concerning it, which is, that it is in no place; which is an indirect way of depriving it of its existence; whereas indeed it possesses the greatest and noblest place on this earth, viz. the human brain. But indeed this mistake hath been sufficiently refuted by many very wise men; who, having spent their whole lives in the contemplation and pursuit of Nothing, have at last gravely concluded that there is Nothing in this world. Farther, as Nothing is not Something, so everything which is not Something is Nothing; and wherever Something is not Nothing is a very large allowance in its favour, as must appear to persons well skilled in human affairs. For instance, when a bladder is full of wind, it is full of something; but when that is let out we aptly say there is nothing in it. The same may be as justly asserted of a man as of a bladder. However well he may be bedaubed with lace or with title, yet, if he have not something in him, we may predicate the same of him as of an empty bladder. But if we cannot reach an adequate knowledge of the true essence of Nothing, no more than can we of matter, let us, in imitation of the experimental philosophers, examine some of its properties or accidents. And here we shall see the infinite advantages which Nothing hath over Something; for, while the latter is confined to one sense, or two perhaps at the most, Nothing is the object of them all. For, first, Nothing may be seen, as is plain from the relation of persons who have recovered from high fevers, and perhaps may be suspected from some at least of those who have seen apparitions, both on earth and in the clouds. Nay, I have often heard it confessed by men, when asked what they saw at such a place and time, that they saw Nothing. Admitting then that there are two sights, viz. a first and second sight, according to the firm belief of some, Nothing must be allowed to have a very large share of the first, and as to the second, it hath it all entirely to itself. Secondly, Nothing may be heard, of which the same proofs may be given as of the foregoing. The Argive mentioned by Horace is a strong instance of this: -Fuit haud ignobilis Argis Qui se credebat miros audire Tragados In vacuo lætus sessor, plausorque Theatro. That Nothing may be tasted and smelt is not only known to persons of delicate palates and nostrils. How commonly do we hear that such a thing smells or tastes of nothing! The latter I have heard asserted of a dish compounded of five or six savoury ingredients. And as to the former, I remember an elderly gentlewoman who had a great antipathy to the smell of apples, who, upon discovering that an idle boy had fastened some mellow apple to her tail, contracted a habit of smelling them whenever that boy came within her sight, though there were then none within a mile of her. Lastly, feeling: and sure, if any sense seems more particularly the object of matter only, which must be allowed to be Something, this doth. Nay, I have heard it asserted, and with a colour of truth, of several persons, that they can feel nothing but a cudgel. Notwithstanding which, some have felt the motions of the spirit, and others have felt very bitterly the misfortunes of their friends, without endeavouring to relieve them. Now these seem two plain instances that Nothing is an object of this sense. Nay, I have heard a surgeon declare, while he was cutting off a patient's leg, that he was sure he felt Nothing. Nothing is as well the object of our passions as our senses. 1 Epist. II. ii. 128-130:-That Argive was no mean fellow, who thought himself to be hearing wondrous tragedies as he sat happy and applauded in the empty theatre, Thus there are many who love Nothing, some who hate Nothing, and some who fear Nothing, &c. We have already mentioned three of the properties of a noun to belong to Nothing; we shall find the fourth likewise to be as justly claimed by it, and that Nothing is as often the object of the understanding as of the senses. Indeed some have imagined that knowledge, with the adjective human placed before it, is another word for Nothing. And one of the wisest men in the world declared he knew Nothing. But, without carrying it so far, this I believe may be allowed, that it is at least possible for a man to know Nothing. And whoever hath read over many works of our ingenious moderns, with proper attention and emolument, will, I believe, confess that, if he understands them right, he understands Nothing. This is a secret not known to all readers, and want of this knowledge hath occasioned much puzzling; for where a book or chapter or paragraph hath seemed to the reader to contain Nothing, his modesty hath sometimes persuaded him that the true meaning of the author hath escaped him, instead of concluding, as in reality the fact was, that the author in the said book, &c., did truly and bond fide mean Nothing. I remember once, at the table of a person of great eminence, and one no less distinguished by superiority of wit than fortune, when a very dark passage was read out of a poet famous for being so sublime that he is often out of the sight of his reader, some persons present declared they did not understand the meaning. The gentleman himself, casting his eye over the performance, testified a surprise at the dulness of his company, seeing Nothing could, he said, possibly be plainer than the meaning of the passage which they stuck at. This set all of us to puzzling again, but with like success; we frankly owned we could not find it out, and desired he would explain it. Explain it!" said the gentleman, "why, he means Nothing." 