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Dickory Cronke
By
Daniel Defoe
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Preface:
The formality of a preface to this little book might have been very well
omitted, if it were not 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 impartial 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 whence 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 only 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 what 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
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altered, and now and then a word thrown in to help the expression, yet
strict care has been taken to speak 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 vindication 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 could be persuaded to look upon him
with candour and impartiality, and then to copy after him, the editor has
gained his end, and would think himself sufficiently recompensed for his
present trouble.
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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 the public.
Dickory Cronke, the 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 which 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 time. Our Dickory was the youngest, and
being but a sickly child, had always a double 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 that he had his hearing, and all his other senses to the
greatest perfection, her grief began to abate, and she resolved to have him
brought up as well as their circumstances and his capacity would permit.
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As he grew, notwithstanding his want of speech, he every day gave some
instance of a ready genius, and a genius much superior to the country
children, insomuch that several gentlemen in the neighbourhood took
particular notice of him, and would 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 scandalous it was for a young man of his age and circumstances
to live idle at home, and 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 tender constitution, and often sick, he soon perceived that sort of
business was too hard for him, so was forced to return home and continue
in his former station; upon which he grew exceeding melancholy, which his
mother observing, she comforted him in the best manner she could, telling
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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 assurance 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 should 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 Parry, 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 much 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 would 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
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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, where Dickory, notwithstanding his dumbness, behaved himself with
so much diligence and affability, that he not only gained the love of the
family where he lived, 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 family, 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 was to retire with some good book into a private
place within call, and there employ himself in reading, and then writing
down his observations upon what he read.
After the death of his master, whose loss afflicted him to the last degree, one
Mrs. Mary Mordant, 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, she died likewise.
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Upon the loss of his mistress, Dickory grew again exceeding melancholy and
disconsolate; at length, 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 return to his native country, and there finish his life in
privacy and retirement.
Having been, as has been mentioned, about twenty-four years a servant,
and having, in the interim, 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 prudent 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 have 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 him, unless he sometimes lent it to a friend without interest,
for he had a mortal hatred to all sorts of usury or extortion. His books, of
which he had a considerable quantity, and some of them very good ones,
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together with his other 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 thither, 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 dead, and that she was a widow, and lived at a little
town called St. Helen's, about 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 under 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 and he met, and how transported they were to see each other
after so long an interval, I think is not very material. It is enough for the
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present purpose that Dickory 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 could 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 upon 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 part of it.
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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, for 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 little bread boiled in it, of which in the
morning, after his walk, he would eat the quantity of a pint, and sometimes
more. Dinners he never eat any; and at night he would only have a pretty
large piece of bread, and drink a draught of good 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 never 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 way 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, would 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
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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 methods 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 sagacity. 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 speak of the manner of his death and the consequences
thereof, which are, indeed, very surprising, and, perhaps, not altogether
unworthy a general observation. 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 out 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, for more than fourteen hours.
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His sister, who knew 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 happened 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 going 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, who had all night been under the most dreadful
apprehensions, was now frightened and confounded to the last degree.
However, recollecting herself, and finding 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
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his hands and face, and observing 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, which 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 able to look up, and to make a sign to his sister to
bring him a cup of water.
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 observing him to look earnestly upon the company, as if he had
something extraordinary 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:-
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"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 thoughts 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 mightily 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 bedside, and, asking softly if he wanted anything, he turned
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about to her and spoke to this effect: Dear sister, you see me not only
recovered out of a terrible fit, 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 impartially 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 and deliberately consider this, and you will find,
upon the whole, that three days 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 speech will be again taken from me, and, in a
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short time, my fit will return; and the next day, which I understand is the
day on which I came into this troublesome 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 would 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 things in my mind, says he, that
require a speedy and serious consideration. The time 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 to 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; why, 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 have 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
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account for them, and vindicate them against the supposition of falsity and
mere suggestion.
