let out a thunderous fart. That was the effect the sermon had on me. Such irrelevant introductions are rightly condemned. In ancient times, Demosthenes among the Greeks and Tully among the Latins sometimes began speeches far from their subject. Whenever they did, such openings were judged inappropriate and clumsy. Indeed, if such a far-fetched introduction showed creative talent, shepherds and ploughmen could claim to be the most gifted men. For whatever the subject, they find it easiest to say what has least to do with it. These preachers consider their preamble, as we may well call it, most fashionable when it strays furthest from their subject. Meanwhile, every listener sits wondering what they are getting at, and often mutters Virgil's complaint:

Whither does all this jargon tend? In the third place, when they come to the division of their text, they shall give only a very short touch at the interpretation of the words, when the fuller explication of their sense ought to have been their only province. Fourthly, after they are a little entered, they shall start some theological queries, far enough off from the matter in hand, and bandy it about pro and con till they lose it in the heat of scuffle. And here they shall cite their doctors invincible, subtle, seraphic, cherubic, holy, irrefragable, and such like great names to confirm their several assertions. Then out they bring their syllogisms, their majors, their minors, conclusions, corollaries, suppositions, and distinctions, that will sooner terrify the congregation into an amazement, than persuade them into a conviction. Now comes the fifth act, in which they must exert their utmost skill to come off with applause. Here therefore they fall a telling some sad lamentable story out of their legend, or some other fabulous history, and this they descant upon allegorically, tropologically, and analogically; and so they draw to a conclusion of their discourse, which is a more brain-sick chimera than ever Horace could describe in his De Arte Poetica, when he began:—

Where is all this jargon leading? Third, when they divide their text into sections, they barely touch on what the words mean. Yet fully explaining that meaning should have been their only task. Fourth, once they have got started, they raise some theological questions far removed from the subject at hand. They argue back and forth until the questions get lost in the heat of battle. Here they support their various claims by citing their great authorities: invincible, subtle, seraphic, cherubic, holy, irrefutable, and so on. Then out come their syllogisms, major and minor premises, conclusions, corollaries, assumptions, and distinctions. These are more likely to terrify and bewilder the congregation than persuade and convince them. Now comes the fifth act, when they must use all their skill to finish to applause. So they tell some sad, pitiful story from their collection of saints' legends or some other made-up history. They elaborate on the story's allegorical, moral, and spiritual meanings, and so bring their sermon to a close. The sermon is a more deranged monstrosity than Horace could ever describe in his De Arte Poetica, when he began:

Humano Capitis &c. Their praying is altogether as ridiculous as their preaching; for imagining that in their addresses to heaven they should set out in a low and tremulous voice, as a token of dread and reverence, they begin therefore with such a soft whispering as if they were afraid any one should overhear what they said; but when they are gone a little way, they clear up their pipes by degrees, and at last bawl out so loud as if, with Baal's priests, they were resolved to awake a sleeping god; and then again, being told by rhetoricians that heights and falls, and a different cadency in pronunciation, is a great advantage to the setting off any thing that is spoken, they will sometimes as it were mutter their words inwardly, and then of a sudden hollo them out, and be sure at last, in such a flat, faltering tone as if their spirits were spent, and they had run themselves out of breath. Lastly, they have read that most systems of rhetoric treat of the art of exciting laughter; therefore for the effecting of this they will sprinkle some jests and puns that must pass for ingenuity, though they are only the froth and folly of affectedness. Sometimes they will nibble at the wit of being satyrical, though their utmost spleen is so toothless, that they suck rather than bite, tickle rather than scratch or wound: nor do they ever flatter more than at such times as they pretend to speak with greatest freedom.

Humano Capitis &c. Their praying is every bit as ridiculous as their preaching. They imagine their prayers to heaven should begin in a low, trembling voice, as a sign of fear and reverence. So they start with such a faint whisper that they seem afraid someone might overhear them. But a little further on, they gradually raise their voices. At last they bellow as if, like Baal's priests, they were determined to wake a sleeping god. Then again, teachers of rhetoric have told them that rising and falling tones and varied rhythms greatly improve a speech. So sometimes they seem to mutter their words inwardly, then suddenly shout them out. And they always finish in a flat, faltering voice, as if their energy were spent and they had exhausted their breath. Lastly, they have read that most guides to rhetoric discuss the art of making people laugh. So they scatter in jokes and puns meant to pass for cleverness, though these are merely empty, foolish attempts to impress. Sometimes they take a nibble at satirical wit. Yet even their fiercest malice is so toothless that they suck rather than bite, tickle rather than scratch or wound. And they never flatter more than when they pretend to speak most freely.

Finally, all their actions are so buffoonish and mimical, that any would judge they had learned all their tricks of mountebanks and stage-players, who in action it is true may perhaps outdo them, but in oratory there is so little odds between both, that it is hard to determine which seems of longest standing in the schools of eloquence.

Finally, all their actions are so clownish and theatrical that anyone would think they learned their tricks from quacks and actors. Admittedly, those performers may perhaps outdo them in acting. But their public speaking is so similar that it is hard to tell who studied eloquence longer.

Yet these preachers, however ridiculous, meet with such hearers, who admire them as much as the people of Athens did Demosthenes, or the citizens of Rome could do Cicero: among which admirers are chiefly shopkeepers, and women, whose approbation and good opinion they only court; because the first, if they are humoured, give them some snacks out of unjust gain; and the last come and ease their grief to them upon all pinching occasions, especially when their husbands are any ways cross or unkind.

Yet these preachers, ridiculous as they are, find listeners who admire them as much as Athens admired Demosthenes. Their listeners admire them as much as the citizens of Rome could admire Cicero. Their admirers are chiefly shopkeepers and women, whose approval and good opinion are all the preachers seek. This is because shopkeepers, if indulged, give the preachers some scraps from their dishonest profits. And women come to the preachers to pour out their troubles whenever things get difficult. They come especially when their husbands are in any way bad-tempered or unkind.

Thus much I suppose may suffice to make you sensible how much these cell-hermits and recluses are indebted to my bounty; who when they tyrannize over the consciences of the deluded laity with fopperies, juggles, and impostures, yet think themselves as eminently pious as St. Paul, St. Anthony, or any other of the saints; but these stage-divines, not less ungrateful dis-owners of their obligations to folly, than they are impudent pretenders to the profession of piety, I willingly take my leave of, and pass now to kings, princes, and courtiers, who paying me a devout acknowledgment, may justly challenge back the respect of being mentioned and taken notice of by me. And first, had they wisdom enough to make a true judgment of things, they would find their own condition to be more despicable and slavish than that of the most menial subjects. For certainly none can esteem perjury or parricide a cheap purchase for a crown, if he does but seriously reflect on that weight of cares a princely diadem is loaded with. He that sits at the helm of government acts in a public capacity, and so must sacrifice all private interest to the attainment of the common good; he must himself be conformable to those laws his prerogative exacts, or else he can expect no obedience paid them from others; he must have a strict eye over all his inferior magistrates and officers, or otherwise it is to be doubted they will but carelessly discharge their respective duties. Every king, within his own territories, is placed for a shining example as it were in the firmament of his wide-spread dominions, to prove either a glorious star of benign influence, if his behaviour be remarkably just and innocent, or else to impend as a threatening comet, if his blazing power be pestilent and hurtful. Subjects move in a darker sphere, and so their wanderings and failings are less discernible; whereas princes, being fixed in a more exalted orb, and encompassed with a brighter dazzling lustre, their spots are more apparently visible, and their eclipses, or other defects, influential on all that is inferior to them. Kings are baited with so many temptations and opportunities to vice and immorality, such as are high feeding, liberty, flattery, luxury, and the like, that they must stand perpetually on their guard, to fence off those assaults that are always ready to be made upon them. In fine, abating from treachery, hatred, dangers, fear, and a thousand other mischiefs impending on crowned heads, however uncontrollable they are this side heaven, yet after their reign here they must appear before a supremer judge, and there be called to an exact account for the discharge of that great stewardship which was committed to their trust If princes did but seriously consider (and consider they would if they were but wise) these many hardships of a royal life, they would be so perplexed in the result of their thoughts thereupon, as scarce to eat or sleep in quiet But now by my assistance they leave all these cares to the gods, and mind only their own ease and pleasure, and therefore will admit none to their attendance but who will divert them with sport and mirth, lest they should otherwise be seized and damped with the surprisal of sober thoughts. They think they have sufficiently acquitted themselves in the duty of governing, if they do but ride constantly a hunting, breed up good race-horses, sell places and offices to those of the courtiers that will give most for them, and find out new ways for invading of their people's property, and hooking in a larger revenue to their own exchequer; for the procurement whereof they will always have some pretended claim and title; that though it be manifest extortion, yet it may bear the show of law and justice: and then they daub over their oppression with a submissive, flattering carriage, that they may so far insinuate into the affections of the vulgar, as they may not tumult nor rebel, but patiently crouch to burdens and exactions. Let us feign now a person ignorant of the laws and constitutions of that realm he lives in, an enemy to the public good, studious only for his own private interest, addicted wholly to pleasures and delights, a hater of learning, a professed enemy to liberty and truth, careless and unmindful of the common concerns, taking all the measures of justice and honesty from the false beam of self-interest and advantage, after this hang about his neck a gold chain, for an intimation that he ought to have all virtues linked together; then set a crown of gold and jewels on his head, for a token that he ought to overtop and outshine others in all commendable qualifications; next, put into his hand a royal sceptre for a symbol of justice and integrity; lastly, clothe him with purple, for an hieroglyphic of a tender love and affection to the commonwealth. If a prince should look upon this portraiture, and draw a comparison between that and himself, certainly he would be ashamed of his ensigns of majesty, and be afraid of being laughed out of them.

I suppose I have said enough to show how much these hermits and recluses owe to my generosity. They tyrannize over the consciences of the deluded laity with foolish rituals, tricks, and frauds. Yet they consider themselves as deeply holy as St. Paul, St. Anthony, or any other saint. But I gladly take my leave of these theatrical theologians. They deny their debt to folly as ungratefully as they shamelessly pretend to holiness. I turn now to kings, princes, and courtiers. They acknowledge me devotedly, and so may rightly claim the honor of being mentioned and noticed by me. First, if rulers had enough wisdom to judge things correctly, they would find their own position more contemptible and servile than that of their humblest subjects. Surely no one can consider perjury or the murder of a parent a cheap price for a crown. Not if he seriously reflects on the burden of cares that comes with a royal diadem. Whoever steers the government serves the public. He must therefore sacrifice all private interests to the common good. He must obey the laws his authority imposes, or he cannot expect others to obey them. He must closely watch all his subordinate magistrates and officials. Otherwise, there is reason to fear they will carry out their duties carelessly. Every king stands as a shining example, like a heavenly body above his vast dominions. If his conduct is notably just and blameless, he becomes a glorious star whose influence brings good. But if his dazzling power is harmful and destructive, he hangs overhead like a threatening comet. Subjects move in a darker sphere, so their wrong turns and failings are less noticeable. Princes, however, occupy a higher orbit and shine with a brighter, more dazzling light. Their blemishes are therefore more visible. Their eclipses and other defects affect everyone beneath them. Kings face so many temptations and opportunities for vice and immorality: rich food, freedom from restraint, flattery, luxury, and the like. They must therefore remain constantly on guard against the attacks always threatening them. In short, set aside the treachery, hatred, dangers, fear, and a thousand other troubles hanging over crowned heads. However little anyone on earth can restrain kings, after their reign they must appear before a higher judge. There they must give an exact account of how they managed the great responsibility entrusted to them. If princes seriously considered these many hardships of royal life, their reflections would leave them scarcely able to eat or sleep peacefully. And they would consider them if they were wise. But now, with my help, they leave all these cares to the gods and think only of their comfort and pleasure. They therefore allow only those who entertain them with games and laughter to attend them. Otherwise, sober thoughts might catch them by surprise and dampen their spirits. They think they have done enough as rulers if they regularly go hunting and breed fine racehorses. They also sell posts and offices to whichever courtiers offer the most. And they devise new ways to seize their people's property and draw more revenue into their own treasury. To obtain that revenue, they always produce some supposed claim or right. Although their actions are obvious extortion, they can thus give them the appearance of law and justice. Then they cover their oppression with a humble, flattering manner. In this way, they hope to win over the common people. The people may then patiently bow beneath burdens and taxes instead of rioting or rebelling. Now let us imagine a man ignorant of his country's laws and constitution, and hostile to the public good. He pursues only his private interests and devotes himself entirely to pleasure and enjoyment. He hates learning and openly opposes liberty and truth. He neglects public affairs and measures all justice and honesty on the false scales of personal interest and advantage. Now hang a gold chain around his neck. The chain signifies that he ought to unite all virtues in himself. Then place a crown of gold and jewels on his head. The crown signifies that he ought to rise above and outshine others in every admirable quality. Next, put a royal scepter in his hand as a symbol of justice and integrity. Finally, dress him in purple as an emblem of tender love and affection for the state. If a prince studied this portrait and compared himself with it, he would certainly feel ashamed of his royal symbols. He would fear being laughed out of them.

