Translated from a Greek manuscript lately discovered.

A LETTER FROM THRASICLES OF MILETUS TO RHODIUS OF ATHENS.

You must remember, Rhodius, that when I last visited you at Athens we fell into a dispute about the danger of truth, which was occasioned by my advising you to erase certain passages from the book you intend to publish, as being adverse to the general opinion, and against your own peace. You would by no means allow this confiscation; but defended the passages in question with all the fidelity of an author. Hence ensued a controversy between us, whether truth could ever be mischievous, in which, by your arguments against my notions, you fully convinced me that I was right, and I believe I had the same success with you. I have since been engaged in some adventures, which have pursued and decided our dispute in a remarkable manner, and I shall therefore write you a brief account of what has happened. You will probably mistake my narrative for a fiction; but whenever you visit Miletus you may satisfy yourself, from the inhabitants, that the singular events which I shall relate have really happened.

I was one day wandering alone in a wood, and had insensibly penetrated into the thickest, and most remote part of it, when I suddenly perceived myself at the very brink and danger of an opening in the earth, which I found was a well, and looking cautiously down, I saw a glimmering from the surface of water. I was leaving the place when I heard a human voice, weak by the depth, but earnestly calling for aid, the person who spoke having caught sight of me as I leaned over. I called down the well to ask what unfortunate being was below, and by what accident, though I have since thought that this inquiry into the particular method of descent was not the measure that I ought first to have used for the prisoner's release. The voice answered, that the person below was the goddess Truth, who for some centuries had been hidden and useless in that well, and entreated me to assist in her escape. It would commonly be a natural and just caution to disbelieve any person casually met, who should undertake to be Truth, but there was something more than human in this voice, which instantly convinced me: I forgot my fears of this goddess, and eagerly desired her freedom, which by ropes from a neighbouring cottage I soon contrived.

I now saw before me the real person of Truth; and if I had before doubted her divinity, the first sight of her would have persuaded me. It is impossible to describe the beauty and contemplation of her countenance. I had seen her picture by Apelles, which is so beautiful, that I had always thought it must exactly resemble her; but I now found it altogether erroneous, which, perhaps, may be from his having painted without seeing her: for while she has been buried in her well both painters and philosophers have been describing her with as much confidence as if they had been in daily intercourse with her. She thanked me for her release; and I ventured to ask why she had chosen so singular a residence, which, I conceived, would afford her no advantage for instructing mankind. She condescended to give me a short history of herself, saying that she was the daughter of Thought, the oldest of the gods, by a mother of earthly race, whose name was Experience. She had a half sister named Falsehood, from the same father, but of an unknown mother. This sister was so like her in appearance, that they were perpetually mistaken for each other; but their disposition and character were very different, she herself being thoughtful, cautious, and sincere, her sister, volatile, talkative, and deceitful. She had been sent to take possession of this earth, which she was to govern; but her sister had immediately followed her into her new dominions, under pretence of a friendly visit, and here, by her busy nature and plausible arts, she had soon usurped the whole authority. It being found, therefore, that Truth was incapable of command by her own merit, two instruments of government had been sent her from Heaven. These were a torch and a mirror, which she held in her hands when she rose out of the well. It was thought that she would be able to establish her power by these gifts, which were endued with wonderful virtue and discovery. But before she had begun to employ her new arms, having caught sight of her treacherous sister in that wood, she had so eagerly pursued her for reproach and triumph, that she had not seen the well, but fallen into it, and heard the laughter of her sister as she disappeared. I told her it had been affirmed by the philosopher Democritus that she lived in a well but I had supposed this to be a mere fable and allegory. To this she answered, that Democritus, like myself, had discovered her by accident: she had called to him, informed him who she was, and implored freedom, upon which he had endeavoured to negotiate with her, and bargain, that if released she should confirm his particular philosophy, and explode all other doctrines. She asked what were the tenets that he expected her to enforce; in answer to which he had begun to scream forth the heads of his creed. She interrupted him in this erudition, which with a great exertion of voice he was conveying down the well: she assured him that these were chiefly deceptions of her sister, and promised, at being set free, to teach him better things. It appeared, however, that he did not desire her to instruct him, but to ratify the doctrines that he had published; and finding her resolved not to become his accomplice, he had left her, first declaring that he should carefully surround the well with thorns, against the discovery of others. Since that time, a few other philosophers had come by accident to the mouth of her well, but all had refused her freedom, some like Democritus wanting to make conditions in favour of their own fancies, and others telling her that they were frightened by the very sound of her voice, that, if let loose, she would be the most pernicious being, and that the bottom of a well was the only post in which she could do no mischief. Since, however, she was at last free, she declared that she should immediately begin to put in force the arms that had been sent her, and hoped soon to gain by them her just authority. I entreated, that as a reward for my assistance she would make my native city the place of her first revelation. To this she consented, and we approached Miletus. Before we entered the town, the goddess said that her torch must be lit, since it was to be a principal instrument in undeceiving mankind. She breathed upon it, when instantly it broke into a flame, and it is impossible to describe the beauty and rapture from its light. The sudden brightness betrayed the rival sister, Falsehood, who happened then to be very near us, and invisible by her art; but she had no concealment against the torch, and now stood manifest before her offended sister. As they were now together, I could easily distinguish the superiority of Truth; but they were so much alike, that I thought had I seen only one I could not have pronounced with any certainty which of them it was. Truth walked angrily up to her sister; and a conversation ensued, which I will relate as nearly as I can remember the words.