66 In fact, this mistake arises from a too vulgar error among persons unacquainted with the mystery of writing, who imagine it impossible that a man should sit down to write without any meaning at all! whereas, in reality, nothing is more common: for, not to instance in myself, who have confessedly set down to write this essay with Nothing in my head, or which is much the same thing, to write about Nothing, it may be incontestably proved, ab effectu, that Nothing is commoner among the moderns. The inimitable author of a preface to the Posthumous Eclogues of a late ingenious young gentleman says, "There are men who sit down to write what they think, and others to think what they shall write. But indeed there is a third and much more numerous sort, who never think either before they sit down or afterwards, and who, when they produce on paper what was before in their heads, are sure to produce Nothing." Thus we have endeavoured to demonstrate the nature of Nothing, by showing first, definitely, what it is not; and, secondly, by describing what it is. The next thing therefore proposed is to show its various kinds. Now some imagine these several kinds differ in name only. But, without endeavouring to confute so absurd an opinion, especially as these different kinds of Nothing occur frequently in the best authors, I shall content myself with setting them down, and leave it to the determination of the distinguished reader, whether it is probable, or indeed possible, that they should all convey one and the same meaning. These are, Nothing per se Nothing; Nothing at all; Nothing in the least; Nothing in nature; Nothing in the world; Nothing in the whole world; Nothing in the whole universal world. And perhaps many others of which we say-Nothing. SECTION III. Of the dignity of Nothing; and an endeavour to prove that it is the end as well as beginning of all things. Nothing contains so much dignity as Nothing. Ask an infamous worthless nobleman (if any such be) in what his dignity consists? It may not be perhaps consistent with his dignity to give you an answer: but suppose he should be willing to condescend so far, what could he in effect say? Should he say he had it from his ancestors, I apprehend a lawyer would oblige him to prove that the virtues to which this dignity was annexed descended to him. If he claims it as inherent in the title, might he not be told that a title originally implied dignity, as it implied the presence of those virtues to which dignity is inseparably annexed; but that no implication will fly in the face of downright positive proof to the contrary. In short, to examine no farther, since his endeavour to derive it from any other fountain would be equally impotent, his dignity arises from Nothing, and in reality is Nothing. Yet, that this dignity really exists, that it glares in the eyes of men, and produces much good to the person who wears it, is, I believe, incontestable. Perhaps this may appear in the following syllogism. The respect paid to men on account of their titles is paid at least to the supposal of their superior virtues and abilities, or it is paid to Nothing. But when a man is a notorious knave or fool it is impossible there should be any such supposal. The conclusion is apparent. Now, that no man is ashamed of either paying or receiving this respect I wonder not, since the great importance of Nothing seems I think to be pretty apparent: but that they should deny the Deity worshipped, and endeavour to represent Nothing as Something, is more worthy reprehension. This is a fallacy extremely common. I have seen a fellow, whom all the world knew to have Nothing in him, not only pretend to Something himself, but supported in that pretension by others who have been less liable to be deceived. Now, whence can this proceed but from their being ashamed of Nothing? A modesty very peculiar to this age. But, notwithstanding all such disguises and deceit, a man must have very little discernment who can live long in courts or populous cities without being convinced of the great dignity of Nothing; and though he should, through corruption or necessity, comply with the vulgar worship and adulation, he will know to what it is