SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE RALPH ALLEN, ESQ. OF PRIOR-PARK.

SI NOBIS ANIMVM BONI VIRI LICERET INSPICERE, O QVAM PVLCHRAM FACIEM, QVAM SANCTAM, QVAM EX MAGNIFICO PLACIDOQVE FVLGENTEM VIDEREMVS! NEMO ILLVM AMABILEM, QVI NON SIMVL VENERABILEM, DICERET.

Seneca. 10 11

CONTENTS.

13

CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

14 15

PREFACE, ON THE MANNER OF WRITING DIALOGUE.

16 17

PREFACE, ON THE MANNER OF WRITING DIALOGUE.

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

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

I. In an age, like this, when most men seem ambitious of turning writers, many persons may think it strange that the kind of composition, which 18 was chiefly in use among the masters of this numerous and stirring family, hath been hitherto neglected.

When the ANCIENTS had any thing—

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

Thus the modern critic, with much complacency and even gayety—But I resume the sentence I set out with, and observe, “When the ancients had any thing to say to the world on the subject either of morals or government, they generally chose the 19 way of Dialogue, for the conveyance of their instructions; as supposing they might chance to gain a readier acceptance in this agreeable form, than any other.”

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

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

Nobody, I suppose, objects to this practice, when important truths indeed are to be taught, and when the abilities of the Teacher are such as may command respect. But the case is different, when writers presume to try their hands upon us, without these advantages. Nay, and even with them, it can do no hurt, when the subject is proper for familiar 20 discourse, to throw it into this gracious and popular form.

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

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

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

And, when afterwards Cicero, our other great master of Dialogue, introduced this sort of writing into Rome, we know that, besides his profession of the Academic Sect, now extended and indeed outraged into absolute scepticism, the very purpose he had in philosophizing, and the rhetorical uses to which he put his Philosophy, would determine him very naturally to the same practice. 21

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

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

But for us to follow our masters in this licence would be, indeed, to deserve the objected charge of servile Imitators; since the reasons, that led them into it, do not subsist in our case. They disputed every thing, because they believed nothing. We should forbear to dispute some things, because they are such as both for their sacredness, and certainty, no man in his senses affects to disbelieve. At least, the Stoic Balbus may teach us a decent reserve in one instance, Since, as he observes, it is a wicked and impious custom to dispute against the Being, Attributes, and Providence of God, whether it be under an assumed character, or in one’s own1.

Thus much I have thought fit to say, to prevent mistakes, and to shew of what kind the subjects are 22 which may be allowed to enter into modern Dialogue. They are only such, as are either, in the strict sense of the word, not important, and yet afford an ingenuous pleasure in the discussion of them; or not so important as to exclude the sceptical inconclusive air, which the decorum of polite dialogue necessarily demands.

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

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

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

For, when every other species of composition has been tried, and men are grown so fastidious as to 23 receive with indifference the best modern productions, on account of the too common form, into which they are cast, it may seem an attempt of some merit to revive the only one, almost, of the ancient models, which hath not yet been made cheap by vulgar imitation.

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

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

We have what are called Dialogues in abundance; and the authors, for any thing I know, might please themselves with imagining, they had copied Plato or Cicero. But in our language at least (and, if I extended the observation to the other modern ones of most estimation, I should perhaps do them no 24 wrong) I know of nothing in the way of Dialogue that deserves to be considered by us with such regard.

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

The Dialogues I mean are, The Moralists of Lord Shaftesbury; Mr. Addison’s Treatise on Medals; and the Minute Philosopher of Bishop Berkeley: and, where is the modesty, it will be said, to attempt the Dialogue-form, if it has not succeeded in such hands?

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

An essential defect runs through them all. They have taken for their speakers, not real, but fictitious 25 characters; contrary to the practice of the old writers; and to the infinite disadvantage of this mode of writing in every respect.

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

Hence the probabilities, or, what is called the decorum, of this composition. We ask, “Who the persons are, that are going to converse before us?” “where and when the conversation passed?” and “by what means the company came together?” If we are let into none of these particulars, or, rather 26 if a way be not found to satisfy us in all of them, we take no interest in what remains; and give the speakers, who in this case are but a sort of Puppets, no more credit, than the opinion we chance to entertain of their Prompter demands from us.

