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Dickory Cronke
By
Daniel Defoe
Contents
Preface: =
AN
ELEGY, IN MEMORY OF DICKORY CRONKE, THE DUMB PHILOSOPHER. =
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>Preface:
The formality of a
preface to this little book might have been very well omitted, if it were n=
ot
to gratify the curiosity of some inquisitive people, who, I foresee, will be
apt to make objections against the reality of the narrative. Indeed the public has too often been
imposed upon by fictitious stories, and some of a very late date, so that I
think myself obliged by the usual respect which is paid to candid and impar=
tial
readers, to acquaint them, by way of introduction, with what they are to
expect, and what they may depend upon, and yet with this caution too, that =
it
is an indication of ill nature or ill manners, if not both, to pry into a
secret that is industriously concealed. However, that there may be nothing
wanting on my part, I do hereby assure the reader, that the papers from whe=
nce
the following sheets were extracted, are now in town, in the custody of a
person of unquestionable reputation, who, I will be bold to say, will not o=
nly
be ready, but proud, to produce them upon a good occasion, and that I think=
is
as much satisfaction as the nature of this case requires. As to the
performance, it can signify little now to make an apology upon that account,
any farther than this, that if the reader pleases he may take notice that w=
hat
he has now before him was collected from a large bundle of papers, most of
which were writ in shorthand, and very ill-digested. However, this may be
relied upon, that though the language is something altered, and now and the=
n a
word thrown in to help the expression, yet strict care has been taken to sp=
eak
the author's mind, and keep as close as possible to the meaning of the
original. For the design, I think there is nothing need be said in vindicat=
ion
of that. Here is a dumb philosopher introduced to a wicked and degenerate
generation, as a proper emblem of virtue and morality; and if the world cou=
ld
be persuaded to look upon him with candour and impartiality, and then to co=
py
after him, the editor has gained his end, and would think himself sufficien=
tly
recompensed for his present trouble.
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>Part I:=
Among the many
strange and surprising events that help to fill the accounts of this last
century, I know none that merit more an entire credit, or are more fit to be
preserved and handed to posterity than those I am now going to lay before t=
he
public.
Dickory Cronke, t=
he
subject of the following narrative, was born at a little hamlet, near St.
Columb, in Cornwall, on the 29th of May, 1660, being the day and year in wh=
ich
King Charles the Second was restored. His parents were of mean extraction, =
but
honest, industrious people, and well beloved in their neighbourhood. His
father's chief business was to work at the tin mines; his mother stayed at =
home
to look after the children, of which they had several living at the same ti=
me.
Our Dickory was the youngest, and being but a sickly child, had always a do=
uble
portion of her care and tenderness.
It was upwards of
three years before it was discovered that he was born dumb, the knowledge of
which at first gave his mother great uneasiness, but finding soon after tha=
t he
had his hearing, and all his other senses to the greatest perfection, her g=
rief
began to abate, and she resolved to have him brought up as well as their
circumstances and his capacity would permit.
As he grew,
notwithstanding his want of speech, he every day gave some instance of a re=
ady
genius, and a genius much superior to the country children, insomuch that
several gentlemen in the neighbourhood took particular notice of him, and w=
ould
often call him Restoration Dick, and give him money, &c.
When he came to be
eight years of age, his mother agreed with a person in the next village, to
teach him to read and write, both which, in a very short time, he acquired =
to
such perfection, especially the latter, that he not only taught his own
brothers and sisters, but likewise several young men and women in the
neighbourhood, which often brought him in small sums, which he always laid =
out
in such necessaries as he stood most in need of.
In this state he
continued till he was about twenty, and then he began to reflect how scanda=
lous
it was for a young man of his age and circumstances to live idle at home, a=
nd
so resolves to go with his father to the mines, to try if he could get
something towards the support of himself and the family; but being of a ten=
der
constitution, and often sick, he soon perceived that sort of business was t=
oo
hard for him, so was forced to return home and continue in his former stati=
on;
upon which he grew exceeding melancholy, which his mother observing, she
comforted him in the best manner she could, telling him that if it should
please God to take her away, she had something left in store for him, which
would preserve him against public want.
This kind assuran=
ce
from a mother whom he so dearly loved gave him some, though not an entire
satisfaction; however, he resolves to acquiesce under it till Providence sh=
ould
order something for him more to his content and advantage, which, in a short
time happened according to his wish. The manner was thus:-
One Mr. Owen Parr=
y, a
Welsh gentleman of good repute, coming from Bristol to Padstow, a little
seaport in the county of Cornwall, near the place where Dickory dwelt, and
hearing much of this dumb man's perfections, would needs have him sent for;=
and
finding, by his significant gestures and all outward appearances that he mu=
ch exceeded
the character that the country gave of him, took a mighty liking to him,
insomuch that he told him, if he would go with him into Pembrokeshire, he w=
ould
be kind to him, and take care of him as long as he lived.
This kind and
unexpected offer was so welcome to poor Dickory, that without any farther
consideration, he got a pen and ink and writ a note, and in a very handsome=
and
submissive manner returned him thanks for his favour, assuring him he would=
do
his best to continue and improve it; and that he would be ready to wait upon
him whenever he should be pleased to command.
To shorten the
account as much as possible, all things were concluded to their mutual
satisfaction, and in about a fortnight's time they set forward for Wales, w=
here
Dickory, notwithstanding his dumbness, behaved himself with so much diligen=
ce
and affability, that he not only gained the love of the family where he liv=
ed,
but of everybody round him.
In this station he
continued till the death of his master, which happened about twenty years
afterwards; in all which time, as has been confirmed by several of the fami=
ly,
he was never observed to be any ways disguised by drinking, or to be guilty=
of
any of the follies and irregularities incident to servants in gentlemen's
houses. On the contrary, when he had any spare time, his constant custom wa=
s to
retire with some good book into a private place within call, and there empl=
oy
himself in reading, and then writing down his observations upon what he rea=
d.