Next to kings themselves may come their courtiers, who, though they are for the most part a base, servile, cringing, low-spirited sort of flatterers, yet they look big, swell great, and have high thoughts of their honour and grandeur. Their confidence appears upon all occasions; yet in this one thing they are very modest, in that they are content to adorn their bodies with gold, jewels, purple, and other glorious ensigns of virtue and wisdom, but leave their minds empty and unfraught; and taking the resemblance of goodness to themselves, turn over the truth and reality of it to others. They think themselves mighty happy in that they can call the king master, and be allowed the familiarity of talking with him; that they can volubly rehearse his several tides of august highness, supereminent excellence, and most serene majesty, that they can boldly usher in any discourse, and that they have the complete knack of insinuation and flattery; for these are the arts that make them truly genteel and noble. If you make a stricter enquiry after their other endowments, you shall find them mere sots and dolts. They will sleep generally till noon, and then their mercenary chaplains shall come to their bed-side, and entertain them perhaps with a short morning prayer. As soon as they are drest they must go to breakfast, and when that is done, immediately to dinner. When the cloth is taken away, then to cards, dice, tables, or some such like diversion. After this they must have one or two afternoon banquets, and so in the evening to supper. When they have supped then begins the game of drinking; the bottles are marshalled, the glasses ranked, and round go the healths and bumpers till they are carried to bed. And this is the constant method of passing away their hours, days, months, years, and ages. I have many times took great satisfaction by standing in the court, and seeing how the tawdry butterflies vie upon one another: the ladies shall measure the height of their humours by the length of their trails, which must be borne up by a page behind. The nobles justle one another to get nearest to the king's elbow, and wear gold chains of that weight and bigness as require no less strength to carry than they do wealth to purchase.

Next after kings themselves may come their courtiers. Although most are base, servile, groveling, spineless flatterers, they strut about and think highly of their honor and grandeur. They show their confidence at every opportunity. Yet in one respect they are very modest. They are content to decorate their bodies with gold, jewels, purple robes, and other splendid signs of virtue and wisdom. But they leave their minds empty and bare. They claim the appearance of goodness for themselves and leave the real thing to others. They consider themselves wonderfully fortunate because they can call the king their master and speak with him on familiar terms. They can rattle off his various titles of august highness, supreme excellence, and most serene majesty. They can confidently introduce any subject and have mastered the art of winning favor through flattery. For these are the skills that make them truly refined and noble. If you look more closely at their other talents, you will find nothing but fools and blockheads. They generally sleep until noon. Then their hired chaplains come to their bedsides and perhaps treat them to a short morning prayer. As soon as they are dressed, they must have breakfast, followed immediately by dinner. Once the table is cleared, they turn to cards, dice, backgammon, or some similar amusement. Afterward, they must have one or two afternoon feasts, followed by supper in the evening. After supper, the drinking game begins. Bottles are lined up, glasses set in rows, and toast after brimming toast goes around until they are carried to bed. This is their unchanging way of passing the hours, days, months, years, and ages. I have often taken great pleasure in standing at court and watching these gaudy butterflies compete with one another. The ladies measure the height of their pretensions by the length of their trains, carried behind them by a page. The nobles jostle one another to get closest to the king’s elbow. They wear gold chains so heavy and large that carrying them takes as much strength as buying them takes wealth.

And now for some reflections upon popes, cardinals, and bishops, who in pomp and splendour have almost equalled if not outgone secular princes. Now if any one consider that their upper crotchet of white linen is to signify their unspotted purity and innocence; that their forked mitres, with both divisions tied together by the same knot, are to denote the joint knowledge of the Old and New Testament; that their always wearing gloves, represents their keeping their hands clean and undented from lucre and covetousness; that the pastoral staff implies the care of a flock committed to their charge; that the cross carried before them expresses their victory over all carnal affections; he (I say) that considers this, and much more of the like nature, must needs conclude they are entrusted with a very weighty and difficult office. But alas, they think it sufficient if they can but feed themselves; and as to their flock, either commend them to the care of Christ himself, or commit them to the guidance of some inferior vicars and curates; not so much as remembering what their name of bishop imports, to wit, labour, pains, and diligence, but by base simoniacal contracts, they are in a profane sense Episcopi, i.e., overseers of their own gain and income.

And now for some thoughts on popes, cardinals, and bishops. Their pomp and splendor have almost equaled, if not surpassed, those of secular princes. Consider what their robes and symbols mean. Their white linen outer garment is meant to signify their spotless purity and innocence. Their two-pointed mitres, with both divisions tied by the same knot, represent knowledge of both the Old and New Testament. Their constant wearing of gloves represents hands kept clean and unstained by profit and greed. The pastoral staff signifies their care for the flock entrusted to them. The cross carried before them expresses their victory over all fleshly desires. Anyone who considers these symbols, and much else of the same kind, must conclude that their duties are weighty and difficult. But alas, these church leaders think feeding themselves is enough. As for their flock, they either leave its care to Christ himself or hand it over to lower-ranking vicars and curates. They do not even remember what the title of bishop means: work, effort, and diligence. Instead, through corrupt deals in church offices, they become, in a profane sense, Episcopi, that is, overseers of their own profits and income.

So cardinals, in like manner, if they did but consider that the church supposes them to succeed in the room of the apostles; that therefore they must behave themselves as their predecessors, and so not be lords, but dispensers of spiritual gifts, of the disposal whereof they must one day render a strict account: or if they would but reflect a little on their habit, and thus reason with themselves, what means this white upper garment, but only an unspotted innocence? What signifies my inner purple, but only an ardent love and zeal to God? What imports my outermost pall, so wide and long that it covers the whole mule when I ride, nay, should be big enough to cover a camel, but only a diffusive charity, that should spread itself for a succour and protection to all, by teaching, exhorting, comforting, reproving, admonishing, composing of differences, courageously withstanding wicked princes, and sacrificing for the safety of our flock our life and blood, as well as our wealth and riches; though indeed riches ought not to be at all possessed by such as boast themselves successors to the apostles, who were poor, needy, and destitute: I say, if they did but lay these considerations to heart they would never be so ambitious of being created to this honour, they would willingly resign it when conferred upon them, or at least would be as industrious, watchful and laborious, as the primitive apostles were. Now as to the popes of Rome, who pretend themselves Christ's vicars, if they would but imitate his exemplary life, in the being employed in an unintermitted course of preaching; in the being attended with poverty, nakedness, hunger, and a contempt of this world; if they did but consider the import of the word pope, which signifies a father; or if they did but practice their surname of most holy, what order or degrees of men would be in a worse condition? There would be then no such vigorous making of parties, and buying of votes, in the conclave upon a vacancy of that see: and those who by bribery, or other indirect courses, should get themselves elected, would never secure their sitting firm in the chair by pistol, poison, force, and violence. How much of their pleasure would be abated if they were but endowed with one dram of wisdom? Wisdom, did I say? Nay, with one grain of that salt which our Saviour bid them not lose the savour of. All their riches, all their honour, their jurisdictions, their Peter's patrimony, their offices, their dispensations, their licences, their indulgences, their long train and attendants (see in how short a compass I have abbreviated all their marketing of religion); in a word, all their perquisites would be forfeited and lost; and in their room would succeed watchings, fastings, tears, prayers, sermons, hard studies, repenting sighs, and a thousand such like severe penalties: nay, what's yet more deplorable, it would then follow, that all their clerks, amanuenses, notaries, advocates, proctors, secretaries, the offices of grooms, ostlers, serving-men, pimps (and somewhat else, which for modesty's sake I shall not mention); in short, all these troops of attendants, which depend on his holiness, would all lose their several employments.

Likewise, suppose cardinals considered that the church regards them as successors to the apostles. They would therefore have to act like their predecessors, not as lords, but as distributors of spiritual gifts. One day they must give a strict account of how they distributed those gifts. Or suppose they reflected a little on their clothing and reasoned with themselves like this: What does this white outer garment mean but spotless innocence? What does my purple inner garment signify but burning love and devotion to God? What does my outermost cloak mean, so wide and long that it covers my whole mule when I ride? Indeed, the cloak should be large enough to cover a camel. What can it mean but far-reaching charity, offering help and protection to everyone? Such charity should teach, encourage, comfort, rebuke, warn, and settle disputes. It should courageously resist wicked princes. It should sacrifice our lives and blood, as well as our wealth and riches, for the safety of our flock. Though, in fact, those who boast of succeeding the apostles ought to possess no riches at all. The apostles were poor, needy, and destitute. If cardinals took these thoughts to heart, I say, they would never be so eager for this honor. They would willingly give it up when it was granted to them. Or at least they would work as diligently, watchfully, and tirelessly as the first apostles. Now consider the popes of Rome, who claim to be Christ's representatives. Suppose they imitated his exemplary life of constant preaching, poverty, nakedness, hunger, and contempt for this world. Suppose they considered the meaning of the word pope, which means father. Or suppose they lived up to their title of Most Holy. What rank or class of men would then be worse off? There would be no such energetic faction-building and vote-buying in the conclave when the papal throne fell vacant. Those elected through bribery or other underhanded means would never secure their hold through pistols, poison, force, and violence. How much pleasure would they lose if they had even a tiny measure of wisdom? Wisdom, did I say? No, just one grain of that salt our Saviour told them not to let lose its flavor. All their riches, all their honors, their powers, their Peter's patrimony, their offices, their dispensations, their licenses, their indulgences would go. So would their long processions and attendants. See how briefly I have summed up all their trading in religion. In short, all their perks would be forfeited and lost. In their place would come sleepless vigils, fasting, tears, prayers, sermons, hard study, repentant sighs, and a thousand similar harsh punishments. Worse still, all their clerks, copyists, notaries, lawyers, legal agents, and secretaries would lose their jobs. So would their grooms, stable hands, servants, and pimps (and something else that modesty prevents me from mentioning). In short, all these armies of attendants who depend on His Holiness would lose their various jobs.

This indeed would be hard, but what yet remains would be more dreadful: the very Head of the Church, the spiritual prince, would then be brought from all his splendour to the poor equipage of a scrip and staff. But all this is upon the supposition only that they understood what circumstances they are placed in; whereas now, by a wholesome neglect of thinking, they live as well as heart can wish: whatever of toil and drudgery belongs to their office that they assign over to St. Peter, or St. Paul, who have time enough to mind it; but if there be any thing of pleasure and grandeur, that they assume to themselves, as being hereunto called: so that by my influence no sort of people live more to their own ease and content. They think to satisfy that Master they pretend to serve, our Lord and Saviour, with their great state and magnificence, with the ceremonies of instalments, with the tides of reverence and holiness, and with exercising their episcopal function only in blessing and cursing. The working of miracles is old and out-dated; to teach the people is too laborious; to interpret scripture is to invade the prerogative of the schoolmen; to pray is too idle; to shed tears is cowardly and unmanly; to fast is too mean and sordid; to be easy and familiar is beneath the grandeur of him, who, without being sued to and intreated, will scarce give princes the honour of kissing his toe; finally, to die for religion is too self-denying; and to be crucified as their Lord of Life, is base and ignominious. Their only weapons ought to be those of the Spirit; and of these indeed they are mighty liberal, as of their interdicts, their suspensions, their denunciations, their aggravations, their greater and lesser excommunications, and their roaring bulls, that fright whomever they are thundered against; and these most holy fathers never issue them out more frequently than against those, who, at the instigation of the devil, and not having the fear of God before their eyes, do feloniously and maliciously attempt to lessen and impair St. Peter's patrimony: and though that apostle tells our Saviour in the gospel, in the name of all the other disciples, we have left all, and followed you, yet they challenge as his inheritance, fields, towns, treasures, and large dominions; for the defending whereof, inflamed with a holy zeal, they fight with fire and sword, to the great loss and effusion of Christian blood, thinking they are apostolical maintainers of Christ's spouse, the church, when they have murdered all such as they call her enemies; though indeed the church has no enemies more bloody and tyrannical than such impious popes, who give dispensations for the not preaching of Christ; evacuate the main effect and design of our redemption by their pecuniary bribes and sales; adulterate the gospel by their forced interpretations, and undermining traditions; and lastly, by their lusts and wickedness grieve the Holy Spirit, and make their Saviour's wounds to bleed anew.