Upon this, his sister 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 deficient in several particulars, yet I bless God I
cannot find I have any just grounds 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 persons, not only under the apprehension, but even in
the very agonies of death itself, 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 take 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 bring 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 burnt. The good woman seemed at first to oppose
the burning of his papers, till he told her they were only useless trifles, some
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unfinished observations which he had made in his youthful days, and were
not fit to be seen by her, or anybody 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 had 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
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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 ready 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 that 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 indifferent 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 duties of religion, and the respective functions of reason and
prudence.
Always go the nearest way to work. Now, the nearest way through all the
business of human life, are 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 sometimes 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 diligence. A wise man spends every day as if it were his
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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 that 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 remembered 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 that he had formerly seen at Mr. Parry's a dumb man,
whom they used to call the dumb philosopher, so concludes immediately
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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 the future they mutually managed with
the greatest exactness and familiarity.
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 mind 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 worship.
"Dear sister," says he, "you observe very well, and I wish the continuance 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 that
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
principles, 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 short directions relating to his burial, but his speech left him;
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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 the opportunity to speak to her and her friends what he
intended, he would leave it for them in writing, and so desired he might not
be disturbed till the return of his fit, which he expected in six hours at
farthest. According to his desire they all left him, and then, with the greatest
resignation imaginable, he wrote down the meditations following:
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Part II
An Abstract of his Faith, and the Principles of his Religion &c., which begins
thus:
Dear Sister; I thank 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 under some reflections upon that account, and therefore I think it
highly requisite 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.
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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 prince of the creation, by his disobedience in
Paradise, forfeited his innocence and the dignity of his nature, and
subjected himself and all his posterity to sin and misery.
3. I believe and am fully and entirely satisfied, that God the Father, out of
his infinite goodness and compassion to mankind, was pleased to send his
only Son, the second person 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 pleased 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, and 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.
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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 that 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 every age, from the beginning of the Christian religion to
this day, and it is upon 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 out 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 principles 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.
27
The Church of England is doubtless the great bulwark of the ancient
Catholic or Apostolic faith all over the world; a church that has all the
spiritual advantages that the nature 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 satisfaction 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 of my attendance at the public
worship, I refer you to my papers, which I have left with my worthy friend,
Mr. Barlow. And thus, my dear sister, I have given you 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 retirement to St.
Helen's.
Meditations and Observations relating to the Conduct of Human Life in
general.
1. Remember how often 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
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management of the affairs of human life; and then reflect seriously that,
unless you resolve immediately to improve the little remains, the whole must
necessarily slip away insensibly, and then you are lost beyond recovery.
2. Let an unaffected gravity, freedom, justice, and sincerity shine through all
your actions, and let no fancies and chimeras give the least check to those
excellent qualities. 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-love 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 him 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.
29
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 confines his inspections to himself, and only takes care of
honesty and a good conscience.
6. If you would live 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 absolutely necessary. By this rule you will draw the bulk of your
business into a narrow compass, and have the double pleasure of making
your actions good, and few into the bargain.
7. He that torments himself because things do not happen just as he would
have them, is but a sort of ulcer in the world; and he that is selfish, narrow-
souled, and sets up for a separate interest, is a kind of voluntary outlaw,
and disincorporates himself from mankind.
8. Never think anything 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
30
conscience prompt you to say or do anything, do it boldly; 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 happen to be ruffled and put out of humour by any cross
accident, retire immediately 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 that receives the mischief.
31
13. Because you see 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, conclude likewise within your own power.
14. The principal business of human life is run through within the short
compass of twenty-four 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 will to your fate, and suit your mind to your circumstances.
Love your friends and 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 capable 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
32
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, and 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 find 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 him love mankind, and resign to Providence, and
then his works will follow him, and his good actions will praise him in the
gate.
33
21. When you hear a discourse, let your understanding, as far as possible,
keep pace with it, and 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, and 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 country.
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.
