Chapter II: Preface: , (1)

ON THE

MANNER OF WRITING DIALOGUE.

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

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

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

When the ANCIENTS had any thing—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—parcentis viribus, atque
Extenuantis eas consultò—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or, we may take the matter thus:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——gaudent prænomine molles
Auriculæ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THURCASTON.
MDCCLXIV.

MORAL AND POLITICAL

DIALOGUES.

DIALOGUE I.

ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE

OF THE WORLD.

BETWEEN

DR. HENRY MORE,

AND

EDMUND WALLER, ESQ.

DIALOGUE I.

ON SINCERITY IN THE COMMERCE OF THE WORLD.

DR. HENRY MORE, EDMUND WALLER, ESQ.

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

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

Vivere si recte nescis, discede peritis;

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.

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

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

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

DR. MORE.

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

MR. WALLER.