TRUTH.

I wonder at the insolence with which you confront me.

FALSEHOOD.

Will you tell me what behaviour I ought to assume in your presence?

TRUTH.

My surprise is, that you should have the courage to meet one whom you have so basely injured.

FALSEHOOD.

What wrong can you accuse me of?

TRUTH.

That you are found amongst mankind is a sufficient proof of my wrongs. This world was bestowed upon me, and I originally occupied it, but you have supplanted me, called yourself by my name, and governed in my place.

FALSEHOOD.

Now it appears to me that your inability to keep your place amongst men is a proof that you have no such title to the world as you pretend. The wise men of every age have been engaged in seeking you, but in vain. You persist in remaining out of sight, and complain that you are not known and honoured. It is true that for some time past your situation, the bottom of a well, has not been very favourable for teaching the world; but before you made that singular choice of a home you were as much neglected and as little known as now.

TRUTH.

I am unknown, because you offer yourself to those who seek me, and call yourself by my name.

FALSEHOOD.

Am I to blame for proving the more attractive of the two? But you seem to affirm that you alone are entitled to live, and that I ought not to be in the universe.

TRUTH.

The universe would be much more prosperous without you.

FALSEHOOD.

I contend, on the contrary, that from me proceeds almost every thing that is valuable or useful to mankind.

TRUTH.

Indeed! I wish you would name some of the blessings which you bestow upon the world.

FALSEHOOD.

I will do so: my inventions are so numerous that I cannot want topics. First, then, you will grant that religion is a blessing.

TRUTH.

And are you the founder of religion?

FALSEHOOD.

Why, since out of the many religions that have ever been in the world you can certainly claim only one, all the rest must be ascribed to me. Make your choice, therefore, I will give up to you without dispute whichever you select; but the others are mine, and all the piety and virtue which they have caused must redound to my honour.

TRUTH.

A very moderate claim.

FALSEHOOD.

You must acknowledge it, unless you affirm that no virtue has ever been practised except under your one religion.

TRUTH.

I wonder you should think fit to boast of the variety of false religions with which you have deceived the world. This is the complaint I made against you at first, that you have supplanted me in the possession of a world which is by nature mine.

FALSEHOOD.

And I maintain that my having supplanted you proves that this world was not designed for you; besides which, I am confirming my title to possession by showing that I have invented almost every thing that is esteemed valuable amongst men.

TRUTH.

Well, let me hear what other benefits the world owes you. It seems you have invented religion.

FALSEHOOD.

All the religions but one; I give you one.