After the death of
his master, whose loss afflicted him to the last degree, one Mrs. Mary Mord=
ant,
a gentlewoman of great virtue and piety, and a very good fortune, took him =
into
her service, and carried him with her, first to Bath, and then to Bristol,
where, after a lingering distemper, which continued for about four years, s=
he
died likewise.
Upon the loss of =
his
mistress, Dickory grew again exceeding melancholy and disconsolate; at leng=
th,
reflecting that death is but a common debt which all mortals owe to nature,=
and
must be paid sooner or later, he became a little better satisfied, and so
determines to get together what he had saved in his service, and then to re=
turn
to his native country, and there finish his life in privacy and retirement.=
Having been, as h=
as
been mentioned, about twenty-four years a servant, and having, in the inter=
im,
received two legacies, viz., one of thirty pounds, left him by his master, =
and
another of fifteen pounds by his mistress, and being always very frugal, he=
had
got by him in the whole upwards of sixty pounds. This, thinks he, with prud=
ent
management, will be enough to support me as long as I live, and so I'll e'en
lay aside all thoughts of future business, and make the best of my way to
Cornwall, and there find out some safe and solitary retreat, where I may ha=
ve
liberty to meditate and make my melancholy observations upon the several
occurrences of human life.
This resolution
prevailed so far, that no time was let slip to get everything in readiness =
to
go with the first ship. As to his money, he always kept that locked up by h=
im,
unless he sometimes lent it to a friend without interest, for he had a mort=
al
hatred to all sorts of usury or extortion. His books, of which he had a
considerable quantity, and some of them very good ones, together with his o=
ther
equipage, he got packed up, that nothing might be wanting against the first
opportunity.
In a few days he
heard of a vessel bound to Padstow, the very port he wished to go to, being
within four or five miles of the place where he was born. When he came thit=
her,
which was in less than a week, his first business was to inquire after the
state of his family. It was some time before he could get any information of
them, until an old man that knew his father and mother, and remembered they=
had
a son was born dumb, recollected him, and after a great deal of difficulty,
made him understand that all his family except his youngest sister were dea=
d,
and that she was a widow, and lived at a little town called St. Helen's, ab=
out
ten miles farther in the country.
This doleful news=
, we
must imagine, must be extremely shocking, and add a new sting to his former
affliction; and here it was that he began to exercise the philosopher, and =
to
demonstrate himself both a wise and a good man. All these things, thinks he,
are the will of Providence, and must not be disputed; and so he bore up und=
er
them with an entire resignation, resolving that, as soon as he could find a
place where he might deposit his trunk and boxes with safety, he would go to
St. Helen's in quest of his sister.
How his sister an=
d he
met, and how transported they were to see each other after so long an inter=
val,
I think is not very material. It is enough for the present purpose that Dic=
kory
soon recollected his sister, and she him; and after a great many endearing
tokens of love and tenderness, he wrote to her, telling her that he believed
Providence had bestowed on him as much as would support him as long as he
lived, and that if she thought proper he would come and spend the remainder=
of
his days with her.
The good woman no
sooner read his proposal than she accepted it, adding, withal, that she cou=
ld
wish her entertainment was better; but if he would accept of it as it was, =
she
would do her best to make everything easy, and that he should be welcome up=
on
his own terms, to stay with her as long as he pleased.
This affair being=
so
happily settled to his full satisfaction, he returns to Padstow to fetch the
things he had left behind him, and the next day came back to St. Helen's,
where, according to his own proposal, he continued to the day of his death,
which happened upon the 29th of May, 1718, about the same hour in which he =
was
born.
Having thus given=
a
short detail of the several periods of his life, extracted chiefly from the
papers which he left behind him, I come in the next place to make a few
observations how he managed himself and spent his time toward the latter pa=
rt
of it.
His constant
practice, both winter and summer, was to rise and set with the sun; and if =
the
weather would permit, he never failed to walk in some unfrequented place, f=
or
three hours, both morning and evening, and there it is supposed he composed=
the
following meditations. The chief part of his sustenance was milk, with a li=
ttle
bread boiled in it, of which in the morning, after his walk, he would eat t=
he
quantity of a pint, and sometimes more. Dinners he never eat any; and at ni=
ght
he would only have a pretty large piece of bread, and drink a draught of go=
od
spring water; and after this method he lived during the whole time he was at
St. Helen's. It is observed of him that he never slept out of a bed, nor ne=
ver
lay awake in one; which I take to be an argument, not only of a strong and
healthful constitution, but of a mind composed and calm, and entirely free =
from
the ordinary disturbances of human life. He never gave the least signs of
complaint or dissatisfaction at anything, unless it was when he heard the
tinners swear, or saw them drunk; and then, too, he would get out of the wa=
y as
soon as he had let them see, by some significant signs, how scandalous and
ridiculous they made themselves; and against the next time he met them, wou=
ld
be sure to have a paper ready written, wherein he would represent the folly=
of
drunkenness, and the dangerous consequences that generally attended it.
Idleness was his
utter aversion, and if at any time he had finished the business of the day,=
and
was grown weary of reading and writing, in which he daily spent six hours at
least, he would certainly find something either within doors or without, to
employ himself.
Much might be said
both with regard to the wise and regular management, and the prudent method=
s he
took to spend his time well towards the declension of his life; but, as his
history may perhaps be shortly published at large by a better hand, I shall
only observe in the general, that he was a person of great wisdom and sagac=
ity.
He understood nature beyond the ordinary capacity, and, if he had had a
competency of learning suitable to his genius, neither this nor the former =
ages
would have produced a better philosopher or a greater man.
I come next to sp=
eak
of the manner of his death and the consequences thereof, which are, indeed,
very surprising, and, perhaps, not altogether unworthy a general observatio=
n. I
shall relate them as briefly as I can, and leave every one to believe or
disbelieve as he thinks proper.
Upon the 26th of =
May,
1718, according to his usual method, about four in the afternoon, he went o=
ut
to take his evening walk; but before he could reach the place he intended, =
he
was siezed with an apoplectic fit, which only gave him liberty to sit down
under a tree, where, in an instant, he was deprived of all manner of sense =
and
motion, and so he continued, as appears by his own confession afterwards, f=
or
more than fourteen hours.