34
25. An administration 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 advice 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, since, 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 where 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 him see his oversight first by hints and glances; and if you
cannot convince him, 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
35
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 ashamed of itself.
30. In all the actions of life let it be your first and principal care to guard
against anger 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 turns 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 his 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 injure your reason or your virtue, and then all the rest
that they can do to you signifies nothing.
36
33. The only pleasure 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 kindness, by rejecting the importunity of our senses, by
distinguishing truth from falsehood, and by contemplating the works of the
Almighty.
34. Be sure to mind that which lies before you, whether it be thought, word,
or action; and never 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 not 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 born to business, and that in doing good in your
generation, you answer your character and act like a man; whereas sleep
and idleness do but degrade you, and sink you down to a brute.
37
37. A mind that has 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, and 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 play 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 look seriously into the world, and there you will
see multitudes of people preparing 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 affairs of human life; and to-morrow life itself is taken
from them, and they are returned to their original dust and ashes.
38
Part III:
Containing prophetic 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 either die in the nursery, or be all carried off by one sudden and
unexpected accident.
2. About this time 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 1721, 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 among them a pretended secret for the
39
transmutation of metals. Under the umbrage of this mighty secret he shall
pass upon the world for some time; but at length 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 great endeavours will be used for procuring a general peace,
which shall be so near a conclusion that public rejoicings shall be made at
the courts of several great 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 time, and at last terminate in the utter
destruction of the first aggressors.
5. Towards the close 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 1722, 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
40
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; upon 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 himself, 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 under it shall be tinctured with the blood of two notorious
malefactors, whose unexpected death shall make mighty alterations in the
present state of affairs, and put a stop to the ruin of a nation, which must
otherwise have been unavoidable.
8. 1723 begins with plots, conspiracies, and intestine commotions in several
countries; nor shall 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 earnest, to set all matters upon a right foundation.
9. This year several cardinals and prelates shall be publicly censured for
heretical principles, and shall narrowly escape from being torn to pieces by
the common people, who still look upon them as the grand disturbers of
41
public tranquillity, perfect incendiaries, and the chief promoters of their
former, present, and future calamities.
10. In 1724-5 there will be many treaties and negociations, and Great
Britain, particularly, will 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 monster 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 murder 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 time the pope will die, and after a great many intrigues and
struggles, a Spanish cardinal shall be elected, who shall decline the dignity,
42
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 perpetual ruin of her constitution.
15. Great endeavours 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 from the crown or the public.
43
17. About this time a new scaffold will be erected upon the confines of a
certain great city, where 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 substance 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 thus died this extraordinary person; a person, though of
mean extraction and obscure life, yet when his character comes to be fully
and truly known, it will be read with pleasure, profit, and admiration.
44
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 strong and manly, his understanding sound and active, and
his temper so easy, equal, 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.
45
A LETTER FROM OXFORD
Sir,
Being informed that 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 man; and if I were capable, his character should be
the first thing I would attempt.
Yours. &c.
AN ELEGY,
IN MEMORY OF DICKORY CRONKE,
THE DUMB PHILOSOPHER.
Vitiis nemo sine nascitur; optimus ille est,
Qui minimus urgetur.--HORACE.
46
If virtuous actions emulation raise,
Then this good man deserves immortal praise.
When nature such 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 always kept a guard upon his will
And feared no harm because he knew no ill.
A decent posture and an humble mien,
In every action of his life were seen.
Through all the different stages that he went,
47
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 designed 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 grace,
And, from his youth, his virtuous actions trace;
Could I in just and equal numbers 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 College, August 25th, 1719.
48
Epitaph:
The occasion of this 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:-
PAUPER UBIQUE JACET.
Near to this lonely 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 wants a monumental stone,
49
The common pomp of every fool or knave,
Those virtues which through all his actions shone
Proclaim his worth, and praise him in the grave.
His merits will a bright example give,
Which shall both time and envy too outlive.
Oh, had I power but 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.