TRUTH.

You are very generous to me.

FALSEHOOD.

That is more than some philosophers allow you. Let us next consider which of us benefits most the intercourse of private life. I affirm, that without me there could be no such virtue as friendship amongst men.

TRUTH.

I thought it had been allowed by all that friendship is founded upon truth.

FALSEHOOD.

Such is the common opinion, but altogether erroneous; for if any two friends were to act with perfect sincerity, and mutually divulge every thought that passes through their minds concerning each other, do you think that they could remain friends? Let any man consider the secret discoveries which he has made of his friend's infirmities, how he has censured certain qualities of his mind, and ridiculed those failings which could not endure to be mentioned or hinted at, and then let him judge whether a candid disclosure of all his thoughts would tend to confirm the friendship. He who would retain the kindness of any man must suppress more than half his observations on that man's character.

But without my arts there would be not only no friendship amongst men, but no amicable intercourse or society; for if all were disclosed that had ever been said or thought by each man against others with whom he is acquainted, the general indignation would be such that not one person would be found ready to converse with another. I may add, that if all courtesy were discontinued the world would not be much improved,—and what is courtesy but falsehood? If you were to prevail as you wish, men would tell each other of their faults with the greatest zeal and sincerity, and no two persons could meet without giving pain to each other. When people now assemble for conversation, the art is to expose the faults of absent friends, which is always pleasing, and those who can impart this knowledge most skilfully obtain the greatest praise; but if every man were as eager to apprise another of his own faults, as he now is to tell him of his friend's, the information would be very differently received. I think it easy to prove, that more than half the kindness of human life subsists by dissimulation, and must therefore be ascribed to me.

TRUTH.

Pray go on: what other good have you done? Having construed benevolence into deception, you can have no difficulty in proving every other virtue to be your own contrivance.

FALSEHOOD.

Next I affirm, that if I did not inspire and entertain the mind of man with innumerable fancies and visions the melancholy of life would be intolerable. What would man be without hope? and where he borrows one hope from you he receives a hundred from me. What would become of all the unhappy if they listened only to you for comfort?

TRUTH.

But if men are indebted to you for hope, to you also they owe disappointment.

FALSEHOOD.

No; for those who are truly under my government are always supplied with a new hope before the old one is lost. Pray why is it that none wish to live again that part of their lives which is gone, and yet all set a high value upon the remainder? Because they see you in the past and me in the future. Then what a perpetual recreation do I furnish by those visions of the future, in which many persons pass a great part of their lives, not really hoping that such things may happen, for they are usually impossible, but enjoying them in speculation, and as if actually taking place.

TRUTH.

I acknowledge that claim; and allow you to be the author of those idle fantastical dreams which divert men from true business and study.

FALSEHOOD.

My next assertion is, that I contrive all the complacency and satisfaction which a man has from his own character. Had I invented no other art for the welfare of mankind, the grand discovery of self-deception would entitle me to the gratitude of the whole human race. For if each man were to discern with severity every oblique motive in his own heart, every mean preference of himself to others, every artifice for undeserved praise, who is there that could endure himself? I taught men the skill to hide their infirmities from themselves, the only remedy against conscience. By this invention great numbers pass with themselves for excellent men, who after a lesson from you would regard themselves with hatred and contempt. Men commemorate with gratitude those whom they believe to have first taught agriculture, mechanics, and other arts of convenience or plenty, but my praise for this invention has been forgotten, though even the discovery of bread from the earth has not conferred on man half of that ease and contentment which I have given by teaching him not to know himself. I conclude you do not dispute my title to this invention.

TRUTH.

Certainly not; I allow you all the honour of this noble science, in which men have received your lessons with great alacrity.

FALSEHOOD.