His sister, who k=
new
how exact he was in all his methods, finding him stay a considerable time
beyond the usual hour, concludes that some misfortune must needs have happe=
ned
to him, or he would certainly have been at home before. In short, she went
immediately to all the places he was wont to frequent, but nothing could be
heard or seen of him till the next morning, when a young man, as he was goi=
ng
to work, discovered him, and went home and told his sister that her brother=
lay
in such a place, under a tree, and, as he believed had been robbed and
murdered.
The poor woman, w=
ho
had all night been under the most dreadful apprehensions, was now frightened
and confounded to the last degree. However, recollecting herself, and findi=
ng
there was no remedy, she got two or three of her neighbours to bear her
company, and so hastened with the young man to the tree, where she found her
brother lying in the same posture that he had described.
The dismal object=
at
first view startled and surprised everybody present, and filled them full of
different notions and conjectures. But some of the company going nearer to =
him,
and finding that he had lost nothing, and that there were no marks of any
violence to be discovered about him, they conclude that it must be an
apoplectic or some other sudden fit that had surprised him in his walk, upon
which his sister and the rest began to feel his hands and face, and observi=
ng
that he was still warm, and that there were some symptoms of life yet
remaining, they conclude that the best way was to carry him home to bed, wh=
ich
was accordingly done with the utmost expedition.
When they had got= him into the bed, nothing was omitted that they could think of to bring him to himself, but still he continued utterly insensible for about six hours. At = the sixth hour's end he began to move a little, and in a very short time was so= far recovered, to the great astonishment of everybody about him, that he was ab= le to look up, and to make a sign to his sister to bring him a cup of water. <= o:p>
After he had drunk
the water he soon perceived that all his faculties were returned to their
former stations, and though his strength was very much abated by the length=
and
rigour of the fit, yet his intellects were as strong and vigorous as ever. =
His sister observ=
ing
him to look earnestly upon the company, as if he had something extraordinar=
y to
communicate to them, fetched him a pen and ink and a sheet of paper, which,
after a short pause, he took, and wrote as follows:-
"Dear sister=
,
"I have now =
no
need of pen, ink, and paper, to tell you my meaning. I find the strings that
bound up my tongue, and hindered me from speaking, are unloosed, and I have
words to express myself as freely and distinctly as any other person. From
whence this strange and unexpected event should proceed, I must not pretend=
to
say, any farther than this, that it is doubtless the hand of Providence that
has done it, and in that I ought to acquiesce. Pray let me be alone for two=
or
three hours, that I may be at liberty to compose myself, and put my thought=
s in
the best order I can before I leave them behind me."
The poor woman,
though extremely startled at what her brother had written, yet took care to
conceal it from the neighbours, who, she knew, as well as she, must be migh=
tily
surprised at a thing so utterly unexpected. Says she, my brother desires to=
be
alone; I believe he may have something in his mind that disturbs him. Upon
which the neighbours took their leave and returned home, and his sister shut
the door, and left him alone to his private contemplations.
After the company
were withdrawn he fell into a sound sleep, which lasted from two till six, =
and
his sister, being apprehensive of the return of his fit, came to the bedsid=
e,
and, asking softly if he wanted anything, he turned about to her and spoke =
to
this effect: Dear sister, you see me not only recovered out of a terrible f=
it,
but likewise that I have the liberty of speech, a blessing that I have been
deprived of almost sixty years, and I am satisfied you are sincerely joyful=
to
find me in the state I now am in; but, alas! it is but a mistaken kindness.
These are things but of short duration, and if they were to continue for a
hundred years longer, I can't see how I should be anyways the better.
I know the world =
too
well to be fond of it, and am fully satisfied that the difference between a
long and a short life is insignificant, especially when I consider the
accidents and company I am to encounter. Do but look seriously and impartia=
lly
upon the astonishing notion of time and eternity, what an immense deal has =
run
out already, and how infinite it is still in the future; do but seriously a=
nd
deliberately consider this, and you will find, upon the whole, that three d=
ays
and three ages of life come much to the same measure and reckoning.
As soon as he had
ended his discourse upon the vanity and uncertainty of human life, he looked
steadfastly upon her. Sister, says he, I conjure you not to be disturbed at
what I am going to tell you, which you will undoubtedly find to be true in
every particular. I perceive my glass is run, and I have now no more to do =
in
this world but to take my leave of it; for to-morrow about this time my spe=
ech
will be again taken from me, and, in a short time, my fit will return; and =
the
next day, which I understand is the day on which I came into this troubleso=
me
world, I shall exchange it for another, where, for the future, I shall for =
ever
be free from all manner of sin and sufferings.
The good woman wo=
uld
have made him a reply, but he prevented her by telling her he had no time to
hearken to unnecessary complaints or animadversions. I have a great many th=
ings
in my mind, says he, that require a speedy and serious consideration. The t=
ime
I have to stay is but short, and I have a great deal of important business =
to
do in it. Time and death are both in my view, and seem both to call aloud t=
o me
to make no delay. I beg of you, therefore, not to disquiet yourself or me. =
What
must be, must be. The decrees of Providence are eternal and unalterable; wh=
y,
then, should we torment ourselves about that which we cannot remedy?
I must confess, my
dear sister, I owe you many obligations for your exemplary fondness to me, =
and
do solemnly assure you I shall retain the sense of them to the last moment.=
All
that I have to request of you is, that I may be alone for this night. I hav=
e it
in my thoughts to leave some short observations behind me, and likewise to
discover some things of great weight which have been revealed to me, which =
may
perhaps be of some use hereafter to you and your friends. What credit they =
may
meet with I cannot say, but depend the consequence, according to their
respective periods, will account for them, and vindicate them against the
supposition of falsity and mere suggestion.
Upon this, his si=
ster
left him till about four in the morning, when coming to his bedside to know=
if
he wanted anything, and how he had rested, he made her this answer; I have =
been
taking a cursory view of my life, and though I find myself exceedingly defi=
cient
in several particulars, yet I bless God I cannot find I have any just groun=
ds
to suspect my pardon. In short, says he, I have spent this night with more
inward pleasure and true satisfaction than ever I spent a night through the
whole course of my life.