paid; namely, to Nothing. The most astonishing instance of this respect, so frequently paid to Nothing, is when it is paid (if I may so express myself) to something less than Nothing; when the person who receives it is not only void of the quality for which he is respected, but is in reality notoriously guilty of the vices directly opposite to the virtues whose applause he receives. This is, indeed, the highest degree of Nothing, or (if I may be allowed the word), the Nothingest of all Nothings. Here it is to be known that respect may be aimed at Something and really light on Nothing. For instance, when mistaking certain things called gravity, canting, blustering, ostentation, pomp, and such like, for wisdom, piety, magnanimity, charity, true greatness, &c., we give to the former the honour and reverence due to the latter. Not that I would be understood so far to discredit my subject as to insinuate that gravity, canting, &c., are really Nothing; on the contrary, there is much more reason to suspect (if we judge from the practice of the world) that wisdom, piety, and other virtues, have a good title to that name. But we do not, in fact, pay our respect to the former but to the latter: in other words, we pay it to that which is not, and consequently pay it to Nothing. So far then for the dignity of the subject on which I am treating. I am now to show that Nothing is the end as well as beginning of all things. That everything is resolvable, and will be resolved into its first principles, will be, I believe, readily acknowledged by all philosophers. As, therefore, we have sufficiently proved the world came from Nothing, it follows that it will likewise end in the same: but, as I am writing to a nation of Christians, I have no need to be prolix on this head; since every one of my readers, by his faith, acknowledges that the world is to have an end, i.e. is to come to Nothing. And as Nothing is the end of the world, so is it of everything in the world. Ambition, the greatest, highest, noblest, finest, most heroic and godlike of all passions, what doth it end in ?—Nothing. What did Alexander, Cæsar, and all the rest of that heroic band who have plundered and massacred so many millions, obtain by all their care, labour, pain, fatigue, and danger?-Could they speak for themselves, must they not own that the end of all their pursuit was Nothing? Nor is this the end of private ambition only. What is become of that proud mistress of the world-the Caput triumphati orbis1-that Rome of which her own flatterers so liberally prophesied the immortality? In what hath all her glory ended? Surely in Nothing. Again, what is the end of avarice? Not power, or pleasure, as some think; for the miser will part with a shilling for neither nor ease or happiness; for the more he attains of what he desires, the more uneasy and miserable he is. If every good in this world was put to him, he could not say he pursued one. Shall we say then he pursues misery only? That surely would be contradictory to the first principles of human nature. May we not therefore, nay, must we not confess, that he aims at Nothing; especially if he be himself unable to tell us what is the end of all this bustle and hurry, this watching and toiling, this self-denial and self-constraint? It will not, I apprehend, be sufficient for him to plead that his design is to amass a large fortune, which he never can nor will use himself, nor would willingly quit to any other person: unless he can show us some substantial good which this fortune is to produce, we shall certainly be justified in concluding that his end is the same with that of ambition. The great Mr. Hobbes so plainly saw this, that, as he was an enemy to that notable immaterial substance which we have here handled, and therefore unwilling to allow it the large province we have contended for, he advanced a very strange doctrine, and asserted truly,-That in all these grand pursuits the means themselves were the end proposed, viz., to ambition -plotting, fighting, danger, difficulty, and such like: to avarice-cheating, starving, watching, and the numberless painful arts by which this passion proceeds. However easy it may be to demonstrate the absurdity of this opinion, it will be needless to my purpose, since if we are driven to confess that the means are the only end attained, I think we must likewise confess that the end proposed is absolutely Nothing. As I have shown the end of our two greatest and noblest pursuits, one or other of which engages almost every individual of the busy part of mankind, I shall not tire the reader with carrying him through all the rest, since I believe the same conclusion may be easily drawn from them all. I shall therefore finish this Essay with an inference, which aptly enough suggests itself from what hath been said: seeing that such is its dignity and importance, and that it is really the end of all