That would indeed be hard, but what follows would be even more dreadful. The very Head of the Church, the spiritual prince, would lose all his splendor. He would be left with only a beggar’s bag and staff. But all this assumes that these men understood their position. As things stand, a healthy refusal to think lets them live as well as anyone could wish. Whatever toil and drudgery their office involves, they hand over to St. Peter or St. Paul. Those saints have plenty of time to attend to it. But anything involving pleasure and grandeur they claim for themselves, as their appointed calling. So, thanks to my influence, no group lives more comfortably or contentedly. They think they can satisfy the Master they claim to serve, our Lord and Saviour, with pomp and magnificence. They offer him installation ceremonies, titles of reverence and holiness, and episcopal duties limited to blessing and cursing. Working miracles is old-fashioned and out of date. Teaching the people is too much work. Interpreting scripture trespasses on the authority of the schoolmen. Praying is too idle. Shedding tears is cowardly and unmanly. Fasting is too low and degrading. Being approachable and friendly is beneath such a grand figure. Even princes must beg and plead before he will barely grant them the honor of kissing his toe. Finally, dying for religion demands too much self-denial. Being crucified like their Lord of Life is shameful and disgraceful. Their only weapons should be spiritual ones. And these they certainly use generously: interdicts, suspensions, formal denunciations, increased penalties, greater and lesser excommunications, and roaring papal bulls. These bulls terrify whoever they thunder against. These most holy fathers never issue them more often than against anyone who threatens St. Peter’s property. Such people, prompted by the devil and with no fear of God, wickedly and criminally try to diminish that property. Yet in the gospel, that apostle tells our Saviour, speaking for all the other disciples, we have left everything and followed you. Even so, these fathers claim fields, towns, treasures, and vast territories as his inheritance. To defend these possessions, they burn with holy zeal and fight with fire and sword. In doing so, they cause great loss of Christian life and spill much Christian blood. Once they have murdered everyone they call the church’s enemies, they consider themselves apostolic defenders of Christ’s bride, the church. Yet the church has no enemies more bloodthirsty and tyrannical than these godless popes. They grant dispensations excusing people from preaching Christ. Through bribes and sales for money, they strip our redemption of its central purpose and effect. They corrupt the gospel with strained interpretations and traditions that undermine it. Finally, their lusts and wickedness grieve the Holy Spirit and make their Saviour’s wounds bleed again.

Farther, when the Christian church has been all along first planted, then confirmed, and since established by the blood of her martyrs, as if Christ her head would be wanting in the same methods still of protecting her, they invert the order, and propagate their religion now by arms and violence, which was wont formerly to be done only with patience and sufferings. And though war be so brutish, as that it becomes beasts rather than men; so extravagant, that the poets feigned it an effect of the furies; so licentious, that it stops the course of all justice and honesty, so desperate, that it is best waged by ruffians and banditti, and so unchristian, that it is contrary to the express commands of the gospel; yet maugre all this, peace is too quiet, too inactive, and they must be engaged in the boisterousness of war. Among which undertaking popes, you shall have some so old that they can scarce creep, and yet they will put on a young, brisk resolution, will resolve to stick at no pains, to spare no cost, nor to waive any inconvenience, so they may involve laws, religion, peace, and all other concerns, whether sacred or civil, in unappeasable tumults and distractions. And yet some of their learned fawning courtiers will interpret this notorious madness for zeal, and piety, and fortitude, having found out the way how a man may draw his sword, and sheathe it in his brother's bowels, and yet not offend against the duty of the second table, whereby we are obliged to love our neighbours as ourselves. It is yet uncertain whether these Romish fathers have taken example from, or given precedent to, such other German bishops, who omitting their ecclesiastical habit, and other ceremonies, appear openly armed cap-a-pie, like so many champions and warriors, thinking no doubt that they come short of the duty of their function, if they die in any other place than the open field, fighting the battles of the Lord. The inferior clergy, deeming it unmannerly not to conform to their patrons and diocesans, devoutly tug and fight for their tithes with syllogisms and arguments, as fiercely as with swords, sticks, stones, or anything that came next to hand. When they read the rabbies, fathers, or other ancient writings, how quick-sighted are they in spying out any sentences, that they may frighten the people with, and make them believe that more than the tenth is due, passing by whatever they meet with in the same authors that minds them of the duty and difficulty of their own office. They never consider that their shaven crown is a token that they should pare off and cut away all the superfluous lusts of this world, and give themselves wholly to divine meditation; but instead of this, our bald-pated priests think they have done enough, if they do but mumble over such a fardel of prayers; which it is a wonder if God should hear or understand, when they whisper them so softly, and in so unknown a language, which they can scarce hear or understand themselves. This they have in common with other mechanics, that they are most subtle in the craft of getting money, and wonderfully skilled in their respective dues of tithes, offerings, perquisites, &c. Thus they are all content to reap the profit, but as to the burden, that they toss as a ball from one hand to another, and assign it over to any they can get or hire: for as secular princes have their judges and subordinate ministers to act in their name, and supply their stead; so ecclesiastical governors have their deputies, vicars, and curates, nay, many times turn over the whole care of religion to the laity. The laity, supposing they have nothing to do with the church (as if their baptismal vow did not initiate them members of it), make it over to the priests; of the priests again, those that are secular, thinking their tithe implies them to be a little too profane, assign this task over to the regulars, the regulars to the monks, the monks bandy it from one order to another, till it light upon the mendicants; they lay it upon the Carthusians, which order alone keeps honesty and piety among them, but really keep them so close that no body ever yet could see them. Thus the Popes thrusting only their sickle into the harvest of profit, leave all the other toil of spiritual husbandry to the bishops, the bishops bestow it upon the pastors, the pastors on their curates, and the curates commit it to the mendicants, who return it again to such as well know how to make good advantage of the flock, by the benefit of their fleece.

Moreover, the Christian church was first planted, then strengthened, and finally established by the blood of its martyrs. Yet these men reverse that process, as if Christ, the church’s head, would no longer protect it by the same means. They now spread their religion through weapons and violence, instead of the patience and suffering once used. War is so brutal that it suits beasts better than people. It is so irrational that poets imagined it was the work of the Furies. It is so lawless that it brings all justice and honesty to a halt. It is so desperate that thugs and bandits wage it best. And it is so unchristian that it directly contradicts the gospel’s commands. Yet despite all this, peace is too quiet and inactive for them. They must plunge into the uproar of war. Among these enterprising popes, you will find some so old they can barely crawl. Yet they summon the spirited determination of young men. They resolve to spare no effort or expense, and to shrink from no inconvenience. Their aim is to engulf law, religion, peace, and every other concern, sacred or civil, in endless turmoil and confusion. Yet some of their learned, flattering courtiers call this blatant madness zeal, piety, and courage. These courtiers have discovered how a man can draw his sword and plunge it into his brother’s guts without sinning. Apparently, he can still obey the second table of the commandments, which requires us to love our neighbors as ourselves. It remains uncertain whether these Roman fathers followed the example of certain German bishops or set that example themselves. These bishops abandon their church robes and other ceremonies, appearing openly armed from head to foot, like champions and warriors. No doubt they think they fail in their duties unless they die on the battlefield, fighting the Lord’s battles. The lower clergy think it bad manners not to follow their patrons and bishops. So they devoutly struggle and fight for their tithes. They wield syllogisms and arguments as fiercely as swords, sticks, stones, or anything else within reach. When reading the rabbis, the Church Fathers, or other ancient writings, how sharply they spot passages to frighten people with! They use these passages to persuade people that they owe more than a tenth. Meanwhile, they skip anything in those same authors that reminds them of their duties and the difficulty of their work. They never consider what their shaved crowns signify. They should cut away all excessive worldly desires and devote themselves entirely to meditation on God. Instead, our bald-headed priests think they have done enough if they mumble through a bundle of prayers. It would be a wonder if God could hear or understand those prayers. The priests whisper so softly, in a language so unfamiliar, that they can barely hear or understand the prayers themselves. The clergy share this much with other tradesmen: they are extremely clever at making money. They know wonderfully well what tithes, offerings, fees, and other payments they are owed. So they are all happy to collect the profits. But they toss the burden of work from hand to hand like a ball. They hand it over to anyone they can find or hire. Secular princes have judges and lesser officials to act in their names and take their places. In the same way, church rulers have deputies, vicars, and curates. Indeed, they often turn over the entire care of religion to the laity. The laity suppose they have nothing to do with the church, as if their baptismal vows had not made them members. So they hand the responsibility over to the priests. Among the priests, the secular clergy think their very title suggests they are a little too worldly. So they pass the task to the regular clergy, who live under religious rules. The regular clergy pass it to the monks. The monks toss it from one order to another until it falls to the mendicants, the begging friars. The mendicants lay it on the Carthusians, the only order that keeps honesty and piety among its members. But the Carthusians really keep those virtues so well hidden that nobody has ever seen them. Thus the Popes put their sickles only into the harvest of profit. They leave all the other labor of spiritual farming to the bishops. The bishops pass it to the pastors, the pastors to their curates, and the curates to the mendicants. The mendicants return it to those who know very well how to profit from the flock by taking its fleece.

But I would not be thought purposely to expose the weaknesses of popes and priests, lest I should seem to recede from my title, and make a satire instead of a panegyric: nor let anyone imagine that I reflect on good princes, by commending of bad ones: I did this only in brief, to shew that there is no one particular person can lead a comfortable life, except he be entered of my society, and retain me for his friend. Nor indeed can it be otherwise, since fortune, that empress of the world, is so much in league and amity with me, that to wise men she is always stingy, and sparing of her gifts, but is profusely liberal and lavish to fools. Thus Timotheus, the Athenian commander, in all his expeditions, was a mirror of good luck, because he was a little underwitted; from him was occasioned the Grecian proverb, 'H evdovtos kvptos aipel, The net fills, though the fisherman sleeps; there is also another favourable proverb, yhavf itttatai, The owl flies an omen of success. But against wise men are pointed these ill-aboding proverbs, 'Ev tetpadi. yewnoevtas, Born under a bad planet; equum habet seianum, He cannot ride the fore-horse; aurum tholosanum, Ill-gotten goods will never prosper; and more to the same purpose. But I forbear from any farther proverbializing, lest I should be thought to have rifled my Erasmus's adages. To return, therefore, fortune we find still favouring the blunt, and flushing the forward; strokes and smoothes up fools, crowning all their undertakings with success; but wisdom makes her followers bashful, sneaking, and timorous, and therefore you see that they are commonly reduced to hard shifts, must grapple with poverty, cold and hunger, must lie recluse, despised, and unregarded, while fools roll in money, are advanced to dignities and offices, and in a word, have the whole world at command. If any one think it happy to be a favourite at court, and to manage the disposal of places and preferments, alas, this happiness is so far from being attainable by wisdom, that the very suspicion of it would put a stop to all advancement Has any man a mind to raise himself a good estate? Alas what dealer in the world would ever get a farthing, if he be so wise as to scruple at perjury, blush at a lie, or stick at any fraud and over-reaching.

But I would not want anyone to think I am deliberately exposing the weaknesses of popes and priests. I might seem to stray from my title and write a satire instead of a tribute. Nor should anyone imagine that I criticize good princes by praising bad ones. I touched on these matters only briefly to show that no one can live comfortably without joining my society. Everyone must also keep me as a friend. Indeed, how could things be otherwise? Fortune, the empress of the world, is such a close ally and friend of mine. She is always stingy with wise men and sparing with her gifts, but endlessly generous and lavish with fools. Thus Timotheus, the Athenian commander, was a model of good luck in all his campaigns because he was rather dim-witted. He inspired the Greek proverb, 'H evdovtos kvptos aipel, The net fills, though the fisherman sleeps. Another favorable proverb is yhavf itttatai, The owl flies, an omen of success. But these gloomy proverbs are aimed at wise men: 'Ev tetpadi. yewnoevtas, Born under a bad planet', equum habet seianum, He cannot ride the fore-horse, and aurum tholosanum, Ill-gotten goods will never prosper. There are more to the same effect. But I will stop quoting proverbs, lest anyone think I have plundered my Erasmus's adages. To return to my point, fortune always favors the simple-minded and encourages the bold. She pets and pampers fools, crowning all their efforts with success. But wisdom makes her followers shy, cowering, and fearful. So, as you see, wise people are commonly driven to desperate measures and must struggle with poverty, cold, and hunger. They must live in seclusion, despised and ignored. Meanwhile, fools roll in money, rise to high positions and public offices, and, in short, command the whole world. If anyone thinks happiness means being a court favorite and controlling appointments and promotions, alas, wisdom cannot secure such happiness. The very suspicion of wisdom would stop all advancement. Does any man want to build himself a large fortune? Alas, what merchant would ever earn a penny if he were so wise as to hesitate over perjury? What if he blushed at a lie or balked at any fraud or dishonest dealing?

Farther, does any one appear a candidate for any ecclesiastical dignity? Why, an ass, or a plough-jobber, shall sooner gain it than a wise man. Again, are you in love with any handsome lady? Alas, women-kind are so addicted to folly, that they will not at all listen to the courtship of a wise suitor. Finally, wherever there is any preparation made for mirth and jollity, all wise men are sure to be excluded the company, lest they should stint the joy, and damp the frolic In a word, to what side soever we turn ourselves, to popes, princes, judges, magistrates, friends, enemies, rich or poor, all their concerns are managed by money, which because it is undervalued by wise men, therefore, in revenge to be sure, it never comes at them.

Furthermore, is anyone seeking a high position in the Church? Why, a donkey or a farm laborer will get it sooner than a wise man. Again, are you in love with a beautiful woman? Alas, women are so devoted to folly that they will not listen at all to a wise man's courtship. Finally, wherever people plan fun and festivities, all wise men are sure to be left out. Otherwise, the wise men might limit the pleasure and spoil the fun. In short, wherever we turn, everyone's affairs are governed by money. This goes for popes, princes, judges, magistrates, friends, enemies, rich and poor. Because wise men think little of money, money never comes their way, surely out of revenge.