After he had
concluded what he had to say upon the satisfaction that attended an innocent
and well-spent life, and observed what a mighty consolation it was to perso=
ns,
not only under the apprehension, but even in the very agonies of death itse=
lf,
he desired her to bring him his usual cup of water, and then to help him on
with his clothes, that he might sit up, and so be in a better posture to ta=
ke
his leave of her and her friends.
When she had taken
him up, and placed him at a table where he usually sat, he desired her to b=
ring
him his box of papers, and after he had collected those he intended should =
be
preserved, he ordered her to bring a candle, that he might see the rest bur=
nt.
The good woman seemed at first to oppose the burning of his papers, till he
told her they were only useless trifles, some unfinished observations which=
he
had made in his youthful days, and were not fit to be seen by her, or anybo=
dy
that should come after him.
After he had seen=
his
papers burnt, and placed the rest in their proper order, and had likewise
settled all his other affairs, which was only fit to be done between himself
and his sister, he desired her to call two or three of the most reputable
neighbours, not only to be witnesses of his will, but likewise to hear what=
he
had farther to communicate before the return of his fit, which he expected =
very
speedily.
His sister, who h=
ad
beforehand acquainted two or three of her confidants with all that had
happened, was very much rejoiced to hear her brother make so unexpected a
concession; and accordingly, without any delay or hesitation, went directly
into the neighbourhood, and brought home her two select friends, upon whose
secrecy and sincerity she knew she might depend upon all accounts.
In her absence he
felt several symptoms of the approach of his fit, which made him a little
uneasy, lest it should entirely seize him before he had perfected his will,=
but
that apprehension was quickly removed by her speedy return. After she had
introduced her friends into his chamber, he proceeded to express himself in=
the
following manner; Dear sister, you now see your brother upon the brink of
eternity; and as the words of dying persons are commonly the most regarded,=
and
make deepest impressions, I cannot suspect but you will suffer the few I am
about to say to have always some place in your thoughts, that they may be r=
eady
for you to make use of upon any occasion.
Do not be fond of
anything on this side of eternity, or suffer your interest to incline you to
break your word, quit your modesty, or to do anything that will not bear the
light, and look the world in the face. For be assured of this; the person t=
hat
values the virtue of his mind and the dignity of his reason, is always easy=
and
well fortified both against death and misfortune, and is perfectly indiffer=
ent
about the length or shortness of his life. Such a one is solicitous about
nothing but his own conduct, and for fear he should be deficient in the dut=
ies
of religion, and the respective functions of reason and prudence.
Always go the nea=
rest
way to work. Now, the nearest way through all the business of human life, a=
re
the paths of religion and honesty, and keeping those as directly as you can,
you avoid all the dangerous precipices that often lie in the road, and some=
times
block up the passage entirely.
Remember that life
was but lent at first, and that the remainder is more than you have reason =
to
expect, and consequently ought to be managed with more than ordinary dilige=
nce.
A wise man spends every day as if it were his last; his hourglass is always=
in
his hand, and he is never guilty of sluggishness or insincerity.
He was about to
proceed, when a sudden symptom of the return of his fit put him in mind tha=
t it
was time to get his will witnessed, which was no sooner done but he took it=
up
and gave it to his sister, telling her that though all he had was hers of
right, yet he thought it proper, to prevent even a possibility of a dispute=
, to
write down his mind in the nature of a will, wherein I have given you, says=
he,
the little that I have left, except my books and papers, which, as soon as =
I am
dead, I desire may be delivered to Mr. Anthony Barlow, a near relation of my
worthy master, Mr. Owen Parry.
This Mr. Anthony
Barlow was an old contemplative Welsh gentleman, who, being under some
difficulties in his own country, was forced to come into Cornwall and take
sanctuary among the tinners. Dickory, though he kept himself as retired as
possible, happened to meet him one day upon his walks, and presently rememb=
ered
that he was the very person that used frequently to come to visit his master
while he lived in Pembrokeshire, and so went to him, and by signs made him
understand who he was.
The old gentleman, though at first surprised at this unexpected interview, soon recollected th= at he had formerly seen at Mr. Parry's a dumb man, whom they used to call the = dumb philosopher, so concludes immediately that consequently this must be he. In short, they soon made themselves known to each other; and from that time contracted a strict friendship and a correspondence by letters, which for t= he future they mutually managed with the greatest exactness and familiarity. <= o:p>
But to leave this=
as
a matter not much material, and to return to our narrative. By this time
Dickory's speech began to falter, which his sister observing, put him in mi=
nd
that he would do well to make some declaration of his faith and principles =
of
religion, because some reflections had been made upon him upon the account =
of
his neglect, or rather his refusal, to appear at any place of public worshi=
p.
"Dear
sister," says he, "you observe very well, and I wish the continua=
nce
of my speech for a few moments, that I might make an ample declaration upon
that account. But I find that cannot be; my speech is leaving me so fast th=
at I
can only tell you that I have always lived, and now die, an unworthy member=
of
the ancient catholic and apostolic church; and as to my faith and principle=
s, I
refer you to my papers, which, I hope, will in some measure vindicate me
against the reflections you mention."
He had hardly
finished his discourse to his sister and her two friends, and given some sh=
ort
directions relating to his burial, but his speech left him; and what makes =
the
thing the more remarkable, it went away, in all appearance, without giving =
him
any sort of pain or uneasiness.