those things which are supported with so much pomp and solemnity, and looked on with such respect 1 Ovid, Amorum I. xv. 26. Head of the conquered world. and esteem, surely it becomes a wise man to regard Nothing with the utmost awe and adoration; to pursue it with all his parts and pains; and to sacrifice to it his ease, his innocence, and his present happiness. To which noble pursuit we have this great incitement, that we may assure ourselves of never being cheated or deceived in the end proposed. The virtuous, wise, and learned may then be unconcerned at all the changes of ministries and of government; since they may be well satisfied that, while ministers of state are rogues themselves, and have inferior knavish tools to bribe and reward, true virtue, wisdom, learning, wit, and integrity, will most certainly bring their possessors-Nothing. MY WORTHY FRIEND,-I received your paper, intituled the True Patriot, numbers one and two, inclosed in the franks of my great and most honoured patron, for which I have the highest thanks for you both. I am delighted, and that greatly, with many passages in these papers. The moderation which you profess towards all parties perfectly becomes a Christian. Indeed I have always thought that moderation in the shepherd was the best, if not only, way to bring home all the straggling sheep to his flock. I have intimated this at the vestry, and even at visitation before the archdeacon: Sed Cassandra non creditum est. I like your method of placing a motto from the classics at the head of every paper. It must give some encouragement to your readers that the author understands, at least, one line of Latin, which is perhaps more than can be safely predicated of every writer in this age. You desire me, sir, to write you something proper to be seen et quidem by the public; as therefore a subject worthy their most serious attention now offers itself, viz. the ensuing fast ordained by authority, I have communicated my thoughts to you thereon, which you may suppress or publicate as you think meet. ἔρχεν ἐπ' ἔργον Θεοῖσιν ἐπευξαμενος τελέσαι. Go upon the work, PYTHAGORAS. Having first prayed to the gods for success. As it is impossible for any man to reflect seriously on the progress of the present unnatural rebellion without imputing such unparalleled success to some other cause than has yet appeared, some other strength than what any visible human means hath placed in the hands of the rebels; so will it be extremely difficult to assign any adequate cause whatsoever, without recurring to one of whose great efficacy we have frequent examples in sacred history; I mean the just judgment of God against an offending people. And that this is really so, we may conclude from these two considerations: first, from the rapidity of the rebels' progress, so unaccountable from all human means; for can history produce an instance parallel to this, of six or seven men landing in a great and powerful nation, in opposition to the inclination of the people, in defiance of a vast and mighty army?-for though the greater part of this army was not then in the kingdom, it was so nearly within call that every man of them might, within the compass of a few days or wecks at farthest, have been brought home and landed in any part of it? If we consider, I say, this handful of men landing in the most desolate corner, among a set of poor, naked, hungry, disarmed slaves, abiding there with impunity till they had, as it were in the face of a large body of his majesty's troops, collected a kind of army or rather rabble together; if we view this army intimidating the king's forces from approaching them by their situation; soon afterwards quitting that situation, marching directly up to the northern capital, and entering it without surprise or without a blow. If we again view this half-armed, half-disciplined mob, without the assistance of a single piece of artillery, march up to, attack, and smite1 a superior number of the king's regular troops, with cannon in their front to defend them. If we consider them returning from this complete victory to the capital, which they had before taken, there remaining for near two months in contempt of twelve millions of people, above a hundred thousand of which have arms in their hands, and one half of these the best troops in Europe. If we consider them afterwards at the approach of a large army under a general of great experience and approved merit, bending their course, though not in a direct line, towards this army; and then, by long and painful marches over almost inaccessible mountains, through the worst of roads in the worst of seasons; by those means, I say, slipping that army and leaving it behind them. If we view them next march on towards another army, still greater, under a young, brave, vigilant, and indefatigable prince, who were advancing in their front to meet, as the others were in their