But now, though my praise and commendation might well be endless, yet it is requisite I should put some period to my speech. I'll therefore draw toward an end, when I have first confirmed what I have said by the authority of several authors. Which by way of farther proof I shall insist upon, partly, that I may not be thought to have said more in my own behalf than what will be justified by others; and partly, that the lawyers may not check me for citing no precedents nor allegations. To imitate them therefore I will produce some reports and authorities, though perhaps like theirs too, they are nothing to the purpose.

But now, though my praise could well go on forever, I must bring my speech to a close. So I will finish once I have backed up what I have said with the authority of several authors. I will offer their support as further proof, partly to avoid seeming to claim more for myself than others can justify. And partly, I want to keep the lawyers from scolding me for citing no precedents or supporting arguments. So, to imitate them, I will produce some reports and authorities. Though perhaps, like the lawyers’ own, my reports and authorities have nothing to do with the matter.

First then, it is confessed almost to a proverb, that the art of dissembling is a very necessary accomplishment; and therefore it is a common verse among school-boys:—

First, the art of hiding your true thoughts is widely acknowledged as a very necessary skill, almost a proverb. So schoolboys commonly recite the following verse:

It is easy therefore to collect how great a value ought to be put upon real folly, when the very shadow, and bare imitation of it, is so much esteemed. Horace, who in his episdes thus styles himself:—

So it is easy to see how highly true folly should be valued. For even the mere shadow and imitation of folly are so highly prized. Horace describes himself this way in his letters:

This poet (I say) gives this advice in one of his odes:—

As I say, this poet gives the following advice in one of his odes:

The epithet of short, it is true, is a little improper. The same poet again has this passage elsewhere:—

Admittedly, the description short is not quite fitting. The same poet also writes elsewhere:

And in another place:—

And elsewhere:

Homer praises Telemachus as much as any one of his heroes, and yet he gives him the epithet of Nuttios, Silly: and the Grecians generally use the same word to express children, as a token of their innocence. And what is the argument of all Homer's Iliads, but only, as Horace observes:—

Homer praises Telemachus as much as any of his heroes, yet calls him Nuttios, Silly. And the Greeks generally use the same word for children, as a sign of their innocence. And what is the whole story of Homer's Iliads but simply this, as Horace observes:

How positive also is Tully's commendation that all places are filled with fools? Now every excellence being to be measured by its extent, the goodness of folly must be of as large compass as those universal places she reaches to. But perhaps christians may slight the authority of a heathen. I could therefore, if I pleased, back and confirm the truth hereof by the citations of several texts of scripture; though herein. it were perhaps my duty to beg leave of the divines, that I might so far intrench upon their prerogative. Supposing a grant, the task seems so difficult as to require the invocation of some aid and assistance; yet because it is unreasonable to put the muses to the trouble and expense of so tedious a journey, especially since the business is out of their sphere, I shall choose rather (while I am acting the divine, and venturing in their polemic difficulties), to wish myself for such time animated with Scotus, his bristling and prickly soul, which I would not care how afterwards it returned to his body, though for refinement it were stopped at a purgatory by the way. I cannot but wish that I might wholly change my character, or at least that some grave divine, in my stead, might rehearse this part of the subject for me; for truly I suspect that somebody will accuse me of plundering the closets of those reverend men, while I pretend to so much divinity, as must appear in my following discourse. Yet however, it may not seem strange, that after so long and frequent a converse, I have gleaned some scraps from the divines; since Horace's wooden god by hearing his master read Homer, learned some words of Greek; and Lucian's cock, by long attention, could readily understand what any man spoke. But now to the purpose, wishing myself success.

How emphatically Tully also praises folly when he says that all places are filled with fools! Now, every excellence must be measured by its reach. So folly’s goodness must be as vast as all the places she reaches. But perhaps Christians may dismiss the authority of a pagan. If I wished, I could therefore support and confirm this truth by quoting several passages of scripture. Though perhaps I ought first to ask the theologians’ permission to trespass so far on their exclusive territory. Assuming permission is granted, the task seems so difficult that I must call for help. Yet troubling the muses with such a tedious journey would be unreasonable, especially since theology lies outside their field. So, while I play the theologian and venture into their thorny disputes, I would rather borrow Scotus’s bristling, prickly soul. Afterward, I would not care how his soul returned to his body. I would not even mind if his soul stopped in purgatory along the way for purification. I cannot help wishing I could change my character entirely. Or at least some solemn theologian might take my place and present this part of the subject for me. For I truly suspect someone will accuse me of raiding those reverend men’s private studies. Such an accusation would follow my display of all the theology that must appear in my coming discussion. Yet perhaps my gleaning some scraps from the theologians should not seem strange, after such long and frequent company with them. After all, Horace’s wooden god learned some Greek words by hearing his master read Homer. And Lucian’s cock, by listening attentively for a long time, could readily understand anything anyone said. But now to the point, with a wish for my own success.

Ecclesiastes doth somewhere confess that there are an infinite number of fools. Now when he speaks of an infinite number, what does he else but imply, that herein is included the whole race of mankind, except some very few, which I know not whether ever any one had yet the happiness to see?

Ecclesiastes admits somewhere that there are an infinite number of fools. Now, what else can he mean by an infinite number but the whole human race, with very few exceptions? I do not know whether anyone has ever had the good fortune to see even one of those exceptions.

The prophet Jeremiah speaks yet more plainly in his tenth chapter, where he saith, that Every man is brutish in his knowledge. He just before attributes wisdom to God alone, saying, that the Wise men of the nations are altogether brutish and foolish. And in the preceding chapter he gives this seasonable caution, Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom: the reason is obvious, because no man hath truly any whereof to glory. But to return to Ecclesiastes, when he saith, Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, what else can we imagine his meaning to be, than that our whole life is nothing but one continued interlude of Folly? This confirms that assertion of Tully, which is delivered in that noted passage we but just now mentioned, namely, that All places swarm with fools. Farther, what does the son of Sirach mean when he saith in Ecclesiasticus, that the Fool is changed as the moon, while the Wise man is fixed as the sun, than only to hint out the folly of all mankind; and that the name of wise is due to no other but the all-wise God? for all interpreters by Moon understand mankind, and by Sun that fountain of all light, the Almighty. The same sense is implied in that saying of our Saviour in the gospel, There is none good but one, that is God: for if whoever is not wise must be consequently a fool, and if, according to the Stoics, every man be wise so far only as he is good, the meaning of the text must be, all mortals are unavoidably fools; and there is none wise but one, that is God. Solomon also in the fifteenth chapter of his proverbs hath this expression, Folly is joy to him that is destitute of wisdom; plainly intimating, that the wise man is attended with grief and vexation, while the foolish only roll in delight and pleasure. To the same purpose is that saying of his in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes, In much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. Again, it is confessed by the same preacher in the seventh chapter of the same book, That the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. This author himself had never attained to such a portion of wisdom, if he had not applied himself to a searching out the frailties and infirmities of human nature; as, if you believe not me, may appear from his own words in his first chapter, I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly; where it is worthy to be observed that as to the order of words, Folly for its advantage is put in the last place. Thus Ecclesiastes wrote, and thus indeed did an ecclesiastical method require; namely, that what has the precedence in dignity should come hindmost in rank and order, according to the tenor of that evangelical precept, The last shall be first, and the first shall be last. And in Ecclesiasticus likewise (whoever was author of the holy book which bears that name) in the forty-fourth chapter, the excellency of folly above wisdom is positively acknowledged; the very words I shall not cite, till I have the advantage of an answer to a question I am proposing, this way of interrogating being frequently made use of by Plato in his dialogues between Socrates, and other disputants: I ask you then, what is it we usually hoard and lock up, things of greater esteem and value, or those which are more common, trite, and despicable? Why are you so backward in making an answer? Since you are so shy and reserved, I'll take the Greek proverb for a satisfactory reply; namely, Foul water is thrown down the sink; which saying, that no person may slight it, may be convenient to advertise that it comes from no meaner an author than that oracle of truth, Aristotle himself. And indeed there is no one on this side Bedlam so mad as to throw out upon the dunghill his gold and jewels, but rather all persons have a close repository to preserve them in, and secure them under all the locks, bolts, and bars, that either art can contrive, or fears suggest: whereas the dirt, pebbles, and oyster-shells, that lie scattered in the streets, ye trample upon, pass by, and take no notice of.

The prophet Jeremiah speaks even more plainly in his tenth chapter, where he says that Everyone is brutish in their knowledge. Just before this, he credits God alone with wisdom, saying that the Wise men of the nations are all brutish and foolish. And in the previous chapter he gives this timely warning: Let no wise man boast of his wisdom. The reason is obvious, because no one truly has anything to boast about. But let us return to Ecclesiastes, where he says, Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What else can he mean but that our whole life is one continuous performance of Folly? This confirms Tully's claim in the famous passage we just mentioned: All places swarm with fools. Further, what does the son of Sirach mean in Ecclesiasticus when he says the Fool changes like the moon, while the Wise man remains steady like the sun? Surely he only means to suggest the folly of all humanity. He also suggests that only the all-wise God deserves the name of wise. For all interpreters understand the Moon to mean humanity, and the Sun to mean the Almighty, the source of all light. The same meaning lies in our Saviour's words in the gospel: No one is good except one, God. For anyone who is not wise must therefore be a fool. And according to the Stoics, everyone is wise only to the extent that they are good. If these claims hold, the passage must mean that all mortals are unavoidably fools. No one is wise except one, God. Solomon also says in the fifteenth chapter of his proverbs, Folly brings joy to anyone who lacks wisdom. He plainly suggests that wisdom brings grief and distress, while fools alone revel in delight and pleasure. His words in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes make the same point: Much wisdom brings much grief, and whoever increases knowledge increases sorrow. Again, the same preacher admits in the seventh chapter of the same book, The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of joy. This author himself would never have gained so much wisdom without searching out the weaknesses and failings of human nature. If you do not believe me, his own words in the first chapter may convince you: I set my heart on knowing wisdom, and on knowing madness and folly. Notice the order of the words: Folly gains an advantage by being placed last. This is how Ecclesiastes wrote, and indeed how a churchly method required him to write. Whatever ranks first in dignity should come last in position and order. This follows the gospel's command: The last shall be first, and the first shall be last. Likewise, the forty-fourth chapter of Ecclesiasticus plainly acknowledges folly's superiority to wisdom, whoever wrote the holy book bearing that name. I will not quote the exact words until I have the benefit of your answer to a question. Plato often uses this questioning method in his dialogues between Socrates and other speakers. So I ask you: what do we usually hoard and lock away? Things of greater worth and value, or things that are common, ordinary, and worthless? Why are you so slow to answer? Since you are so shy and reserved, I will accept the Greek proverb as a satisfactory reply: Dirty water is poured down the drain. So that no one dismisses this saying, I should mention its source. It comes from no less an authority than that oracle of truth, Aristotle himself. Indeed, no one outside Bedlam is mad enough to throw their gold and jewels onto a dung heap. Instead, everyone keeps such treasures in a secure place. They protect them with every lock, bolt, and bar that ingenuity can devise or fear suggest. But the dirt, pebbles, and oyster shells scattered in the streets you trample on, pass by, and ignore.

If then what is more valuable be coffered up, and what less so lies unregarded, it follows, that accordingly Folly should meet with a greater esteem than wisdom, because that wise author advises us to the keeping close and concealing the first, and exposing or laying open the other: as take him now in his own words, Better is he that hideth his folly than him that hideth his wisdom. Beside, the sacred text does oft ascribe innocence and sincerity to fools, while the wise man is apt to be a haughty scorner of all such as he thinks or censures to have less wit than himself: for so I understand that passage in the tenth chapter of Ecclesiastes, When he that is a fool walketh by the way, his wisdom faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool. Now what greater argument of candour or ingenuity can there be, than to demean himself equal with all others, and not think their deserts any way inferior to his own. Folly is no such scandalous attribute, but that the wise Agur was not ashamed to confess it, in the thirtieth chapter of Proverbs: Surely I am more brutish than any man, and have not the understanding of a man, Nay, St. Paul himself, that great doctor of the Gentiles, writing to his Corinthians, readily owns the name, saying, If any man speak as a fool, I am more; as if to have been less so had been a reproach and disgrace. But perhaps I may be censured for misinterpreting this text by some modern annotators, who like crows pecking at one another's eyes, find fault, and correct all that went before them, pretend each their own glosses to contain the only true and genuine explication; among whom my Erasmus (whom I cannot but mention with respect) may challenge the second place, if not the precedency. This citation (say they) is purely impertinent; the meaning of the apostle is far different from what you dream of: he would not have these words so understood, as if he desired to be thought a greater fool than the rest, but only when he had before said, Are they ministers of Christ? so am I: as if the equalling himself herein to others had been too little, he adds, I am more, thinking a bare equality not enough, unless he were even superior to those he compares himself with. This he would have to be believed as true; yet lest it might be thought offensive, as bordering too much on arrogance and conceit, he tempers and alleviates it by the covert of Folly. I speak (says he) as a fool, knowing it to be the peculiar privilege of fools to speak the truth, without giving offence. But what St. Paul's thoughts were when he wrote this, I leave for them to determine. In my own judgment at least I prefer the opinion of the good old tun-bellied divines, with whom it's safer and more creditable to err, than to be in the right with smattering, raw, novices.