When he perceived
that his speech was entirely vanished, and that he was again in his original
state of dumbness, he took his pen as formerly and wrote to his sister,
signifying that whereas the sudden loss of his speech had deprived him of t=
he
opportunity to speak to her and her friends what he intended, he would leav=
e it
for them in writing, and so desired he might not be disturbed till the retu=
rn
of his fit, which he expected in six hours at farthest. According to his de=
sire
they all left him, and then, with the greatest resignation imaginable, he w=
rote
down the meditations following:
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>Part II=
An Abstract of his
Faith, and the Principles of his Religion &c., which begins thus:
Dear Sister; I th=
ank
you for putting me in mind to make a declaration of my faith, and the
principles of my religion. I find, as you very well observe, I have been un=
der
some reflections upon that account, and therefore I think it highly requisi=
te
that I set that matter right in the first place. To begin, therefore, with =
my
faith, in which I intend to be as short and as comprehensive as I can:
1. I most firmly
believe that it was the eternal will of God, and the result of his infinite
wisdom, to create a world, and for the glory of his majesty to make several
sorts of creatures in order and degree one after another; that is to say,
angels, or pure immortal spirits; men, consisting of immortal spirits and
matter, having rational and sensitive souls; brutes, having mortal and
sensitive souls; and mere vegetatives, such as trees, plants, &c.; and
these creatures so made do, as it were, clasp the higher and lower world
together.
2. I believe the =
holy
Scriptures, and everything therein contained, to be the pure and essential =
word
of God; and that, according to these sacred writings, man, the lord and pri=
nce
of the creation, by his disobedience in Paradise, forfeited his innocence a=
nd
the dignity of his nature, and subjected himself and all his posterity to s=
in
and misery.
3. I believe and =
am
fully and entirely satisfied, that God the Father, out of his infinite good=
ness
and compassion to mankind, was pleased to send his only Son, the second per=
son
in the holy and undivided Trinity, to meditate for him, and to procure his =
redemption
and eternal salvation.
4. I believe that=
God
the Son, out of his infinite love, and for the glory of the Deity, was plea=
sed
voluntarily and freely to descend from heaven, and to take our nature upon =
him,
and to lead an exemplary life of purity, holiness, and perfect obedience, a=
nd
at last to suffer an ignominious death upon the cross, for the sins of the
whole world, and to rise again the third day for our justification.
5. I believe that=
the
Holy Ghost out of his infinite goodness was pleased to undertake the office=
of
sanctifying us with his divine grace, and thereby assisting us with faith to
believe, will to desire, and power to do all those things that are required=
of
us in this world, in order to entitle us to the blessings of just men made
perfect in the world to come.
6. I believe that
these three persons are of equal power, majesty, and duration, and that the
Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost is all one, and th=
at
they are equally uncreate, incomprehensible, eternal, and almighty; and that
none is greater or less than the other, but that every one hath one and the
same divine nature and perfections.
These, sister, are
the doctrines which have been received and practised by the best men of eve=
ry
age, from the beginning of the Christian religion to this day, and it is up=
on
this I ground my faith and hopes of salvation, not doubting but, if my life=
and
practice have been answerable to them, that I shall be quickly translated o=
ut
of this kingdom of darkness, out of this world of sorrow, vexation and
confusion, into that blessed kingdom, where I shall cease to grieve and to
suffer, and shall be happy to all eternity.
As to my principl=
es
in religion, to be as brief as I can, I declare myself to be a member of
Christ's church, which I take to be a universal society of all Christian
people, distributed under lawful governors and pastors into particular
churches, holding communion with each other in all the essentials of the
Christian faith, worship, and discipline; and among these I look upon the
Church of England to be the chief and best constituted.
The Church of Eng=
land
is doubtless the great bulwark of the ancient Catholic or Apostolic faith a=
ll
over the world; a church that has all the spiritual advantages that the nat=
ure
of a church is capable of. From the doctrine and principles of the Church of
England, we are taught loyalty to our prince, fidelity to our country, and
justice to all mankind; and therefore, as I look upon this to be one of the
most excellent branches of the Church Universal, and stands, as it were,
between superstition and hypocrisy, I therefore declare, for the satisfacti=
on
of you and your friends, as I have always lived so I now die, a true and
sincere, though a most unworthy member of it. And as to my discontinuance o=
f my
attendance at the public worship, I refer you to my papers, which I have le=
ft
with my worthy friend, Mr. Barlow. And thus, my dear sister, I have given y=
ou a
short account of my faith, and the principles of my religion. I come, in the
next place, to lay before you a few meditations and observations I have at
several times collected together, more particularly those since my retireme=
nt
to St. Helen's.
Meditations and
Observations relating to the Conduct of Human Life in general.
1. Remember how o=
ften
you have neglected the great duties of religion and virtue, and slighted the
opportunities that Providence has put into your hands; and, withal, that you
have a set period assigned you for the management of the affairs of human l=
ife;
and then reflect seriously that, unless you resolve immediately to improve =
the
little remains, the whole must necessarily slip away insensibly, and then y=
ou
are lost beyond recovery.
2. Let an unaffec=
ted
gravity, freedom, justice, and sincerity shine through all your actions, and
let no fancies and chimeras give the least check to those excellent qualiti=
es.
This is an easy task, if you will but suppose everything you do to be your
last, and if you can keep your passions and appetites from crossing your
reason. Stand clear of rashness, and have nothing of insincerity or self-lo=
ve
to infect you.
3. Manage all your
thoughts and actions with such prudence and circumspection as if you were
sensible you were just going to step into the grave. A little thinking will
show a man the vanity and uncertainty of all sublunary things, and enable h=
im
to examine maturely the manner of dying; which, if duly abstracted from the
terror of the idea, will appear nothing more than an unavoidable appendix of
life itself, and a pure natural action.
4. Consider that
ill-usage from some sort of people is in a manner necessary, and therefore =
do
not be disquieted about it, but rather conclude that you and your enemy are
both marching off the stage together, and that in a little time your very
memories will be extinguished.
5. Among your
principal observations upon human life, let it be always one to take notice
what a great deal both of time and ease that man gains who is not troubled =
with
the spirit of curiosity, who lets his neighbours' affairs alone, and confin=
es
his inspections to himself, and only takes care of honesty and a good
conscience.
6. If you would l=
ive
at your ease, and as much as possible be free from the incumbrances of life,
manage but a few things at once, and let those, too, be such as are absolut=
ely
necessary. By this rule you will draw the bulk of your business into a narr=
ow
compass, and have the double pleasure of making your actions good, and few =
into
the bargain.