rear to pursue them. If we consider, I say, these banditti, not yet increased to full 6,000, and above a third of these old men and boys not to be depended on, proceeding without a check through a long tract of country, through many towns and cities, which they plundered, at least to a degree, up within a few miles of this third army sent to oppose them; then, by the advantage of a dark night, passing by this army likewise, and by a most incredible march getting between that and the metropolis, into which they struck a terror scarce to be credited,—though, besides the two armies at their heels, there was still one in this very metropolis infinitely superior to these rebels, not only in arms and discipline, but in numbers: who, I say, can consider such things as these, and retain the least doubt whether he shall impute them to a judgment inflicted on this sinful nation; especially when, in the second place, we must allow such judgment to be most undoubtedly our due? To run through every species of crimes with which our Sodom abounds would fill your whole paper. Indeed, such monstrous impieties and iniquities have I both seen and heard of, within these three last years, during my sojourning in what is called the world, particularly the last winter, while I tarried in the great city, that while I verily believe we are the silliest nation under the heaven in every other light, we are wiser than Sodom in wickedness. If we would avoid, therefore, that final judgment which was denounced against that city; if we would avoid that total destruction with which we are threatened, not remotely and at a distance, but immediately and at hand; if we would pacify that vengeance which hath already begun to operate by sending rebels, foreign enemies, pestilence, the forerunner of famine and poverty, among us; if we would pacify that vengeance which seems 1 Battle of Preston-pans, Sept. 21, 1745. already bent to our destruction, by breathing the breath of folly as well as perfidy, into the nostrils of the great: what have we to do but to set about THE WORK recommended by the wise and pious, though heathen philosopher, in my motto? And what is THIS WORK but a thorough amendment of our lives, a perfect alteration of our ways? But before we begin this, let us in obedience to the rule of that philosopher, prescribed above, first apply ourselves by fasting and prayer to the throne of offended grace. My lords the bishops have wisely set apart a particular day for this solemn service a day which I hope will be kept universally through this kingdom, with all those marks of true piety and repentance which our present dreadful situation demands. Indeed, the wretch whose hard heart is not seriously in earnest on this occasion deserves no more the appellation of a good Englishman than of a good churchman or a true Christian. All sober and wise nations have, in times of public danger, instituted certain solemn sacrifices to their gods: now the Christian sacrifices are those of fasting and prayer; and if ever these were in a more extraordinary manner necessary, it is surely now, when the least reflection must convince us that we do in so eminent a manner deserve the judgment of God, and when we have so much reason to apprehend it is coming upon us. I hope, therefore (I repeat it once more), that this day will be kept by us ALL in the most solemn manner, and that not a man will dare refuse complying with those duties which the state requires of us; but I must at the same time recommend to my countrymen a caution, that they would not mistake THE WORK itself for what is only the beginning of or preface to it. Let them not vainly imagine that, when they have fasted and prayed for a day, nay even for an age, that THE WORK is done. It is a total amendment of life, a total change of manners, which can bring THE WORK to a conclusion, or produce any good effects from it. Here again, to give particular instances would be to enumerate all those vices which I have already declined recounting, and would be too prolix. They are known, they are obvious; and few men who resolve to amend their lives will, I believe, want any assistance to discover what parts of them stand in need of amendment. I shall, however, point out two or three particulars, which I the rather single out, because I have heard that there are some who dispute whether they are really vices or no, though every polity, as well as the Christian, have agreed in condemning them as such. The first of these is lying. The devil himself is, in Scripture, said to be the father of lies; and liars are, perhaps, some of the vilest and wickedest children he has. Nay, I think the morals of all civilised nations have denied even the character of a gentleman to a liar. So heinous is this vice, that it has not only stigmatised particular persons, but whole communities, with infamy. And yet have we not persons, ay, and very