If we lock away what is more valuable and leave what is less valuable lying about, a conclusion follows. Folly should be valued more highly than wisdom. For that wise author advises us to hide folly and display wisdom. Here are his own words: Better to hide your folly than to hide your wisdom. Besides, Scripture often credits fools with innocence and sincerity. The wise man, meanwhile, tends to scorn anyone he thinks less intelligent than himself. That is how I understand this passage from the tenth chapter of Ecclesiastes: When a fool walks along the road, his wisdom fails him, and he tells everyone he is a fool. Now what greater sign of honesty or openness could there be? He puts himself on equal terms with everyone else and does not consider their merits inferior to his own. Folly is not so disgraceful a quality that the wise Agur was ashamed to admit to it. In the thirtieth chapter of Proverbs, he says: Surely I am more brutish than any man, and lack human understanding. Even St. Paul himself, that great teacher of the Gentiles, readily accepts the name when writing to his Corinthians. He says, If anyone speaks as a fool, I do so even more. It is as if being less foolish would have brought shame and disgrace. But perhaps some modern commentators will criticize me for misinterpreting this passage. Like crows pecking at one another's eyes, they find fault with and correct everyone who came before them. Each claims that his own explanations alone give the true and genuine meaning. Among them, my Erasmus may claim second place, if not first. I cannot mention him without respect. These commentators say my quotation is entirely beside the point. The apostle's meaning is quite different from what I imagine. He did not mean that he wanted to be thought a greater fool than the others. Rather, he had just said, Are they ministers of Christ? So am I. Then, as if putting himself on equal terms with others were too little, he adds, I am more. He thought mere equality was not enough unless he surpassed those he compared himself with. He wanted his claim to be accepted as true. Yet he feared it might give offense by sounding too arrogant and conceited. So he softened the claim by sheltering behind Folly. I speak, he says, as a fool. He knew that fools have the special privilege of speaking the truth without giving offense. But I leave these commentators to decide what St. Paul was thinking when he wrote those words. For my part, I prefer the opinion of the good old pot-bellied theologians. It is safer and more respectable to be wrong with them than right with half-educated, inexperienced beginners.

Nor indeed should any one mind the late critics any more than the senseless chattering of a daw: especially since one of the most eminent of them (whose name I advisedly conceal, lest some of our wits should be taunting him with the Greek proverb, magisterially and dogmatically descanting upon his text [are they the ministers of Christ? ]) I speak as a fool. I am more makes a distinct chapter, and (which without good store of logic he could never have done) adds a new section, and then gives this paraphrase, which I shall verbatim recite, that you may have his words materially, as well as formally his sense (for that's one of their babbling distinctions). [I speak as a fool] that is, if the equalling myself to those false apostles would have been construed as the vaunt of a fool, I will willingly be accounted a greater fool, by taking place of them, and openly pleading, that as to their ministry, I not only come up even with them, but outstrip and go beyond them: though this same commentator a little after, as it were forgetting what he had just before delivered, tacks about and shifts to another interpretation.

Indeed, no one should pay these recent critics any more attention than a jackdaw’s senseless chatter. Consider one of the most distinguished among them. I deliberately conceal his name, lest some of our wits taunt him with the Greek proverb. He comments with great authority and dogmatic certainty on his text, [are they the ministers of Christ?]. He makes “I speak as a fool. I am more” a separate chapter. He also adds a new section, something he could never have managed without a generous supply of logic. Then he offers the following paraphrase. I will repeat it word for word, so you can have his actual words as well as their formal meaning. That is one of those babbling distinctions these critics make. [I speak as a fool] means: If comparing myself with those false apostles would be taken as a fool’s boast, I will willingly be considered a greater fool. I will claim a higher place than theirs and openly argue that, in ministry, I not only equal them. I surpass them and go beyond them. Yet a little later, this same commentator changes course and switches to another interpretation. He writes as though he has forgotten the explanation he has just given.

But why do I insist upon any one particular example, when in general it is the public charter of all divines, to mould and bend the sacred oracles till they comply with their own fancy, spreading them (as Heaven by its Creator) like a curtain, closing together, or drawing them back, as they please? Thus indeed St. Paul himself minces and mangles some citations he makes use of, and seems to wrest them to a different sense from what they were first intended for, as is confessed by the great linguist, St. Hierom.

But why focus on any one example? All theologians have a general license to twist and bend Scripture until it suits their own ideas. They spread it out like a curtain, just as the Creator spread out the heavens. They close it or draw it back as they please. Even St. Paul himself chops up and mangles some of the passages he quotes. He seems to twist them into meanings different from those originally intended, as the great linguist St. Hierom admits.

Thus when that apostle saw at Athens the inscription of an altar, he draws from it an argument for the proof of the christian religion; but leaving out great part of the sentence, which perhaps if fully recited might have prejudiced his cause, he mentions only the two last words viz., To the unknown God; and this too not without alteration, for the whole inscription runs thus: To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa, to all foreign and unknown Gods.

So when that apostle saw an altar inscription in Athens, he used it to argue for the Christian religion. But he left out much of the inscription, which perhaps might have hurt his case if quoted in full. He quoted only the last two words, To the unknown God. And even those words were altered, for the full inscription reads: To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa, to all foreign and unknown Gods.

'Tis an imitation of the same pattern, I will warrant you, that our young divines, by leaving out four or five words in a place, and putting a false construction on the rest, can make any passage serviceable to their own purpose; though from the coherence of what went before, or follows after, the genuine meaning appears to be either wide enough, or perhaps quite contradictory to what they would thrust and impose upon it. In which knack the divines are grown now so expert, that the lawyers themselves begin to be jealous of an encroachment upon what was formerly their sole privilege and practice. And indeed what can they despair of proving, since the fore-mentioned commentator (I had almost blundered out his name), but that I am restrained by fear of the same Greek proverbial sarcasm) did upon a text of St. Luke put an interpretation, no more agreeable to the meaning of the place, than one contrary quality is to another? The passage is this, when Judas's treachery was preparing to be executed, and accordingly it seemed requisite that all the disciples should be provided to guard and secure their assaulted master, our Saviour, that he might piously caution them against reliance for his delivery on any worldly strength, asks them, whether in all their embassy they lacked anything, when he had sent them out so unfurnished for the performance of a long journey, that they had not so much as shoes to defend their feet from the injuries of flints and thorns, or a scrip to carry a meal's meat in; and when they had answered that they lacked nothing, he adds, But now he that hath a purse let him take it, and likewise a scrip; and he that hath no sword let him sell his garment, and buy one. Now when the whole doctrine of our Saviour inculcates nothing more frequently than meekness, patience, and a contempt of this world, is it not plain what the meaning of the place is? Namely, that he might now dismiss his ambassadors in a more naked, defenceless condition, he does not only advise them to take no thought for shoes or scrip, but even commands them to part with the very clothes from their back, that so they might have the less incumbrance and entanglement in the going through their office and function. He cautions them, it is true, to. be furnished with a sword, yet not such a carnal one as rogues and highwaymen make use of for murder and bloodshed, but with the sword of the Spirit, which pierces through the heart, and searches out the innermost retirements of the soul, lopping off all our lust, and corrupt affections, and leaving nothing in possession of our breast but piety, zeal, and devotion: this (I say) in my opinion is the most natural interpretation.

Our young theologians follow the same pattern, I assure you. By leaving out four or five words here and there, and misreading the rest, they can bend any passage to their purposes. Yet the surrounding context shows that the true meaning is far removed from their reading, or perhaps completely contradicts it. The theologians have now become so skilled at this trick that even the lawyers are growing jealous. They see an intrusion into what used to be their exclusive privilege and practice. And really, what could these theologians ever give up hope of proving? The commentator mentioned earlier interpreted a passage from St. Luke in a way completely opposed to its meaning. His reading and the passage's meaning were as incompatible as two opposite qualities. I almost let his name slip, but fear of that same sarcastic Greek proverb holds me back. Here is the passage. Judas's betrayal was about to take place. So it seemed necessary to equip all the disciples to guard and protect their master against attack. But our Saviour wanted to warn them against relying on worldly strength to rescue him. He asked whether they had lacked anything during their mission. He had sent them on a long journey with so little equipment that they had not even had shoes. Their feet had no protection against sharp stones and thorns, and they had no bag to carry a meal. When they answered that they had lacked nothing, he added, But now anyone who has a purse should take it, and likewise a bag. And anyone who has no sword should sell his coat and buy one. Now our Saviour's whole teaching stresses nothing more often than gentleness, patience, and contempt for this world. So isn't the meaning of this passage clear? He wanted to send his messengers out in an even more exposed and defenseless condition. So he not only told them not to worry about shoes or a bag. He even commanded them to give up the very clothes on their backs. Then they would have fewer burdens and distractions as they carried out their duties. True, he warned them to equip themselves with a sword. But he did not mean a physical sword, such as criminals and highway robbers use for murder and bloodshed. He meant the sword of the Spirit. That sword pierces the heart and searches the soul's deepest hiding places. It cuts away all our lust and corrupt desires, leaving nothing in our hearts but piety, zeal, and devotion. This, I say, is in my opinion the most natural interpretation.

But see how that divine misunderstands the place; by sword (says he) is meant, defence against persecution; by scrip, or purse, a sufficient quantity of provision; as if Christ had, by considering better of it, changed his mind in reference to that mean equipage, which he had before sent his disciples in, and therefore came now to a recantation of what he had formerly instituted: or as if he had forgot what in time past he had told them, Blessed are you when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and say all manner of evil against you for my sake. Render not evil for evil, for blessed are the meek, not the cruel: as if he had forgot that he encouraged them by the examples of sparrows and lilies to take no thought for the morrow; he gives them now another lesson, and charges them, rather than go without a sword, to sell their garment, and buy one; as if the going cold and naked were more excusable than the marching unarmed. And as this author thinks all means which are requisite for the prevention or retaliation of injuries to be implied under the name of sword, so under that of scrip, he would have everything to be comprehended, which either the necessity or conveniency of life requires.

But look how this theologian misunderstands the passage. By sword, he says, Christ means defense against persecution. By bag, or purse, he means an adequate supply of provisions. As if Christ had thought better of sending his disciples out with so little equipment and changed his mind. As if he were now taking back his earlier instructions. Or as if he had forgotten what he had told them before: Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you for my sake. Do not repay evil with evil, for blessed are the meek, not the cruel. As if he had forgotten encouraging them, through the examples of sparrows and lilies, not to worry about tomorrow. Now he gives them a different lesson. He tells them, rather than go without a sword, to sell their coat and buy one. As if going cold and naked were more excusable than marching unarmed. This author thinks the word sword includes all means needed to prevent injuries or retaliate for them. Likewise, he would have the word bag include everything needed for life's necessities or comforts.

Thus does this provident commentator furnish out the disciples with halberts, spears, and guns, for the enterprise of preaching Christ crucified; he supplies them at the same time with pockets, bags, and portmanteaus, that they might carry their cupboards as well as their bellies always about them: he takes no notice how our Saviour afterwards rebukes Peter for drawing that sword which he had just before so strictly charged him to buy; nor that it is ever recorded that the primitive Christians did by no ways withstand their heathen persecutors otherwise than with tears and prayers, which they would have exchanged more effectually for swords and bucklers, if they had thought this text would have borne them out.

So this far-sighted commentator equips the disciples with halberds, spears, and guns for the task of preaching Christ crucified. He also supplies them with pockets, bags, and suitcases, so they can always carry their cupboards along with their bellies. He ignores how our Saviour later rebukes Peter for drawing the very sword he had just strictly ordered him to buy. He also ignores the records showing that the early Christians resisted their pagan persecutors only with tears and prayers. They would have traded tears and prayers for more effective swords and shields if they thought this passage justified doing so.

There is another, and he of no mean credit, whom for respect to his person I shall forbear to name, who commenting upon that verse in the prophet Habakkuk (I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction, and the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble), because tents were sometimes made of skins, he pretended that the word tents did here signify the skin of St. Bartholomew, who was flayed for a martyr.

There is another man, of considerable reputation, whose name I will withhold out of respect for him. He commented on this verse in the prophet Habakkuk: (I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction, and the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble). Because tents were sometimes made of skins, he claimed that “tents” here meant the skin of St. Bartholomew. St. Bartholomew was skinned alive as a martyr.