7. He that tormen=
ts
himself because things do not happen just as he would have them, is but a s=
ort
of ulcer in the world; and he that is selfish, narrow-souled, and sets up f=
or a
separate interest, is a kind of voluntary outlaw, and disincorporates himse=
lf
from mankind.
8. Never think an=
ything
below you which reason and your own circumstances require, and never suffer
yourself to be deterred by the ill-grounded notions of censure and reproach;
but when honesty and conscience prompt you to say or do anything, do it bol=
dly;
never balk your resolution or start at the consequence.
9. If a man does =
me
an injury, what is that to me? It is his own action, and let him account for
it. As for me, I am in my proper station, and only doing the business that
Providence has allotted; and withal, I ought to consider that the best way =
to
revenge, is not to imitate the injury.
10. When you happ=
en
to be ruffled and put out of humour by any cross accident, retire immediate=
ly
into your reason, and do not suffer your passion to overrule you a moment; =
for
the sooner you recover yourself now, the better you will be able to guard
yourself for the future.
11. Do not be like
those ill-natured people that, though they do not love to give a good word =
to
their contemporaries, yet are mighty fond of their own commendations. This
argues a perverse and unjust temper, and often exposes the authors to scorn=
and
contempt.
12. If any one
convinces you of an error, change your opinion and thank him for it: truth =
and
information are your business, and can never hurt anybody. On the contrary,=
he
that is proud and stubborn, and wilfully continues in a mistake, it is he t=
hat
receives the mischief.
13. Because you s=
ee a
thing difficult, do not instantly conclude it to be impossible to master it.
Diligence and industry are seldom defeated. Look, therefore, narrowly into =
the
thing itself, and what you observe proper and practicable in another, concl=
ude
likewise within your own power.
14. The principal
business of human life is run through within the short compass of twenty-fo=
ur hours;
and when you have taken a deliberate view of the present age, you have seen=
as
much as if you had begun with the world, the rest being nothing else but an
endless round of the same thing over and over again.
15. Bring your wi=
ll
to your fate, and suit your mind to your circumstances. Love your friends a=
nd
forgive your enemies, and do justice to all mankind, and you will be secure=
to
make your passage easy, and enjoy most of the comforts human life is capabl=
e to
afford you.
16. When you have=
a
mind to entertain yourself in your retirements, let it be with the good
qualifications of your friends and acquaintance. Think with pleasure and
satisfaction upon the honour and bravery of one, the modesty of another, the
generosity of a third, and so on; there being nothing more pleasant and
diverting than the lively images and the advantages of those we love and
converse with.
17. As nothing can
deprive you of the privileges of your nature, or compel you to act counter =
to
your reason, so nothing can happen to you but what comes from Providence, a=
nd
consists with the interest of the universe.
18. Let people's
tongues and actions be what they will, your business is to have honour and
honesty in your view. Let them rail, revile, censure, and condemn, or make =
you
the subject of their scorn and ridicule, what does it all signify? You have=
one
certain remedy against all their malice and folly, and that is, to live so =
that
nobody shall believe them.
19. Alas, poor
mortals! did we rightly consider our own state and condition, we should fin=
d it
would not be long before we have forgot all the world, and to be even, that=
all
the world will have forgot us likewise.
20. He that would
recommend himself to the public, let him do it by the candour and modesty of
his behaviour, and by a generous indifference to external advantages. Let h=
im
love mankind, and resign to Providence, and then his works will follow him,=
and
his good actions will praise him in the gate.
21. When you hear=
a
discourse, let your understanding, as far as possible, keep pace with it, a=
nd
lead you forward to those things which fall most within the compass of your=
own
observations.
22. When vice and
treachery shall be rewarded, and virtue and ability slighted and
discountenanced; when ministers of state shall rather fear man than God, an=
d to
screen themselves run into parties and factions; when noise and clamour, and
scandalous reports shall carry everything before them, it is natural to
conclude that a nation in such a state of infatuation stands upon the brink=
of
destruction, and without the intervention of some unforeseen accident, must=
be
inevitably ruined.
23. When a prince=
is
guarded by wise and honest men, and when all public officers are sure to be
rewarded if they do well, and punished if they do evil, the consequence is
plain; justice and honesty will flourish, and men will be always contriving,
not for themselves, but for the honour and interest of their king and count=
ry.
24. Wicked men may
sometimes go unpunished in this world, but wicked nations never do; because
this world is the only place of punishment of wicked nations, though not for
private and particular persons.
25. An administra=
tion
that is merely founded upon human policy must be always subject to human
chance; but that which is founded on the divine wisdom can no more miscarry
than the government of heaven. To govern by parties and factions is the adv=
ice
of an atheist, and sets up a government by the spirit of Satan. In such a
government the prince can never be secure under the greatest promises, sinc=
e,
as men's interest changes, so will their duty and affections likewise.
26. It is a very
ancient observation, and a very true one, that people generally despise whe=
re
they flatter, and cringe to those they design to betray; so that truth and
ceremony are, and always will be, two distinct things.
27. When you find
your friend in an error, undeceive him with secrecy and civility, and let h=
im
see his oversight first by hints and glances; and if you cannot convince hi=
m,
leave him with respect, and lay the fault upon your own management.
28. When you are
under the greatest vexations, then consider that human life lasts but for a
moment; and do not forget but that you are like the rest of the world, and
faulty yourself in many instances; and withal, remember that anger and
impatience often prove more mischievous than the provocation.
29. Gentleness and
good humour are invincible, provided they are without hypocrisy and design;
they disarm the most barbarous and savage tempers, and make even malice ash=
amed
of itself.
30. In all the
actions of life let it be your first and principal care to guard against an=
ger
on the one hand, and flattery on the other, for they are both unserviceable
qualities, and do a great deal of mischief in the government of human life.=
31. When a man tu=
rns
knave or libertine, and gives way to fear, jealousy, and fits of the spleen;
when his mind complains of his fortune, and he quits the station in which
Providence has placed him, he acts perfectly counter to humanity, deserts h=
is
own nature, and, as it were, runs away from himself.