great persons too, so famous for it, that their credit is a jest and their words mere wind? I need not point them out, for they take sufficient care to point out themselves. Luxury is a second vice which is so far from being acknowledged as criminal, that it is ostentatiously affected. Now this is not only a vice in itself, but it is in reality a privation of all virtue. For, first, in lower fortunes, it prevents men from being honest; and in higher situations it excludes that virtue without which no man can be a Christian, namely, charity. For, as surely as charity covereth a multitude of sins, so must a multitude of dishes, pictures, jewels, houses, horses, servants, &c., cover all charity. I remember dining last winter at a great man's table, where we had among many others, one dish the expense of which would have provided very liberally for a poor family a whole twelvemonth. In short I never saw, during my abode in the great city, a single man who gave me reason to think that he would have enabled himself to be charitable by retrenching the most idle superfluity of his expense. Perhaps the large subscriptions which have prevailed all over the kingdom at this season may be urged as an instance of charity. To this I answer, in the words of a very great and generous friend of mine, who disclaimed all merit from a very liberal subscription, saying, "It was rather sense than goodness to sacrifice a small part for the security of the whole." Now, true charity is of another kind; it has no self-interested motives, pursues no immediate return nor worldly good, well knowing that it is laying up a much surer and much greater reward for itself. But, indeed, who wonders that men are so backward in sacrificing any of their wealth to their consciences, who before had sacrificed their consciences to the acquisition of that very wealth? Can we expect to find charity in an age when scarce any refuse to own the most profligate rapaciousness? when no man is ashamed of avowing the pursuit of riches through every dirty road and track? To speak out, in an age when everything is venal; and when there is scarce one among the mighty who would not be equally ashamed at being thought not to set some price on himself as he would at being imagined to set too low a one? This is an assertion whose truth is too well known. Indeed, my four years' knowledge of the world hath scarce furnished me with examples of any other kind. I believe I have already exceeded my portion of hourglass; I shall therefore reserve what I have farther to say on this subject to some other opportunity.—I am, &c. ABRAHAM ADAMS. Parson Adams's letter is referred to in the following, which is another of Fielding's papers in The True Patriot. A LETTER FROM STEPHEN GRUB. No. 11. TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 1746. Τὰ χρήματ' ανθρώποισιν τιμιώτατα Δύναμίν τε πλείστην τῶν ἐν ἀνθρώποις ἔχει. EURIP, IN PHŒNISS,1 TO THE TRUE PATRIOT. SIR, I am a citizen, a haberdasher by trade, and one of those persons to whom the world allow the epithets of wise and prudent. And I enjoy this character the more as I can fairly assure myself I deserve it; nor am indebted on this account to anything but my own regular conduct, unless to the good instructions with which my father launched me into the world, and upon which I formed this grand principle, "That there is no real value in anything but money." The truth of this proposition may be argued from hence, that it is the only thing in the value of which mankind are agreed; for, as to all other matters, while they are held in high estimation by some, they are disregarded and looked on as cheap and worthless by others. Nay, I believe it is difficult to find any two persons who place an equal valuation on any virtue, good or great quality, whatever. Now, having once established this great rule, I have, by reference to it, been enabled to set a certain value on everything else; in which I have governed myself by two cautions: 1st, Never to purchase too dear; and, 2ndly (which is a more uncommon degree of wisdom), Never to overvalue what I am to sell; by which latter misconduct I have observed many persons guilty of great imprudence. It is not my purpose to trouble you with exemplifications "Of human honours, riches are the source, of the foregoing rule in my ordinary calling: I shall proceed to acquaint you with my conduct concerning those things which some silly people call invaluable, such as reputation, virtue, sense, beauty, &c., all which I have reduced to a certain standard: "for," as your friend Mr. Adams says in his letter on the late fast, "I imagine every man, woman, and thing, to have their price." His astonishment at which truth made me smile, as I dare swear it did you; it is, indeed, agreeable enough to the simplicity of his character. But to proceed:-In my youth I fell violently in love with a very pretty woman. She