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ESSAY

XVII.

I that

The PLATONIST*.

O fome philofophers it appears matter of surprize, all mankind, poffeffing the fame nature, and being endowed with the fame faculties, fhould yet differ fo widely in their pursuits and inclinations, and that one fhould utterly condemn what is fondly fought after by another. To fome it appears matter of ftill more furprize, that a man fhould differ fo widely from himself at different times; and, after poffeffion, reject with difdain what, before, was the object of all his vows and wishes. To me this feverish uncertainty and irrefolution, in human conduct, feems altogether unavoidable; nor can a rational foul, made for the contemplation of the Supreme Being, and of his works, ever enjoy tranquillity or fatisfaction, while detained in the ignoble pursuits of fenfual pleasure or popular applause. The divinity is a boundless ocean of blifs and glory: Human minds are fmaller ftreams, which, arising at first from this ocean, feek still, amid all their wanderings, to return to it, and to lose themselves in that immensity of perfection. When checked in this natural course, by vice or folly, they become furious and enraged; and,

Or, the man of contemplation, and philosophical devotion.

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welling to a torrent, do then spread horror and devastation on the neighbouring plains.

In vain, by pompous phrase and paffionate expreffion, each recommends his own pursuit, and invites the credulous hearers to an imitation of his life and manners. The heart belies the countenance, and fenfibly feels, even amid the highest fuccefs, the unfatisfactory nature of all those pleasures, which detain it from its true object. I examine the voluptuous man before enjoyment; I measure the vehemence of his defire, and the importance of his object; I find that all his happiness proceeds only from that hurry of thought, which takes him from himself, and turns his view from his guilt and mifery. I confider him a moment after; he has now enjoyed the pleasure, which he fondly fought after. The fenfe of his guilt and mifery returns upon him with double anguifh His mind tormented with fear and remorfe; his body depreffed with difguft and fatiety.

But a more auguft, at least a more haughty perfonage, prefents himself boldly to our cenfure; and, asfuming the title of a philofopher and man of morals, offers to fubmit to the most rigid examination. He challenges, with a visible, though concealed impatience, our approbation and applaufe; and feems offended, that we should hefitate a moment before we break out into admiration of his virtue. Seeing this impatience, I hefitate still more I begin to examine the motives of his feeming virtue: But behold! ere I can enter upon this enquiry, he flings himself from me; and, addreffing his difcourfe to that crowd of heedlefs auditors, fondly abuses them by his magnificent pretenfions,

O philo

O philofopher! thy wisdom is vain, and thy virtue unprofitable. Thou feekeft the ignorant applaufes of men, not the folid reflections of thy own confcience, or the more folid approbation of that being, who, with one regard of his all-feeing eye, penetrates the universe. Thou furely art confcious of the hollowness of thy pretended probity, whilft calling thyself a citizen, a fon, a friend, thou forgetteft thy higher fovereign, thy true father, thy greatest benefactor. Where is the adoration due to infinite perfection, whence every thing good and valuable is derived? Where is the gratitude, owing to thy creator, who called thee forth from nothing, who placed thee in all thefe relations to thy fellow-creatures, and requiring thee to fulfil the duty of each relation, forbids thee to neglect what thou oweft to himself, the moft perfect being, to whom thou art connected by the closeft tye?

But thou art thyfelf thy own idol: Thou worshippeft thy imaginary perfections: Or rather, fenfible of thy real imperfections, thou feekeft only to deceive the world, and to please thy fancy, by multiplying thy ignorant admirers. Thus, not content with neglecting what is moft excellent in the univerfe, thou defireft to fubftitute in his place what is most vile and contemptible.

Confider all the works of men's hands; all the inven tions of human wit, in which thou affecteft fo nice a difcernment: Thou wilt find, that the most perfect production still proceeds from the most perfect thought, and that it is MIND alone, which we admire, while we bestow our applause on the graces of a well-proportioned ftatue, or the fymmetry of a noble pile. The ftatuary, M 4

the

the architect comes ftill in view, and makes us reflect on the beauty of his art and contrivance, which, from a heap of unformed matter, could extract fuch expreffions and proportions. This fuperior beauty of thought and intelligence thou thyfelf acknowledgeft, while thou inviteft us to contemplate, in thy conduct, the harmony of affections, the dignity of fentiments, and all those graces of a mind, which chiefly merit our attention. But why stoppeft thou fhort? Seeft thou nothing farther that is valuable? Amid thy rapturous applaufes of beauty and order, art thou ftill ignorant where is to be found the most confummate beauty? the moft perfect order? Compare the works of art with those of nature. The one are but imitations of the other. The nearer art approaches to nature, the more perfect is it esteemed, But ftill, how wide are its nearest approaches, and what an immenfe interval may be observed between them? Art copi s only the outside of nature, leaving the inward and more admirable springs and principles; as exceeding her imitation; as beyond her comprehenfion. Art copies only the minute productions of nature, defpairing to reach that grandeur and magnificence, which are fo aftonishing in the masterly works of her original. Can we then be fo blind as not to discover an intelligence and a defign in the exquifite and moft ftupendous contrivance of the univerfe? Can we be fo ftupid as not to feel the warmest raptures of worship and adoration, upon the contemplation of that intelligent being, fo infinitely good and wife?

The most perfect happiness, furely, muft arife from the contemplation of the most perfect object. But what more perfect than beauty and virtue? And where is beauty to be found equal to that of the universe? Or

virtue,

virtue, which can be compared to the benevolence and juftice of the Deity? If aught can diminish the pleasure of this contemplation, it must be either the narrowness of our faculties, which conceals from us the greatest part of these beauties and perfections; or the shortness of our lives, which allows not time fufficient to instruct us in them. But it is our comfort, that, if we employ worthily the faculties here affigned us, they will be enlarged in another state of existence, fo as to render us more fuitable worshippers of our maker: And that the tafk, which can never be finished in time, will be the bufinefs of an eternity.

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