32. Be not heavy =
in
business, disturbed in conversation, nor impertinent in your thoughts. Let =
your
judgment be right, your actions friendly, and your mind contented; let them
curse you, threaten you, or despise you; let them go on; they can never inj=
ure
your reason or your virtue, and then all the rest that they can do to you
signifies nothing.
33. The only plea=
sure
of human life is doing the business of the creation; and which way is that =
to
be compassed very easily? Most certainly by the practice of general kindnes=
s,
by rejecting the importunity of our senses, by distinguishing truth from
falsehood, and by contemplating the works of the Almighty.
34. Be sure to mi=
nd
that which lies before you, whether it be thought, word, or action; and nev=
er
postpone an opportunity, or make virtue wait for you till to-morrow.
35. Whatever tends
neither to the improvement of your reason nor the benefit of society, think=
it
below you; and when you have done any considerable service to mankind, do n=
ot
lessen it by your folly in gaping after reputation and requital.
36. When you find
yourself sleepy in a morning, rouse yourself, and consider that you are bor=
n to
business, and that in doing good in your generation, you answer your charac=
ter
and act like a man; whereas sleep and idleness do but degrade you, and sink=
you
down to a brute.
37. A mind that h=
as
nothing of hope, or fear, or aversion, or desire, to weaken and disturb it,=
is
the most impregnable security. Hither we may with safety retire and defy our
enemies; and he that sees not this advantage must be extremely ignorant, an=
d he
that forgets it unhappy.
38. Do not disturb
yourself about the faults of other people, but let everybody's crimes be at
their own door. Have always this great maxim in your remembrance, that to p=
lay
the knave is to rebel against religion; all sorts of injustice being no less
than high treason against Heaven itself.
39. Do not contemn
death, but meet it with a decent and religious fortitude, and look upon it =
as
one of those things which Providence has ordered. If you want a cordial to =
make
the apprehensions of dying go down a little the more easily, consider what =
sort
of world and what sort of company you will part with. To conclude, do but l=
ook
seriously into the world, and there you will see multitudes of people prepa=
ring
for funerals, and mourning for their friends and acquaintances; and look out
again a little afterwards, and you will see others doing the very same thing
for them.
40. In short, men=
are
but poor transitory things. To-day they are busy and harassed with the affa=
irs
of human life; and to-morrow life itself is taken from them, and they are
returned to their original dust and ashes. Part III:
Containing prophe=
tic
observations relating to the affairs of Europe and of Great Britain, more
particularly from 1720 to 1729.
1. In the latter =
end
of 1720, an eminent old lady shall bring forth five sons at a birth; the
youngest shall live and grow up to maturity, but the four eldest shall eith=
er
die in the nursery, or be all carried off by one sudden and unexpected
accident.
2. About this tim=
e a
man with a double head shall arrive in Britain from the south. One of these
heads shall deliver messages of great importance to the governing party, and
the other to the party that is opposite to them. The first shall believe the
monster, but the last shall discover the impostor, and so happily disengage
themselves from a snare that was laid to destroy them and their posterity.
After this the two heads shall unite, and the monster shall appear in his
proper shape.
3. In the year 17=
21,
a philosopher from Lower Germany shall come, first to Amsterdam in Holland,=
and
afterwards to London. He will bring with him a world of curiosities, and am=
ong
them a pretended secret for the transmutation of metals. Under the umbrage =
of
this mighty secret he shall pass upon the world for some time; but at lengt=
h he
shall be detected, and proved to be nothing but an empiric and a cheat, and=
so
forced to sneak off, and leave the people he has deluded, either to bemoan
their loss, or laugh at their own folly. N.B.- This will be the last of his
sect that will ever venture in this part of the world upon the same errand.=
4. In this year g=
reat
endeavours will be used for procuring a general peace, which shall be so ne=
ar a
conclusion that public rejoicings shall be made at the courts of several gr=
eat
potentates upon that account; but just in the critical juncture, a certain
neighbouring prince shall come to a violent death, which shall occasion new=
war
and commotion all over Europe; but these shall continue but for a short tim=
e,
and at last terminate in the utter destruction of the first aggressors.
5. Towards the cl=
ose
of this year of mysteries, a person that was born blind shall have his sight
restored, and shall see ravens perch upon the heads of traitors, among which
the head of a notorious prelate shall stand upon the highest pole.
6. In the year 17=
22,
there shall be a grand congress, and new overtures of peace offered by most=
of
the principal parties concerned in the war, which shall have so good effect
that a cessation of arms shall be agreed upon for six months, which shall be
kept inviolable till a certain general, either through treachery or
inadvertency, shall begin hostilities before the expiration of the term; up=
on
which the injured prince shall draw his sword, and throw the scabbard into =
the
sea, vowing never to return it till he shall obtain satisfaction for himsel=
f,
and done justice to all that were oppressed.
7. At the close of
this year, a famous bridge shall be broken down, and the water that runs un=
der
it shall be tinctured with the blood of two notorious malefactors, whose
unexpected death shall make mighty alterations in the present state of affa=
irs,
and put a stop to the ruin of a nation, which must otherwise have been
unavoidable.
8. 1723 begins wi=
th
plots, conspiracies, and intestine commotions in several countries; nor sha=
ll
Great Britain itself be free from the calamity. These shall continue till a
certain young prince shall take the reins of government into his own hands;=
and
after that, a marriage shall be proposed, and an alliance concluded between=
two
great potentates, who shall join their forces, and endeavour, in good earne=
st,
to set all matters upon a right foundation.
9. This year seve=
ral
cardinals and prelates shall be publicly censured for heretical principles,=
and
shall narrowly escape from being torn to pieces by the common people, who s=
till
look upon them as the grand disturbers of public tranquillity, perfect
incendiaries, and the chief promoters of their former, present, and future
calamities.
10. In 1724-5 the=
re
will be many treaties and negociations, and Great Britain, particularly, wi=
ll
be crowded with foreign ministers and ambassadors from remote princes and
states. Trade and commerce will begin to flourish and revive, and everything
will have a comfortable prospect, until some desperadoes, assisted by a mon=
ster
with many heads, shall start new difficulties, and put the world again into=
a
flame; but these shall be but of short duration.