had a good fortune; but it was £500 less than I could with justice demand (I was heartily in love with her, that's the truth of it); I therefore took my pen and ink (for I do nothing without them), and set down the particulars in the following manner : Mrs. Amey Fairface debtor to Stephen Grub. And here, sir, have we not reason to suppose that some good men, for want of duly considering the danger of their property, &c., from the present rebellion and low state of public credit, have been too tenacious of their money on the present occasion; for, if we admit that the whole is in danger, surely it is the office of prudence to be generous of the lesser part, in order to secure the greater. Let us see how this stands on paper, for thus only we can argue with certainty. Suppose, then, the given sum of your property be £20,000. The value of securing this will be more or less in proportion to the danger; for the truth of which I need only appeal to the common practice of insurance. If the chance, then, be twenty to one, it follows that the value of insurance is at an average with £1,000, and proportionally more or less as the danger is greater or less. There are, besides, two other articles, which I had like to have forgot, to which every man almost affixes some value. These are religion and liberty. Suppose, therefore, we set down Religion at 4500 00 00 } 100 00 00 And Liberty at 288 2 10 00 30 £ 8. d. 00 15 00 Item, to dancing Mrs. Amey debtor Per contra creditor Due to balance 30 50 00 00 00 00 00 1 01 00 00 06 4683 11 06 5000 00 00 4683 11 06 316 08 06 You see, sir, I strained as hard as possible, and placed a higher value perhaps on her several perfections than others would have done; but the balance still remained against her, and I was reduced to the necessary alternative of sacrificing that sum for ever, or of quitting my mistress. You may easily guess on which a prudent man would determine. Indeed, I had sufficient reason to be afterwards pleased with my prudence, as she proved to be a less valuable woman than I imagined; for, two years afterwards, having had a considerable loss in trade, by which the balance above was satisfied, I renewed my addresses, but the false-hearted creature (forsooth) refused to see me. A second occasion which I had for my pen and ink, in this way, was when the situation of my affairs, after some losses, was such that I could clearly have put £1500 in my pocket by breaking. The account then stood thus: 00 02 06 And I think none but a profligate fellow can value them at a lower rate; it follows that to secure them from the same proportion of danger as above is worth 10d. Now this last sum may be undoubtedly saved, as it would not be missed or called for if men would only seriously consider the preservation of what is so infinitely more valuable, their property, and advance their money in its defence in due proportion to the degree of its danger. And as there is nothing so pleasant as clear gain, it must give some satisfaction to every thinking man that, while he risks his money for the preservation of his property, his religion and liberty are tossed him into the bargain. You see, sir, I have fairly balanced between those hotheaded zealots who set these conveniences above the value of money, and those profligate wicked people who treat them as matters of no concern or moment. I have therefore been a little surprised at the backwardness of some very prudent men on this occasion; for it would be really doing them an injury to suspect they do not set a just value on money, while every action of their lives demonstrates the contrary. I can therefore impute this conduct only to a firm persuasion that there will be foolish people enow found who from loyalty to their king, zeal for their country, or some other ridiculous principle, will subscribe sufficient sums for the defence of the public; and so they might save their own money, which will still increase in value in proportion to the distress and poverty of the nation. This would be certainly a wise and right way of reasoning, and such a conduct must be highly commendable if the fact supposed was true; for, as nothing is so truly great as to turn the penny while the world suspects your ruin, so to convert the misfortunes of a whole community to your own emolument, must be a thing highly eligible by every good man, i.e., every Plumb. But I am afraid this rule will reach only private persons at most, and cannot extend to those whose examples, while they keep their own purses shut, lock up the purses of all their neighbours. A fallacy of the same kind I am afraid we fall into when we refuse to lend our money to the Government at a moderate interest, in hopes of extorting more from the public purse; with which thought a very good sort of man, a Plumb, seemed yesterday to hug himself, in a conversation which we had Plumb. A man, or fortune, of £100,000. |