I myself was lately at a divinity disputation (where I very often pay my attendance), where one of the opponents demanded a reason why it should be thought more proper to silence all heretics by sword and faggot, rather than convert them by moderate and sober arguments? A certain cynical old blade, who bore the character of a divine, legible in the frowns and wrinkles of his face, not without a great deal of disdain answered, that it was the express injunction of St. Paul himself, in those directions to Titus (A man that is an heretic, after the first and second admonition, reject), quoting it in Latin, where the word reject is devita, while all the auditory wondered at this citation, and deemed it no way applicable to his purpose; he at last explained himself, saying, that devita signified de vita tollendum hereticum, a heretic must be slain. Some smiled at his ignorance, but others approved of it as an orthodox comment And however some disliked that such violence should be done to so easy a text, our hair-splitting and irrefragable doctor went on in triumph. To prove it yet (says he) more undeniably, it is commanded in the old law [Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live]: now then every Maleficus, or witch, is to be killed, but an heretic is Maleficus, which in the Latin translation is put for a witch, ergo, &c. All that were present wondered at the ingenuity of the person, and very devoudy embraced his opinion, never dreaming that the law was restrained only to magicians, sorcerers, and enchanters: for otherwise, if the word Maleficus signified what it most naturally implies, every evil-doer, then drunkenness and whoredom were to meet with the same capital punishment as witchcraft But why should I squander away my time in a too tedious prosecution of this topic, which if drove on to the utmost would afford talk to eternity? I aim herein at no more than this, namely, that since those grave doctors take such a swinging range and latitude, I, who am but a smattering novice in divinity, may have the larger allowance for any slips or mistakes.

I recently attended a theological debate myself (I very often attend such events). One of the speakers asked why silencing all heretics with swords and burning stakes should be considered more appropriate than conversion. Why not convert them with reasonable, measured arguments? A certain sneering old fellow answered with considerable contempt. His frowns and wrinkles plainly marked him as a theologian. He said St. Paul himself had explicitly commanded such treatment in his instructions to Titus (Reject a heretic after a first and second warning). He quoted the passage in Latin, where the word reject is devita. Everyone listening was astonished by the quotation and thought it had nothing to do with his argument. At last he explained himself. He said devita meant de vita tollendum hereticum, meaning that a heretic must be killed. Some smiled at his ignorance, but others accepted his explanation as orthodox. And although some disliked seeing such violence done to so straightforward a passage, our hair-splitting, supposedly irrefutable scholar marched triumphantly on. To prove the point even more conclusively, he said, the old law commands [You shall not allow a witch to live]. Now every Maleficus, or witch, must be killed. But a heretic is Maleficus, the word used for a witch in the Latin translation, therefore, etc. Everyone present marveled at the man's ingenuity and very devoutly accepted his opinion. They never imagined that the law applied only to magicians, sorcerers, and enchanters. Otherwise, if Maleficus meant what it most naturally means, every evildoer, drunkenness and sexual immorality would deserve death just like witchcraft. But why should I waste my time pursuing this subject at tiresome length? Taken to its limits, the subject could provide enough talk to last forever. My only point is this: those solemn scholars allow themselves such enormous freedom. So I, a mere beginner with a smattering of theology, may be allowed even greater leeway for any slips or mistakes.

Now therefore I return to St. Paul, who uses these expressions [Ye suffer fools gladly] applying it to himself; and again [As a fool receive me], and [That which I speak, I speak not after the Lord, but as it were foolishly]; and in another place [We are fools for Christ's sake]. See how these commendations of Folly are equal to the author of them, both great and sacred. The same holy person does yet enjoin and command the being a fool, as a virtue of all others most requisite and necessary: for, says he [If any man seem to be wise in this world, let him become a fool that he may be wise]. Thus St. Luke records, how our Saviour, after his resurrection, joining himself with two of his disciples travelling to Emmaus, at his first salutation he calls them fools, saying [O fools, and slow of heart to believe], Nor may this seem strange in comparison to what is yet farther delivered by St. Paul, who adventures to attribute something of Folly even to the all-wise God himself [The foolishness of God (says he) is wiser than men]; in which text St. Origen would not have the word foolishness any way referred to men, or applicable to the same sense, wherein is to be understood that other passage of St. Paul [The preaching of the cross to them that perish, foolishness]. But why do I put myself to the trouble of citing so many proofs, since this one may suffice for all, namely, that in those mystical psalms wherein David represents the type of Christ, it is there acknowledged by our Saviour, in way of confession, that even he himself was guilty of Folly; Thou (says he) O God knowest my foolishness? Nor is it without some reason that fools for their plainness and sincerity of heart have always been most acceptable to God Almighty. For as the princes of this world have shrewdly suspected, and carried a jealous eye over such of their subjects as were the most observant, and deepest politicians (for thus Caesar was afraid of the plodding Cassius, and Brutus, thinking himself secure enough from the careless drinking Anthony; Nero likewise mistrusted Seneca, and Dionysius would have been willingly rid of Plato), whereas they can all put greater confidence in such as are of less subtlety and contrivance So our Saviour in like manner dislikes and condemns the wise and crafty, as St. Paul does expressly declare in these words, God hath chosen the foolish things of the world; and again, it pleased God by foolishness to save the world; implying that by wisdom it could never have been saved. Nay, God himself testifies as much when he speaks by the mouth of his prophet, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and bring to nought the understanding of the learned. Again, our Saviour does solemnly return his Father thanks for that he had hidden the mysteries of salvation from the wise, and revealed them to babes, i.e., to fools; for the original word vnpriois, being opposed to oooois if one signify wise, the other must foolish. To the same purpose did our blessed Lord frequently condemn and upbraid the scribes, pharisees, and lawyers, while he carries himself kind and obliging to the unlearned multitude: for what otherwise can be the meaning of that tart denunciation, Woe unto you scribes and pharisees, than woe unto you wise men, whereas he seems chiefly delighted with children, women, and illiterate fishermen.

Now I return to St. Paul, who applies these words to himself: [You gladly put up with fools]. And again: [Welcome me as a fool], and [What I say, I say not as the Lord would, but as though speaking foolishly]. Elsewhere he says: [We are fools for Christ’s sake]. See how these praises of Folly match their author, being both great and sacred. The same holy man even commands us to be fools, as a virtue more essential and necessary than all others. For he says: [If anyone seems wise in this world, let him become a fool so that he may become wise]. St. Luke likewise tells how our Saviour joined two disciples traveling to Emmaus after his resurrection. At his first greeting, he calls them fools: [O fools, so slow at heart to believe]. Nor should this seem strange beside what St. Paul goes on to say. Paul dares to attribute some Folly even to the all-wise God himself: [The foolishness of God (he says) is wiser than men]. St. Origen would not have “foolishness” here refer in any way to human judgments. Nor would he give it the same meaning as in Paul’s other passage: [The preaching of the cross is foolishness to those who perish]. But why trouble myself with so many proofs, when one alone may serve for all? In the mystical psalms, where David represents Christ, our Saviour confesses that even he himself was guilty of Folly. You (he says), O God, know my foolishness. Nor is there no reason why fools, with their straightforward ways and sincere hearts, have always been most welcome to Almighty God. The princes of this world have watched their most perceptive and politically skilled subjects with shrewd suspicion and jealousy. Caesar, for example, feared the calculating Cassius and Brutus, while feeling safe enough from the carefree, hard-drinking Anthony. Nero likewise distrusted Seneca, and Dionysius would gladly have been rid of Plato. Yet all these rulers can place greater trust in people less skilled at cunning and scheming. In the same way, our Saviour dislikes and condemns the wise and crafty. St. Paul expressly declares: God has chosen the foolish things of the world. And again: God was pleased to save the world through foolishness. The implication is that wisdom could never have saved the world. Indeed, God himself says as much through his prophet: I will destroy the wisdom of the wise and wipe out the understanding of the learned. Again, our Saviour solemnly thanks his Father for having hidden the mysteries of salvation from the wise and revealed them to infants. That is, to fools. For the original word vnpriois is set against oooois. If one means wise, the other must mean foolish. To the same purpose, our blessed Lord often condemned and rebuked the scribes, pharisees, and lawyers. Yet he treated the uneducated crowd with kindness and consideration. For what else can that sharp condemnation mean, Woe to you, scribes and pharisees, but woe to you wise men? Meanwhile, he seems most delighted with children, women, and illiterate fishermen.

We may farther take notice, that among all the several kinds of brute creatures he shews greatest liking to such as are farthest distant from the subtlety of the fox. Thus in his progress to Jerusalem he chose to ride sitting upon an ass, though, if he pleased, he might have mounted the back of a lion with more of state, and as little of danger. The Holy Spirit chose rather likewise to descend from heaven in the shape of a simple gall-less dove, than that of an eagle, kite, or other more lofty fowl.

We may also note that, among all animals, he most favors those least like the cunning fox. So, on his journey to Jerusalem, he chose to ride a donkey. Yet, if he wished, he could have ridden a lion with greater majesty and just as little danger. Likewise, the Holy Spirit chose to descend from heaven as a simple dove without malice. He preferred this form to that of an eagle, a kite, or another more majestic bird.

Thus all along in the holy scriptures there are frequent metaphors and similitudes of the most inoffensive creatures, such as stags, hinds, lambs, and the like. Nay, those blessed souls that in the day of judgment are to be placed at our Saviour's right hand are called sheep, which are the most senseless and stupid of all cattle, as is evidenced by Aristotle's Greek proverb, a sheepishness of temper, a dull, blockish, sleepy, unmanly humour. Yet of such a flock Christ is not ashamed to profess himself the shepherd. Nay, he would not only have all his proselytes termed sheep, but even he himself would be called a lamb; as when John the Baptist seeth Jesus coming unto him, he saith, Behold the Lamb of God; which same title is very often given to our Saviour in the apocalypse.

Throughout the holy scriptures, metaphors and comparisons often feature the most harmless creatures, such as stags, deer, and lambs. Indeed, the blessed souls who will stand at our Saviour's right hand on judgment day are called sheep. Sheep are the most senseless and stupid of all livestock. Aristotle's Greek proverb makes the point: a sheepish temperament means a dull, dense, sleepy, unmanly disposition. Yet Christ is not ashamed to call himself the shepherd of such a flock. Indeed, he not only wants all his followers called sheep, but also wants to be called a lamb himself. So when John the Baptist sees Jesus coming toward him, he says, Behold the Lamb of God. The same title is very often given to our Saviour in the apocalypse.

All this amounts to no less than that all mortal men are fools, even the righteous and godly as well as sinners; nay, in some sense our blessed Lord himself, who, although he was the wisdom of the Father, yet to repair the infirmities of fallen man, he became in some measure a partaker of human Folly, when he took our nature upon him, and was found in fashion as a man; or when God made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in him. Nor would he heal those breaches our sins had made by any other method than by the foolishness of the cross, published by the ignorant and unlearned apostles, to whom he frequently recommends the excellence of Folly, cautioning them against the infectiousness of wisdom, by the several examples he proposes them to imitate, such as children, lilies, sparrows, mustard, and such like beings, which are either wholly inanimate, or at least devoid of reason and ingenuity, guided by no other conduct than that of instinct, without care, trouble, or contrivance. To the same intent the disciples were warned by their lord and master, that when they should be brought unto the synagogues, and unto magistrates and powers, they shall take no thought how, or what thing they should answer, nor what they should say: they were again strictly forbid to enquire into the times and seasons, or to place any confidence in their own abilities, but to depend wholly upon divine assistance.

All this means nothing less than that all mortal people are fools, the righteous and godly as well as sinners. Indeed, in some sense, even our blessed Lord himself shared in Folly. Although he was the wisdom of the Father, he shared in human Folly to some degree to remedy fallen humanity’s weaknesses. He did so when he took on our nature and appeared as a man. Or when God made him, who knew no sin, to be sin for us, so that we might become God’s righteousness in him. Nor would he heal the wounds our sins had caused by any means other than the foolishness of the cross. This message was spread by the ignorant, uneducated apostles. He often urges these apostles to value Folly and warns them against the infection of wisdom. He does so by giving them examples to imitate: children, lilies, sparrows, mustard, and other such things. These are either entirely lifeless or at least lack reason and cleverness. They follow instinct alone, without worry, trouble, or planning. For the same purpose, their lord and master warned the disciples about being brought before synagogues, magistrates, and rulers. They were to give no thought to how they should answer, what their answer should be, or what they should say. They were also strictly forbidden to ask about the times and seasons or to trust their own abilities. Instead, they were to rely entirely on divine help.