11. Before the
expiration of 1725, an eagle from the north shall fly directly to the south,
and perch upon the palace of a prince, and first unravel the bloody projects
and designs of a wicked set of people, and then publicly discover the murde=
r of
a great king, and the intended assassination of another greater than he.
12. In 1726, three
princes will be born that will grow up to be men, and inherit the crowns of
three of the greatest monarchies in Europe.
13. About this ti=
me
the pope will die, and after a great many intrigues and struggles, a Spanish
cardinal shall be elected, who shall decline the dignity, and declare his
marriage with a great lady, heiress of one of the chief principalities in
Italy, which may occasion new troubles in Europe, if not timely prevented. =
14. In 1727, new
troubles shall break out in the north, occasioned by the sudden death of a
certain prince, and the avarice and ambition of another. Poor Poland seems =
to
be pointed at; but the princes of the south shall enter into a confederacy =
to
preserve her, and shall at length restore her peace, and prevent the perpet=
ual
ruin of her constitution.
15. Great endeavo=
urs
will be used about this time for a comprehension in religion, supported by
crafty and designing men, and a party of mistaken zealots, which they shall
artfully draw in to join with them; but as the project is ill-concerted, and
will be worse managed, it will come to nothing; and soon afterwards an
effectual mode will be taken to prevent the like attempt for the future.
16. 1728 will be a
year of inquiry and retrospection. Many exorbitant grants will be reassumed,
and several persons who thought themselves secure will be called before the
senate, and compelled to disgorge what they have unjustly pillaged either f=
rom
the crown or the public.
17. About this ti=
me a
new scaffold will be erected upon the confines of a certain great city, whe=
re
an old count of a new extraction, that has been of all parties and true to
none, will be doomed by his peers to make his first appearance. After this =
an
old lady who has often been exposed to danger and disgrace, and sometimes
brought to the very brink of destruction, will be brought to bed of three
daughters at once, which they shall call Plenty, Peace, and Union; and these
three shall live and grow up together, be the glory of their mother, and the
comfort of posterity for many generations.
This is the subst=
ance
of what he either writ or extracted from his papers in the interval between=
the
loss of his speech and the return of his fit, which happened exactly at the
time he had computed.
Upon the approach=
of
his fit, he made signs to be put to bed, which was no sooner done but he was
seized with extreme agonies, which he bore up under with the greatest
steadfastness, and after a severe conflict, that lasted near eight hours, he
expired.
Thus lived and th=
us
died this extraordinary person; a person, though of mean extraction and obs=
cure
life, yet when his character comes to be fully and truly known, it will be =
read
with pleasure, profit, and admiration.
His perfections at
large would be the work of a volume, and inconsistent with the intention of
these papers. I will, therefore, only add, for a conclusion, that he was a =
man
of uncommon thought and judgment, and always kept his appetites and
inclinations within their just limits.
His reason was st=
rong
and manly, his understanding sound and active, and his temper so easy, equa=
l, and
complaisant, that he never fell out, either with men or accidents. He bore =
all
things with the highest affability, and computed justly upon their value and
consequence, and then applied them to their proper uses.
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>A LETTER FROM OXFORD
Sir,
Being informed th=
at
you speedily intend to publish some memoirs relating to our dumb countryman,
Dickory Cronke, I send you herewith a few lines, in the nature of an elegy,
which I leave you to dispose of as you think fit. I knew and admired the ma=
n;
and if I were capable, his character should be the first thing I would atte=
mpt.
Yours. &c.
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>AN ELEGY, IN MEMORY OF
DICKORY CRONKE, THE DUMB PHILOSOPHER.
Vitiis nemo sine
nascitur; optimus ille est, Qui minimus urgetur.--HORACE.
If virtuous actio=
ns
emulation raise, Then this good man deserves immortal praise. When nature s=
uch
extensive wisdom lent, She sure designed him for our precedent. Such great
endowments in a man unknown, Declare the blessings were not all his own; But
rather granted for a time to show What the wise hand of Providence can do. =
In
him we may a bright example see Of nature, justice, and morality; A mind not
subject to the frowns of fate, But calm and easy in a servile state. He alw=
ays
kept a guard upon his will And feared no harm because he knew no ill. A dec=
ent
posture and an humble mien, In every action of his life were seen. Through =
all
the different stages that he went, He still appeared both wise and diligent=
: Firm
to his word, and punctual to his trust, Sagacious, frugal, arable, and just=
. No
gainful views his bounded hopes could sway, No wanton thought led his chaste
soul astray. In short, his thoughts and actions both declare, Nature design=
ed
him her philosopher; That all mankind, by his example taught, Might learn to
live, and manage every thought. Oh! could my muse the wondrous subject grac=
e, And,
from his youth, his virtuous actions trace; Could I in just and equal numbe=
rs
tell How well he lived, and how devoutly fell, I boldly might your strict
attention claim, And bid you learn, and copy out the man.
J. P. Exeter Coll=
ege,
August 25th, 1719. Epitaph:
The occasion of t=
his
epitaph was briefly thus:- A gentleman, who had heard much in commendation =
of
this dumb man, going accidentally to the churchyard where he was buried, and
finding his grave without a tombstone, or any manner of memorandum of his
death, he pulled out his pencil, and writ as follows:-
<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>PAUPER UBIQUE JACET.
Near to this lone=
ly
unfrequented place, Mixed with the common dust, neglected lies The man that
every muse should strive to grace, And all the world should for his virtue
prize. Stop, gentle passenger, and drop a tear, Truth, justice, wisdom, all=
lie
buried here.
What, though he w=
ants
a monumental stone, The common pomp of every fool or knave, Those virtues w=
hich
through all his actions shone Proclaim his worth, and praise him in the gra=
ve. His
merits will a bright example give, Which shall both time and envy too outli=
ve.
Oh, had I power b=
ut
equal to my mind, A decent tomb should soon this place adorn, With this
inscription: Lo, here lies confined A wondrous man, although obscurely born=
; A
man, though dumb, yet he was nature's care, Who marked him out her own
philosopher.