Let it not be supposed that because men now misunderstand their own characters with great facility it must be a thing of no art or study. The ease with which it is done proves how well my instruction has been imparted. Many books have been written to teach the deceiving of mankind, and many statesmen have practised with renown the rules they assign, but no artifice of these books or statesmen can equal the skill of men, even the most ignorant, in cheating themselves. It is impossible, without admiration, to observe a man diligently keeping his failings out of his own sight, and enjoying them under fictitious names, inventing motives for his own use, and faithfully believing whatever he chooses to tell himself, providing for his own advantage, and still persuaded that he is labouring for others. With what genius have I contrived that all these stratagems shall be conducted within one head where there is no partition, so that it might have been supposed all the thoughts must be known to each other! By this art I am the great author of all serenity of mind, for the chief part of mankind can neither bear to practise virtue nor to live without it; but by this excellent contrivance they are enabled to believe themselves good without the inconvenience of really being so.

TRUTH.

An excellent device for improving mankind! I had supposed that before a man reforms his faults he ought to know them.

FALSEHOOD.

Your remark shows how much I excel you in the management of men. You can think of no expedient to free men from the evil of their vices except the leaving them off, which if you knew this world you would know to be a visionary undertaking. I attempt nothing impossible, but teach men to avoid the reproach of their faults by not knowing that they have any. This art supplies most men with peace of mind; but some, it is true, are troubled with a curiosity about what they are doing, and in all their culpable actions take care to inform themselves what the employment really is, so that they seldom can do wrong without knowing it. The consequence of which is, that they pass their lives in great uneasiness and ineffectual endeavours to relinquish their bad habits. But I have found a remedy even for these people; for after every commission of a fault I teach them to be convinced that they shall never be guilty of it again, by which confidence they are restored to their tranquillity.

TRUTH.

You have stated very justly the share you have in men's opinion of themselves.

FALSEHOOD.

To proceed, then, with my benefits: amongst the valuable entertainments of life, literature and philosophy are most eminent. Let us consider what part of them must be assigned to me. First, I think you will hardly contest my right to poetry; or, if you please, you shall correct the works of Homer, and expunge from them all the incidents that you disallow. Your genius for poetry will be proved by what remains, if, indeed, any thing is left; and it will be seen whether you have increased the glory of Greece by inspiring its poets. But I shall presume myself beyond dispute the author of poetry and other fiction; and amongst the arts of fiction I think oratory may be ranked.

TRUTH.

I confess you are a more successful orator than I am.

FALSEHOOD.

I go on to philosophy, moral and physical, in which many things are instituted as certainties, but I must observe that I can be as positive as you. When there are two contending certainties, I must be entitled to one of them, very frequently to both; and since there is not any opinion to be found in philosophy without an adverse opinion equally resolute, I must at least own half of that which is taught. But perhaps the most equitable division will be that which I proposed in the case of religion: you shall choose any one philosophical sect of which you like to have been the author, and I will resign to you all that has been written and said in defence of it, taking all the remaining controversy for my share. Or, if you hesitate to undertake any entire sect with all the belief that it exacts, I permit you from all the schools to select what opinions you please, and be the author of them, while I keep what you reject. I believe all that you have dictated would be comprised in a very small volume, and leave me a splendid library of philosophical writings.

TRUTH.

I grant you have been more copious than myself in works of this kind. But go on, let me next hear of your exploits in mathematics.

FALSEHOOD.

No; you have named the only kind of learning in which I have not excelled.

TRUTH.

Is there, indeed, any thing in which I surpass you?

FALSEHOOD.

Since, then, mathematics are the only kind of human learning which you can ascribe to yourself alone, what would the world be without my inventions? Very few men have a capacity for pure mathematics: to the generality of those who study them they are no more than a help to contemplations in which I have a share.

But now, since I have reduced you to a mere mathematician, and proved myself the author of all that is chiefly esteemed by the world, I think that, instead of acknowledging my own usurpations, I have a right to complain of yours.

TRUTH.

But, since you hardly allow me any possession upon the earth, what have I usurped?

FALSEHOOD.

The honour and applause which justly belongs to me. I am the great benefactor of mankind, yet am universally hated and despised.

TRUTH.

As you deserve to be.

FALSEHOOD.