At the first peopling of paradise the Almighty had never laid so strict a charge on our father Adam to refrain from eating of the tree of knowledge except he had thereby forewarned that the taste of knowledge would be the bane of all happiness. St. Paul says expressly, that knowledge puffeth up, i.e., it is fatal and poisonous. In pursuance whereunto St. Bernard interprets that exceeding high mountain whereon the devil had erected his seat to have been the mountain of knowledge. And perhaps this may be another argument which ought not to be omitted, namely, that Folly is acceptable, at least excusable, with the gods, inasmuch, as they easily pass by the heedless failures of fools, while the miscarriages of such as are known to have more wit shall very hardly obtain a pardon; nay, when a wise man comes to sue for an acquitment from any guilt, he must shroud himself under the patronage and pretext of Folly. For thus in the twelfth of Numbers Aaron entreats Moses to stay the leprosy of his sister Miriam, saying, alas, my Lord, I beseech thee lay not the sin upon us wherein we have done foolishly. Thus, when David spared Saul's life, when he found him sleeping in a tent of Hachilah, not willing to stretch forth his hand against the Lord's anointed, Saul excuses his former severity by confessing, Behold, I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly. David also himself in much the same form begs the remission of his sin from God Almighty with this prayer, Lord, I pray thee take away the iniquity of thy servant, for I have done very foolishly; as if he could not have hoped otherwise to have his pardon granted except he petitioned for it under the covert and mitigation of Folly. The agreeable practice of our Saviour is yet more convincing, who, when he hung upon the cross, prayed for his enemies, saying, Father, forgive them, urging no other plea in their behalf than that of their ignorance, for they know not what they do. To the same effect St. Paul in his first epistle to Timothy acknowledges he had been a blasphemer and a persecutor, But (saith he) I obtained mercy, because I did it ignorantly in unbelief. Now what is the meaning of the phrase [I did it ignorantly] but only this? My fault was occasioned from a misinformed Folly, not from a deliberate malice. What signifies [I obtained mercy] but only that I should not otherwise have obtained it had not folly and ignorance been my vindication? To the same purpose is that other passage in the mysterious Psalmist, which I forgot to mention in its proper place, namely, Oh remember not the sins and offences of my youth! the word which we render offences, is in Latin ignorantias, ignorances. Observe, the two things he alleges in his excuse are, first, his rawness of age, to which Folly and want of experience are constant attendants: and secondly, his ignorances, expressed in the plural number for an enhancement and aggravation of his foolishness.

When paradise was first inhabited, the Almighty strictly forbade our father Adam from eating from the tree of knowledge. He would never have imposed so strict a command unless he meant to warn that knowledge would destroy all happiness. St. Paul expressly says that knowledge puffs us up, that is, knowledge is deadly and poisonous. Following this reasoning, St. Bernard interprets that exceedingly high mountain where the devil set up his throne as the mountain of knowledge. And perhaps another argument should not be left out. Folly is acceptable, or at least excusable, to the gods. For the gods readily overlook the careless failings of fools. But people known to have more intelligence can hardly obtain forgiveness for their wrongdoing. Indeed, when a wise man seeks forgiveness for any guilt, he must shelter behind Folly's protection and excuse. Thus, in the twelfth chapter of Numbers, Aaron begs Moses to stop his sister Miriam's leprosy, saying, Alas, my Lord, please do not hold against us the sin we committed in our foolishness. Likewise, David spared Saul's life when he found Saul sleeping in a tent at Hachilah. David was unwilling to raise his hand against the Lord's anointed. Saul excuses his earlier harshness by confessing, Look, I have acted like a fool and made a terrible mistake. David himself also asks Almighty God to forgive his sin in much the same terms: Lord, please take away your servant's guilt, for I have acted very foolishly. He speaks as if he could not otherwise hope for forgiveness unless he appealed to Folly as a shelter and excuse. Our Saviour's similar conduct is still more convincing. As he hung on the cross, he prayed for his enemies, saying, Father, forgive them. He offered no other plea on their behalf than their ignorance, for they do not know what they are doing. To the same effect, St. Paul admits in his first letter to Timothy that he had blasphemed and persecuted others. But (he says) I received mercy because I acted ignorantly in unbelief. Now what does [I acted ignorantly] mean but this? My wrongdoing came from misguided Folly, not deliberate malice. What does [I received mercy] mean but this? I would not otherwise have received mercy if folly and ignorance had not served as my defense. The inspired Psalmist offers another passage to the same purpose, which I forgot to mention in its proper place: Oh, do not remember the sins and offenses of my youth! The word we translate as offenses is the Latin ignorantias, meaning instances of ignorance. Notice the two excuses he offers. First comes his immaturity, which Folly and inexperience always accompany. Second comes his ignorance, expressed in the plural to emphasize and heighten his foolishness.

But that I may not wear out this subject too far, to draw now towards a conclusion, it is observable that the christian religion seems to have some relation to Folly, and no alliance at all with wisdom. Of the truth whereof, if you desire farther proof than my bare word you may please, first, to consider, that children, women, old men, and fools, led as it were by a secret impulse of nature, are always most constant in repairing to church, and most zealous, devout and attentive in the performance of the several parts of divine service; nay, the first promulgators of the gospel, and the first converts to Christianity, were men of plainness and simplicity, wholly unacquainted with secular policy or learning.

But to avoid dwelling too long on this subject, I will now draw toward a conclusion. We can observe that the Christian religion seems to have some connection with Folly, and none at all with wisdom. If you want more proof than my word, first consider children, women, old men, and fools. As if guided by a secret impulse of nature, they are always the most regular churchgoers. They are also the most zealous, devout, and attentive in every part of worship. Indeed, the first preachers of the gospel and the first converts to Christianity were plain, simple men. They knew nothing at all of worldly politics or learning.

Farther, there are none more silly, or nearer their wits' end, than those who are too superstitiously religious: they are profusely lavish in their charity; they invite fresh affronts by an easy forgiveness of past injuries; they suffer themselves to be cheated and imposed upon by laying claim to the innocence of the dove; they make it the interest of no person to oblige them, because they will love, and do good to their enemies, as much as to the most endearing friends; they banish all pleasure, feeding upon the penance of watching, weeping, fasting, sorrow and reproach; they value not their lives, but with St. Paul, wish to be dissolved, and covet the fiery trial of martyrdom: in a word, they seem altogether so destitute of common sense, that their soul seems already separated from the dead and inactive body. And what else can we imagine all this to be than downright madness? It is the less strange therefore that at the feast of Pentecost the apostles should be thought drunk with new wine; or that St. Paul was censured by Festus to have been beside himself.

Moreover, no one is more foolish, or closer to losing their minds, than those who are excessively superstitious in religion. They are wildly extravagant in their charity. They invite fresh insults by readily forgiving past wrongs. They let themselves be cheated and taken advantage of by claiming the innocence of a dove. They give no one any reason to do them favors. After all, they love and do good to their enemies as much as to their dearest friends. They banish all pleasure, feeding instead on the penance of sleepless vigils, weeping, fasting, sorrow, and humiliation. They place no value on their lives. Instead, like St. Paul, they wish to die and long for the fiery ordeal of martyrdom. In short, they seem so utterly lacking in common sense that their souls seem already separated from their lifeless, inactive bodies. What else can we call all this but outright madness? So it is hardly surprising that, at the feast of Pentecost, people thought the apostles were drunk on new wine. Nor is it surprising that Festus accused St. Paul of being out of his mind.

And since I have had the confidence to go thus far, I shall venture yet a little forwarder, and be so bold as to say thus much more: all that final happiness, which christians, through so many rubs and briars of difficulties, contend for, is at last no better than a sort of folly and madness. This, no question, will be thought extravagantly spoke; but consider awhile, and deliberately state the case.

And since I have had the confidence to go this far, I will venture a little further. I will be bold enough to say more: Christians struggle through so many obstacles and hardships for ultimate happiness. Yet all that happiness is, in the end, no better than a kind of folly and madness. No doubt, people will think this claim outrageous. But think about it for a while, and consider the matter carefully.

First, then, the christians so far agree with the Platonists as to believe that the body is no better than a prison or dungeon for the confinement of the soul. That therefore, while the soul is shackled to the walls of flesh, her soaring wings are impeded, and all her enlivening faculties clogged and fettered by the gross particles of matter, so that she can neither freely range after, nor, when happily overtook, can quietly contemplate her proper object of truth.

First, then, Christians agree with the Platonists that the body is no better than a prison or dungeon for the soul. So, while the soul is chained within walls of flesh, her wings cannot soar freely. All her life-giving powers are clogged and shackled by the coarse particles of matter. As a result, she cannot freely pursue truth, the proper object of her attention. Nor, when she is fortunate enough to reach truth, can she contemplate it peacefully.

Farther, Plato defines philosophy to be the meditation of death, because the one performs the same office with the other; namely, withdraws the mind from all visible and corporeal objects; therefore while the soul does patiently actuate the several organs and members of the body, so long is a man accounted of a good and sound disposition; but when the soul, weary of her confinement, struggles to break jail, and fly beyond her cage of flesh and blood, then a man is censured at least for being magotty and crack-brained; nay, if there be any defect in the external organs it is then termed downright madness. And yet many times persons thus affected shall have prophetic ecstacies of foretelling things to come, shall in a rapture talk languages they never before learned, and seem in all things actuated by somewhat divine and extraordinary; and all this, no doubt, is only the effect of the soul's being more released from its engagement to the body, whereby it can with less impediment exert the energy of life and motion. From hence, no question, has sprung an observation of like nature, confirmed now into a settled opinion, that some long experienced souls in the world, before their dislodging, arrive to the height of prophetic spirits.

Furthermore, Plato defines philosophy as meditation on death, because philosophy and death do the same thing. Both draw the mind away from all visible and physical things. So, as long as the soul patiently operates the body's organs and limbs, a person is considered sane and healthy. But when the soul tires of confinement, the soul struggles to escape its prison and fly beyond its flesh-and-blood cage. Then the person is judged, at the very least, to be eccentric and crazy. Indeed, if the body's outward organs have any defect, the condition is called outright madness. Yet people in this state often fall into prophetic trances and foretell the future. In their ecstasy, they speak languages they have never learned. In everything, they seem driven by something divine and extraordinary. And all these powers, no doubt, result only from the soul's greater freedom from its ties to the body. With fewer obstacles, the soul can exercise its powers of life and movement more freely. From this, no doubt, comes a similar observation, now accepted as an established belief: some souls with long experience in this world gain the highest prophetic powers before leaving their bodies.

If this disorder arise from an intemperance in religion, and too high a strain of devotion, though it be of a somewhat differing sort, yet it is so near akin to the former, that a great part of mankind apprehend it as a mere madness; especially when persons of that superstitious humour are so pragmatical and singular as to separate and live apart as it were from all the world beside: so as they seem to have experienced what Plato dreams to have happened between some, who, enclosed in a dark cave, did only ruminate on the ideas and abstracted speculations of entities; and one other of their company, who had got abroad into the open light, and at his return tells them what a blind mistake they had lain under; that he had seen the substance of what their dotage of imagination reached only in shadow; that therefore he could not but pity and condole their deluding dreams, while they on the other side no less bewail his frenzy, and turn him out of their society for a lunatic and madman.

If this disorder comes from excessive religion and devotion pushed too far, it is somewhat different from the earlier kind. Yet the two are so closely related that a great part of humanity sees this religious excess as sheer madness. This is especially true when superstitious people become so meddlesome and eccentric that they separate themselves from everyone else. They seem to have experienced something like the story Plato imagines. In that story, some people are shut inside a dark cave, contemplating only ideas and abstract notions of existence. One of their companions has gone outside into the open light. When he returns, he tells the others how blindly mistaken they have been. He has seen the reality of what their foolish imaginations grasped only as shadows. So he cannot help pitying them and grieving over their deceptive dreams. The others, in turn, grieve just as much over his madness. They throw him out of their company as a lunatic and madman.

Thus the vulgar are wholly taken up with those objects that are most familiar to their senses, beyond which they are apt to think all is but fairy-land; while those that are devoutly religious scorn to set their thoughts or affections on any things below, but mount their soul to the pursuit of incorporeal and invisible beings. The former, in their marshalling the requisites of happiness, place riches in the front, the endowments of the body in the next rank, and leave the accomplishments of the soul to bring up the rear; nay, some will scarce believe there is any such thing at all as the soul, because they cannot literally see a reason of their faith; while the other pay their first fruits of service to that most simple and incomprehensible Being, God, employ themselves next in providing for the happiness of that which comes nearest to their immortal soul, being not at all mindful of their corrupt bodily carcases, and slighting money as the dirt and rubbish of the world; or if at any time some urging occasions require them to become entangled in secular affairs, they do it with regret, and a kind of ill-will, observing what St. Paul advises his Corinthians, having wives, and yet being as though they had none; buying, and yet remaining as though they possessed not.

Thus ordinary people are completely absorbed in whatever is most familiar to their senses. Beyond that, they tend to think everything is fairyland. But the devoutly religious scorn to set their thoughts or affections on anything earthly. Instead, their souls rise in pursuit of beings without bodies, invisible to the eye. Ordinary people rank wealth first among the requirements for happiness, bodily gifts second, and qualities of the soul last. Indeed, some hardly believe the soul exists at all, because they cannot see any reason for believing with their own eyes. The devout, by contrast, offer their first service to God, that utterly simple and incomprehensible Being. Next, they work to secure the happiness of whatever comes closest to their immortal soul. They pay no attention at all to their decaying bodies and dismiss money as the world's dirt and rubbish. Or if pressing circumstances ever force them to become involved in worldly affairs, they do so reluctantly, even resentfully. They follow St. Paul's advice to his Corinthians, having wives, yet living as though they had none. Buying, yet remaining as though they owned nothing.

There are between these two sorts of persons many differences in several other respects. As first, though all the senses have the same mutual relation to the body, yet some are more gross than others; as those five corporeal ones, of touching, hearing, smelling, seeing, tasting, whereas some again are more refined, and less adulterated with matter; such are the memory, the understanding, and the will. Now the mind will be always most ready and expedite at that to which it is naturally most inclined. Hence is it that a pious soul, employing all its power and abilities in the pressing after such things as are farthest removed from sense, is perfectly stupid and brutish in the management of any worldly affairs; while on the other side, the vulgar are so intent upon their business and employment, that they have not time to bestow one poor thought upon a future eternity. From such ardour of divine meditation was it that Saint Bernard in his study drank oil instead of wine, and yet his thoughts were so taken up that he never observed the mistake.