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

“This way of discourse,” says he, “which turns on the authority of real persons, and those the most eminent of former times, is, I know not how, more interesting than any other: in so much that in reading my own Dialogue on old age, I am sometimes ready to conclude, in good earnest, it is not I, but Cato himself, who is there speaking2.”

So complete a deception, as this, requires the hand of a master. But such Cicero was; and had 27 it been his design to make the highest encomium of his own Dialogues, he could not, perhaps, have done it so well by any other circumstance.

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

And here, again, Cicero may instruct us; who was so scrupulous on this head that he would not put his discourse on old age into the mouth of Tithonus, although a Greek writer of name had set him the example, because, as he observes, a fabulous person would have had no great authority3. What then would he have said of merely fancied and ideal persons, who have not so much as that shadowy existence, which the plausibility of a current tale bestows?

When I say that character is but a secondary consideration in Dialogue, the reader sees I confine myself to that species only, which was in use among 28 the ancients, properly so called; and of which Plato and Cicero have left us the best models.

It is true, in later times, a great wit took upon him to extend the province of Dialogue, and, like another Prometheus4, (as, by an equivocal sort of compliment, it seems, was observed of him) created a new species; the merit of which consists in associating two things, not naturally allied together, The severity of Philosophic Dialogue, with the humour of the Comic.

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

It must further be confessed, that this innovation of the Greek writer had some countenance from the genius of the old Socratic Dialogue; such I mean as it was in the hands of Socrates himself5; who took his name of Ironist from the continued humour and ridicule which runs through his moral discourses. But, besides that the Athenian’s modest 29 Irony was of another taste, and better suited to this decorum of conversation, than the Syrian’s frontless buffoonery, there was this further difference in the two cases. Socrates employed this method of ridicule, as the only one by which he could hope to discredit those mortal foes of reason, the Sophists: Lucian, in mere wantonness, to insult its best friends, the Philosophers, and even the parent of Philosophy, himself. The Sage would have dropped his Irony, in the company of the good and wise: The Rhetorician is never more pleased than in confounding both, by his intemperate Satire.

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

In a word, as it was taken up, to serve an occasion, so it was very properly laid aside with it. And even while the occasion lasted, this humorous manner was far enough, as I observed, from being pushed to a Scenic license; the great artists in this way knowing very well, that, when Socrates brought 30 Philosophy from Heaven to Earth, it was not his purpose to expose her on the stage, but to introduce her into good company.

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

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

The account, given above, that it unites and incorporates the several virtues of the Comic and Philosophic manner, is in Lucian’s own words6. Yet his Dialogue does not, as indeed it could not, 31 correspond exactly to this idea. Cicero thought it no easy matter to unite Philosophy with Politeness and Good-humour7; what then would he have said of incorporating Philosophy, with Comic Ridicule?

To do him justice, Lucian himself appears sensible enough of the difficulty. I have presumed, says he, to connect and put together two things, not very obsequious to my design, nor disposed by any natural sympathy to bear the society of each other8. And therefore we find him on all occasions more solicitous for the success of this hazardous enterprise, than for the credit of his invention. Every body was ready to acknowledge the novelty of the thing; but he had some reason to doubt with himself, whether it were gazed at as a monster, or admired as a just and reasonable form of composition. So that not being able to resolve this scruple to his satisfaction, he extricates himself, as usual, from the perplexity, by the force of his comic humour, and concludes at length, that he had nothing left for it but to persevere in the choice he had once made; that is, to preserve the credit of his own consistency at least, if he could 32 not prevail to have his Dialogue accepted by the judicious reader, under the idea9 of a consistent composition.

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

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

But after all, the other species, the serious, philosophic Dialogue, is the noblest and the best. It 33 is the noblest, in all views; for the dignity of its subject, the gravity of its manner, and the importance of its end. It is the best, too; I mean, it excels most in the very truth and art of composition; as it governs itself entirely by the rules of decorum, and gives a just and faithful image of what it would represent: whereas the comic Dialogue, distorting, or, at least, aggravating the features of its original, pleases at some expence of probability; and at length attains its end but in part, for want of dramatic action, the only medium through which humour can be perfectly conveyed.

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

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

But to return to our proper subject, the serious or philosophic Dialogue.