You are revered and extolled though you have done nothing for the improvement of human life. Men entreat you to show yourself to them and you refuse; still, without having seen you, they are convinced of your vast perfections and benefits. The only real cause which they have for gratitude towards you is, that you are deaf to their prayers; for were you to live amongst them, as they desire, all human happiness would be at an end.

TRUTH.

Pray how should I interfere with human happiness?

FALSEHOOD.

I believed I had said enough to explain the advantages of your absence, since at your appearance all my useful inventions must vanish. But consider, if there were no error in the world there would be no diversity of opinion; and although every philosopher thinks that the world cannot prosper till all men think as he does, the truth is, that a greater injury could not be inflicted upon man than the banishment of all variety in belief. It is doubt and conjecture that keep the minds of men in activity: if all were certainty, there would be no conversation, for nothing could be imparted: there would be no literature or philosophy of any kind; for nothing would remain to be done by argument, eloquence, explanation, or research. If men were incapable of being deceived they would not need to be informed. Hope and surprise would be no more; and the minds of all would be possessed by a perpetual calm and dejection. The search after Truth is caused by Falsehood; and I acknowledge that the pursuit of you is useful, though the finding you would be a great misfortune. I repeat, therefore, your only benefit to man is the having taught him nothing. The bottom of a well is the most useful situation of which you are capable. Being known by name, and fancied something excellent, you may provoke a visionary hope and pursuit of you which busies and employs men much to their advantage. You ought, therefore, to be satisfied with being heard of, since your name is here the only part of you that can be of use; but if you have an ambition to be better known, I advise you to wander amongst the stars, and seek for a race of beings fit to receive you in person. Whatever dreams some philosophers may entertain of establishing you here at a future time, as long as the faculties of men remain what they now are you will be honoured and praised, but the world will really be governed by me.

TRUTH.

You are mistaken; your reign is at an end: by these new weapons I shall soon defeat all your arts. You cannot look at this torch without knowing its power against you.

FALSEHOOD.

I know not what new authority may have been given you; but if in these weapons, as you call them, there is really a power to undeceive the world, I think I have proved to you the folly and calamity of using them. I warn you of the universal despair that you are going to cause. Remember that a man once undeceived cannot be restored to error. The mischief you are preparing is irreparable, and I therefore give you my opinion, that the best use you can make of your liberty is to leap back into your well, as the only effort by which you can benefit mankind.

Thus speaking, Falsehood walked away: her sister had heard her with a scornful look, and allowed her to argue without much contradiction. We now entered the town, where I conducted the goddess to my house, and going immediately to the prÆtor, who was then at Miletus, informed him that Truth was arrived there to free the people of Miletus from all their errors, and I asked his permission and concurrence, which he readily granted, and wrote to the emperor an account of the extraordinary event. I then returned to the goddess, and by her instruction made preparations in my house for her discoveries. I published that those who liked it might come and be undeceived with regard to various fallacies. The goddess kept herself concealed, and I was empowered to command the torch and mirror.

The first day was assigned to the satisfying of suspicious husbands. It had been made known that an invention was ready, by which all married men who doubted the fidelity of their wives might discover either their guilt or innocence. The first who offered himself to this hazard was a rich citizen of Miletus. He came to me accompanied by a friend, who earnestly endeavoured to dissuade him from the experiment.

"What advantage," said he, "do you hope from the trial? If your wife's frailty be detected, you will have gained a certain evil, which is now only possible, and if her innocence appear, you are in the same condition as now."

"No," answered the husband; "I shall then be easy, and I am now perpetually disquieted."

"And why all this anxiety?" inquired his friend: "what cause have you for suspicion?"

"My chief cause," said he, "is that my wife loves me more than she can give a reason for; I am sure there is nothing in me to justify all the kindness she professes."

"So," replied the other, "her love is hypocrisy, and her neglect would be the love of another. With such a temper you can never be satisfied."

"Yes," said the husband, "I am going to be satisfied now."

"But only for the past," rejoined his friend; "you must still be in trouble for the future."