These two kinds of people differ in many other ways. First, although all the senses have the same relationship to the body, some are coarser than others. These include the five bodily senses: touch, hearing, smell, sight, and taste. Others are more refined and less mixed with matter, such as memory, understanding, and will. Now the mind will always work most readily and quickly at whatever it naturally favors. So a devout soul puts all its strength and abilities into pursuing things furthest removed from the senses. As a result, that soul is utterly stupid and brutish when handling any worldly affairs. Ordinary people, on the other hand, are so absorbed in their work and business that they cannot spare a single thought for eternity. Saint Bernard was so deeply absorbed in meditation on divine things that he drank oil instead of wine in his study. His thoughts were so occupied that he never noticed the mistake.

Farther, among the passions of the soul, some have a greater communication with the body than others; as lust, the desire of meat and sleep, anger, pride, and envy; with these the pious man is in continual war, and irreconcile-able enmity, while the vulgar cherish and foment them as the best comforts of life.

Furthermore, some passions of the soul are more closely connected to the body than others. These include lust, the desire for food and sleep, anger, pride, and envy. The devout man fights these passions constantly, with a hostility that allows no peace. Ordinary people, by contrast, cherish and encourage these passions as life's greatest comforts.

There are other affections of a middle nature, common and innate to every man; such are love to one's country, duty to parents, love to children, kindness to friends, and such like; to these the vulgar pay some respect, but the religious endeavour to supplant and eradicate from their soul, except they can raise and sublimate them to the most refined pitch of virtue; so as to love or honour their parents, not barely under that character (for what did they do more than generate a body? nay, even for that we are primarily beholden to God, the first parent of all mankind), but as good men only, upon whom is imprinted the lively image of that divine nature, which they esteem as the chief and only good, beyond whom nothing deserves to be beloved, nothing desired.

Other feelings fall somewhere in between and are natural to everyone. These include love of country, duty to parents, love for children, kindness to friends, and similar feelings. Ordinary people give these feelings some respect. But the religious try to uproot them from their souls unless they can refine them into the highest virtue. So they love or honor their parents not simply because they are their parents. (For what did their parents do beyond producing a body? Indeed, even for that, we owe our greatest debt to God, the first parent of all humanity.) Instead, they honor their parents only as good people who bear a living image of God's nature. The religious regard God as the highest and only good. Nothing apart from him deserves to be loved or desired.

By the same rule they measure all the other offices or duties of life; in each of which, whatever is earthly and corporeal, shall, if not wholly rejected, yet at least be put behind what faith makes the substance of things not seen. Thus in the sacraments, and all other acts of religion, they make a difference between the outward appearance or body of them, and the more inward soul or spirit. As to instance, in fasting, they think it very ineffectual to abstain from flesh, or debar themselves of a meal's meat (which yet is all the vulgar understand by his duty), unless they likewise restrain their passions, subdue their anger, and mortify their pride; that the soul being thus disengaged from the entanglement of the body, may have a better relish to spiritual objects, and take an antepast of heaven. Thus (say they) in the holy Eucharist, though the outward form and ceremonies are not wholly to be despised, yet are these prejudicial, at least unprofitable, if as bare signs only they are not accompanied with the thing signified, which is the body and blood of Christ, whose death, till his second coming, we are hereby to represent by the vanquishing and burying our vile affections that they may arise to a newness of life, and be united first to each other, then all to Christ.

They apply the same rule to all other roles and duties in life. In each duty, earthly and bodily concerns must give way to what faith makes the substance of things not seen. Such concerns must take second place, if they are not rejected altogether. Thus, in the sacraments and all other religious acts, they distinguish between the outward form and the inner soul or spirit. For example, they think fasting does very little good if it means only avoiding meat or skipping a meal. Yet that is all ordinary people understand fasting to require. Those who fast must also control their passions, conquer their anger, and humble their pride. The purpose is to free the soul from the body's entanglements. The soul may then better appreciate spiritual things and enjoy a foretaste of heaven. Similarly, they say, the outward forms and ceremonies of the holy Eucharist should not be entirely dismissed. Yet these forms are harmful, or at least useless, if they remain mere signs without the reality they signify. That reality is the body and blood of Christ. Through the Eucharist, we are to represent Christ's death until his second coming. We do so by conquering and burying our base desires, so that we may rise to a new life. We are to be united first with one another, and then all with Christ.

These are the actions and meditations of the truly pious person; while the vulgar place all their religion in crowding up close to the altar, in listening to the words of the priest, and in being very circumspect at the observance of each trifling ceremony. Nor is it in such cases only as we have here given for instances, but through his whole course of life, that the pious man, without any regard to the baser materials of the body, spends himself wholly in a fixed intentness upon spiritual, invisible, and eternal objects.

These are the actions and thoughts of a truly devout person. But ordinary people make religion entirely a matter of crowding close to the altar and listening to the priest’s words. They also take great care to observe every trivial ceremony. The truly devout person’s outlook is not limited to the examples given here, but extends throughout his life. He pays no attention to the body’s inferior material nature. Instead, he devotes himself entirely to a steady focus on spiritual, invisible, and eternal things.

Now since these persons stand off, and keep at so wide a distance between themselves, it is customary for them both to think each other mad: and were I to give my opinion to which of the two the name does most properly belong, I should, I confess, adjudge it to the religious; of the reasonableness whereof you may be farther convinced if I proceed to demonstrate what I formerly hinted at, namely, that that ultimate happiness which religion proposes is no other than some sort of madness.

Now, since these people keep so far apart, each group usually thinks the other mad. If asked which of the two more rightly deserves the name, I would, I confess, choose the religious. You may be further convinced that my judgment is reasonable if I explain what I hinted at earlier. Namely, the ultimate happiness religion promises is nothing other than a kind of madness.

First, therefore, Plato dreamed somewhat of this nature when he tells us that the madness of lovers was of all other dispositions of the body most desirable; for he who is once thoroughly smitten with this passion, lives no longer within himself, but has removed his soul to the same place where he has settled his affections, and loses himself to find the object he so much dotes upon: this straying now, and wandering of a soul from its own mansion, what is it better than a plain transport of madness? What else can be the meaning of those proverbial phrases, non est apua se, he is not himself; ad te redi, recover yourself; and sibi redditus est, he is come again to himself? And accordingly as love is more hot and eager, so is the madness thence ensuing more incurable, and yet more happy. Now what shall be that future happiness of glorified saints, which pious souls here on earth so earnestly groan for, but only that the spirit, as the more potent and prevalent victor, shall over-master and swallow up the body; and that the more easily, because while here below, the several members, by being mortified, and kept in subjection, were the better prepared for this separating change; and afterward the spirit itself shall be lost, and drowned in the abyss of beatific vision, so as the whole man will be then perfectly beyond all its own bounds, and be no otherwise happy than as transported into ecstasy and wonder, it feels some unspeakable influence from that omnipotent Being, which makes all things completely blessed, by assimilating them to his own likeness. Now although this happiness be then only consummated, when souls at the general resurrection shall be re-united to their bodies, and both be clothed with immortality; yet because a religious life is but a continued meditation upon, and as it were a transcript of the joys of heaven, therefore to such persons there is allowed some relish and foretaste of that pleasure here, which is to be their reward hereafter. And although this indeed be but a small pittance of satisfaction compared with that future inexhaustible fountain of blessedness, yet does it abundantly over-balance all worldly delights, were they all in conjunction set off to their best advantage; so great is the precedency of spiritual things before corporeal, of invisible before material and visible. This is what the apostle gives an eloquent description of, where he says by way of encouragement, that eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive those things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

First, then, Plato had some notion of this when he described the madness of lovers. He called it the most desirable of all bodily states. For anyone fully seized by love no longer lives within himself. He has moved his soul to wherever he has placed his affections. He loses himself to find the one he adores. Now, what is this wandering of the soul from its own home but a fit of madness? What else do those familiar sayings mean: non est apua se, he is not himself, and ad te redi, come back to yourself? Or sibi redditus est, he has come back to himself? And the hotter and more intense the love, the more incurable the resulting madness, yet the happier it is. Now, what will the future happiness of glorified saints be, which devout souls on earth so eagerly long for? Nothing but this: the spirit, as the stronger victor, will overpower and absorb the body. The spirit will do so more easily because the body's members were disciplined and kept under control on earth. That discipline will have better prepared them for this change of separation. Afterward, the spirit itself will be lost and submerged in the depths of the beatific vision, the direct vision of God. The whole person will then pass completely beyond their own limits. Their happiness will consist entirely in being carried away into ecstasy and wonder. In that state, they will feel an indescribable influence from the almighty Being. He makes all things completely blessed by making them like himself. Now, this happiness reaches its fullness only at the general resurrection. Then souls will be reunited with their bodies, and both will be clothed with immortality. Yet a religious life is a continual meditation on heaven's joys and, as it were, a copy of them. Therefore, religious people are allowed some taste here of the pleasure that will be their reward hereafter. Admittedly, this taste offers only a tiny measure of satisfaction compared with that future, inexhaustible fountain of blessedness. Yet it far outweighs all worldly delights, even if they were combined and presented at their very best. So much greater are spiritual things than bodily things, and invisible things than material, visible things. The apostle describes this eloquently when he offers these words of encouragement: no eye has seen, no ear has heard, nor has any human heart conceived what God has prepared for those who love him.

This likewise is that better part which Mary chose, which shall not be taken from her, but perfected and completed by her mortal putting on immortality.

This, too, is the better part Mary chose. It will not be taken from her, but perfected and completed when her mortal body becomes immortal.

ENLARGE

ENLARGE

Now those who are thus devoutly affected (though few there are so), undergo somewhat of strange alteration, which very nearly approaches to madness; they speak many things at an abrupt and incoherent rate, as if they were actuated by some possessing demon; they make an inarticulate noise, without any distinguishable sense or meaning; they sometimes screw and distort their faces to uncouth and antic looks; at one time beyond measure cheerful, then as immoderately sullen; now sobbing, then laughing, and soon after sighing, as if they were perfectly distracted, and out of their senses. If they have any sober intervals of coming to themselves again, like St. Paul they then confess, that they were caught up they know not where, whether in the body, or out of the body, they cannot tell; as if they had been in a dead sleep or trance, they remember nothing of what they have heard, seen, said, or done: this they only know, that their past delusion was a most desirable happiness; that therefore they bewail nothing more than the loss of it, nor wish for any greater joy than the quick return of it, and more durable abode for ever. And this (as I have said) is the foretaste or anticipation of future blessedness.

Now those who feel such devotion, though few do, undergo a strange change that comes very close to madness. They speak abruptly and incoherently, as if possessed by a demon. They make wordless noises with no clear sense or meaning. Sometimes they twist their faces into strange, grotesque expressions. At one moment they are excessively cheerful, then just as excessively gloomy. They sob, then laugh, and soon afterward sigh, as if completely deranged and out of their senses. If they have any lucid moments and come to themselves again, they confess, like St. Paul, that they were carried away, they do not know where, whether in the body or outside it, they cannot tell. As if waking from a deep sleep or trance, they remember nothing they have heard, seen, said, or done. They know only that their earlier delusion was a happiness deeply worth longing for. So they mourn nothing more than its loss. Nor do they wish for any greater joy than its swift return, to remain with them forever. And this, as I have said, is a foretaste or anticipation of future blessedness.

But I doubt I have forgot myself, and have already transgressed the bounds of modesty. However, if I have said anything too confidently or impertinently, be pleased to consider that it was spoke by Folly, and that under the person of a woman; yet at the same time remember the applicableness of that Greek proverb:—

But I fear I have forgotten myself and already gone beyond the bounds of modesty. Still, if I have spoken too confidently or rudely, please remember that Folly was speaking, in the role of a woman. Yet remember, too, how well that Greek proverb applies:

Unless you will be so witty as to object that this makes no apology for me, because the word aunp signifies a man, not a woman, and consequently my sex debars me from the benefit of that observation.

Unless you want to be clever and object that this does nothing to defend me. After all, the word aunp means a man, not a woman. So, by that argument, my sex prevents me from benefiting from that observation.

I perceive now, that, for a concluding treat, you expect a formal epilogue, and the summing up of all in a brief recitation; but I will assure you, you are grossly mistaken if you suppose that after such a hodge-podge medley of speech I should be able to recollect anything I have delivered. Beside, as it is an old proverb, I hate a pot-companion with a good memory; so indeed I may as truly say, I hate a hearer that will carry any thing away with him. Wherefore, in short:—

I see now that you expect a formal epilogue as a final treat, with a brief summary of everything. But I assure you, you are badly mistaken if you think I can remember anything I have said. Not after such a jumble of a speech. Besides, as the old proverb says, I hate a drinking companion with a good memory. So I can just as truly say, I hate a listener who remembers anything I've said. So, in short: