There are other fragments of that heathen poet, which occur on such occasions; one in the first of his satires, the other in the last of his epistles, which seem to represent life only as a season of luxury:

66

-Exacto contentus tempore vitæ
Cedat uti conviva satur-

Lusisti satus, edisti satis atque bibisti;
Tempus abire tibi."

Which may be thus put into English:

"Life 's but a feast: and when we die,
Horace would say, if he were by,
Friend, thou hast eat and drank enough,
"T is time now to be marching off:
Then like a well-fed guest depart,
With cheerful looks and ease at heart,
Bid all your friends good-night, and say
You've done the business of the day."

[From the Pennsylvania Gazette, June 23, 1730.]
DIALOGUE I.

BETWEEN PHILOCLES AND HORATIO, MEETING ACCIDENTALLY IN THE
FIELDS, CONCERNING VIRTUE AND PLEASURE.

Philocles. My friend Horatio! I am very glad to see you; prithee how came such a man as you alone? and musing too? What misfortune in your pleasures has sent you to philosophy for relief?

Horatio. You guess very right, my dear Philocles: we pleasure-hunters are never without them; and yet, so enchanting is the game, we cannot quit the chase. How calm and undisturbed is your life, how free from present embarrassments and future cares! I know you love me, and look with compassion upon my conduct show me, then, the path which leads up to that constant and invariable good, which I have heard you so beautifully describe, and which you seem so fully to possess.

Phil. There are few men in the world I value more than you, Horatio; for, amidst all your foibles, and painful pursuits of pleasure, I have oft observed in you an honest heart, and a mind strongly bent towards virtue. I wish, from my soul, I could assist you in acting steadily the part of a reasonable creature: for, if you would not think it a paradox, I should tell I love you better than you do yourself.

you

Hor. A paradox, indeed! Better than I do myself! when I love my dear self so well, that I love everything else for my own sake.

Phil. He only loves himself well who rightly and judiciously loves himself.

Hor. What do you mean by that, Philocles? You men of reason and virtue are always dealing in mysteries, though you laugh at them when the church makes them. I think he loves himself very well, and very judiciously too, as you call it, who allows himself to do whatever he pleases.

Phil. What! though it be to the ruin and destruction of that very self which he loves so well? That man alone loves himself rightly who procures the greatest possible good to himself through the whole of his existence, and so pursues pleasure as not to give for it more than it is worth.

Hor. That depends all upon opinion. Who shall judge what the pleasure is worth? Suppose a pleasing form of the fair kind strikes me so much that I can enjoy nothing without the enjoyment of that one object? Or, that pleasure in general is so favorite a mistress, that I will take her as men do their wives, for better, for worse, minding no consequences, nor regarding what is to come? Why should I not do it?

Phil. Suppose, Horatio, that a friend of yours entered into the world, about two-and-twenty, with a healthful, vigorous body, and a fair, plentiful estate of about five hundred pounds a year; and yet, before he had reached thirty, should, by following his pleasures, and not, as you say, duly regarding consequences, have run out of his estate, and disabled his body to that degree that he had neither the means nor capacity of enjoyment left, nor anything else to do but wisely shoot himself through the head to be at rest, what would you say to this unfortunate man's conduct? Is it wrong by opinion or fancy only, or is there really a right and wrong in the case? Is not one opinion of life and action juster than another, or one sort of conduct preferable to another? Or, does that miserable son of pleasure appear as reasonable and lovely a being, in your eyes, as a man who, by prudently and rightly gratifying his natural passions, had preserved his body in full health, and his estate entire, and enjoyed both to a good old age, and then died with a thankful heart for the good things he had received, and with an entire submission to the will of Him who first called him into being? Say, Horatio! are these men equally wise and happy? And is everything to be measured by mere fancy and opinion, without considering whether that fancy or opinion be right?

Hor. Hardly so, neither, I think; yet sure the wise and good Author of nature could never make us to plague us. He could never give us passions, on purpose to subdue and conquer them; or produce this self of mine, or any other self, only that it may be denied; for that is denying the works of the great Creator himself. Self-denial, then, which is what I suppose you mean by prudence, seems to me not only absurd, but very dishonorable to that supreme wisdom and goodness which is supposed to make so ridiculous and contradictory a creature, that must be always fighting with himself in order to be at rest, and undergo voluntary hardships in order to be happy. Are we created sick, only to be commanded to be sound? Are we born under one law, our passions, and yet bound to another, that of reason? Answer me, Philocles, for I am warmly concerned for the honor of nature, the mother of us all.

Phil. I find, Horatio, my two characters have frighted you; so that you decline the trial of what is good by reason, and had rather make a bold attack upon Providence; the usual way of you gentlemen of fashion, who, when, by living in defiance of the eternal rules of reason, you have plunged yourself into a thousand difficulties, endeavor to make yourselves easy by throwing the burden upon nature. You are, Horatio, in a very miserable condition indeed; for you say you cannot be happy if you control your passions, and you feel yourself miserable by an unrestrained gratification of them; so that here is evil, irremediable evil, either way.

Hor. That is very true, at least, it appears so to me. Pray what have you to say, Philocles, in honor of nature or Providence? Methinks, I am in pain for her; how do you rescue her? poor lady!

Phil. This, my dear Horatio, I have to say: that what you find fault with and clamor against as the most terrible evil in the world, self-denial, is really the greatest good, and the highest self-gratification. If indeed you use the word in the sense of some weak, sour moralists, and much weaker divines, you will have just reason to laugh at it; but, if you take it as understood by philosophers, and men of sense, you will presently see her charms, and fly to her embraces, notwithstanding her demure looks, as absolutely necessary to produce even your own darling sole good, pleasure; for self-denial is never a duty, or a reasonable action, but as it is a natural means of procuring more pleasure than you can taste without it; so that this grave, saint-like guide to happiness, as rough and dreadful as she has been made

to appear, is in truth the kindest and most beautiful mistress in the world.

Hor. Prithee, Philocles, do not wrap yourself in allegory and metaphor: why do you tease me thus? I long to be satisfied what is this philosophical self-denial- the necessity and reason of it; I am impatient, and all on fire. Explain, therefore, in your beautiful, natural, easy way of reasoning, what I am to understand by this grave lady of yours, with so forbidding, downcast looks, and yet so absolutely necessary to my pleasures. I stand ready to embrace her; for, you know, pleasure I court under all shapes and forms.

Phil. Attend, then, and you will see the reason of this philosophical self-denial. There can be no absolute perfection in any creature, because every creature is derived from something of a superior existence, and dependent on that source for its own existence; no created being can be all-wise, all-good, and allpowerful, because his powers and capacities are finite and limited; consequently, whatever is created must, in its own nature, be subject to error, irregularity, excess, and imperfectness. All intelligent rational agents find in themselves a power of judging what kind of beings they are, what actions are proper to preserve them, and what consequences will generally attend them; what pleasures they are formed for, and to what degree their natures are capable of receiving them. All we have to do, then, Horatio, is to consider, when we are surprised with a new object, and passionately desire to enjoy it, whether the gratifying that passion be consistent with the gratifying other passion and appetites, equal, if not more necessary to us. And whether it consists with our happiness to-morrow, next week, or next year; for, as we all wish to live, we are obliged, by reason, to take as much care for our future as our present happiness, and not build one upon the ruins of the other; but, if through the strength and power of a present passion, and through want of attending to consequences, we have erred and exceeded the bounds which nature or reason have set us, we are then, for our own sakes, to refrain or deny ourselves a present momentary pleasure, for a future constant and durable one; so that this philosophical self-denial is only refusing to do an action which you strongly desire, because it is inconsistent with your health, convenience, or circumstances in the world; or, in other words, because it would cost you more than it was worth. You would lose by it, as a man of pleasure. Thus you see, Horatio, that self-denial is not only the most reasonable, but the most pleasant thing in the world.

Hor. We are just coming into town, so that we cannot pursue this argument any further at present. You have said a great deal for Nature, Providence and Reason: happy are they who can follow such divine guides!

Phil. Horatio, good-night: I wish you wise in your pleasures. Hor. I wish, Philocles, I could be as wise in my pleasures as you are pleasantly wise. Your wisdom is agreeable, your virtue is amiable, and your philosophy the highest luxury. Adieu, thou enchanting reasoner!

[From the Pennsylvania Gazette, July 9, 1730.]

DIALOGUE II.

BETWEEN PHILOCLES AND HORATIO, CONCERNING VIRTUE AND PLEASURE.

Philocles. Dear Horatio, where hast thou been, these three or four months? What new adventures have you fallen upon since I met you in these delightful, all-inspiring fields, and wondered how such a pleasure-hunter as you could bear being alone?

Horatio. O, Philocles! thou best of friends, because a friend to reason and virtue! I am very glad to see you: do not you remember I told you then that some misfortunes in my pleasures had sent me to philosophy for relief? But now, I do assure you, I can, without a sigh, leave other pleasures for those of philosophy: I can hear the word reason mentioned, and virtue praised, without laughing. Do not I bid fair for conversion, think you?

Phil. Very fair, Horatio; for I remember the time when reason, virtue and pleasure, were the same thing with you: when you counted nothing good but what pleased, nor any thing reasonable but what you gained by; when you made a jest of a mind, and the pleasures of reflection; and elegantly placed your sole happiness, like the rest of the animal creation, in the gratification of sense.

Hor. I did so; but, in our last conversation, when walking upon the brow of this hill, and looking down on that broad, rapid river, and yon widely-extended, beautifully-varied plain, you taught me another doctrine: you showed me that self-denial, which above all things I abhorred, was really the greatest good, and the highest self-gratification, and absolutely necessary to produce even my own darling sole good, Pleasure.

Phil. True: I told you that self-denial was never a duty but