Thus this faithful adviser continued to argue against the enterprise; but in spite of his reasons the husband persisted in demanding the inquiry. I desired him to go home and return to me attended by his wife, to which he said that he would bring her on some pretence, and not explain the true design. I then made preparations for the trial, which was thus conducted. At the torch of Truth I lit a small taper of peculiar materials, and placed it in a room, from which I excluded the light of day. Such was the sagacity of this light from the torch of Truth, that when a married woman, secretly corrupt, entered the room, it was to be extinguished, but to burn on at the presence of a wife without blemish. I shut out the daylight to make the sudden darkness and conviction more solemn.

The inquisitive husband soon appeared with his wife, who believed she had come to see some splendid show. I took the husband aside, and told him the nature of the trial. He then entered the room, and desired his wife to follow him, fixing his eyes on the taper. She was no sooner in the room than all was dark. I then let in the light upon the detected wife, while her husband assailed her with reproaches. She was much surprised to hear him so violently upbraid her with the taper's going out, which she declared was not by her contrivance, and was besides, she thought, no great calamity. When the magic was explained to her, she protested against the injustice of her reputation being forfeited because a taper had gone out; perhaps it had mistaken her for another woman; she would maintain her honour against any torch or taper in the world; and then she appealed to her husband, whether he would believe a candle rather than his wife.

But the detection was to be completed by discovery of her accomplice, for which another proceeding was necessary. I lit the taper again, and giving it to the wife, desired her to pass with it in her hand before the mirror of Truth, when instead of her own image the assistant in her guilt was to appear in the mirror with the taper in his hand. She complied, though unwillingly, while the husband looked eagerly into the mirror for his enemy; and as his wife passed he saw a perfect resemblance of that friend who had endeavoured to deter him from this inquiry by so urgent a remonstrance. His wife was so overcome and guilty at the sight that she no longer accused the taper of detraction, but fell on her knees for pardon. Her husband wept; and as the negotiation seemed likely to be prolonged, I told him, since he was now cleared from suspicion, it would be convenient that he should give audience to his wife at home, in order that other husbands might come and enjoy the same satisfaction.

Another wife was soon brought to trial: she was possessed of great beauty, and instantly extinguished the taper. At the second trial for detection of her partner, as she passed like the preceding lady in front of the mirror, with the taper in her hand, three young men appeared holding the taper in concert. The husband was much distressed by the number: one, I believe, he could have forgiven, but the plurality seemed greatly to discompose him. He desired his wife to remain before the mirror, till he had recognised all their faces, which filled him with surprise; for he had regarded all these culprits as excellent young men, having estimated their merit by the deference with which they had treated himself.

The next lady came to the information of the taper with evident reluctance; but when she had entered the room, the light continued steady, upon which her husband, who had shared her apprehension, embraced her with great joy; but in the midst of their triumph the fatal light went out. The husband, in consternation, inquired why the taper had retracted its first acquittal, to which I answered that it distinguished the time of transgression: its going out was instantaneous, when the fault was recent, and there was a delay in proportion to the length of innocence that had intervened before the experiment. He comforted himself that the delay had now been considerable: his wife protested that the interval had not been less than ten years, and she thought the taper might have said nothing about such an obsolete adventure. In this her husband agreed: he called it a censorious candle; and dispensing with the intelligence of the mirror, led his wife out of the house.

In the trial of some ladies, the taper faded gradually, grew more and more dim, and required several minutes from its first decay, to be quite extinguished. By this it denoted a reluctant and tenacious sacrifice of virtue; in going out suddenly it signified a speedy resolution. A lady came to trial with great alacrity, and seeming quite convinced of her own innocence, but as soon as she was within the knowledge of the taper its light began to waste away. The husband was in despair, while the wife protested vehemently against the extinction, which she called a vile slander; but the taper, after being gradually almost reduced to darkness, suddenly recovered itself into a blaze.

"What!" exclaimed the husband, "has the taper been convinced by my wife's declaration, and recalled its verdict!"

"No," I answered, "it had no intention of going out; but from its approach to darkness, you are to conclude that your wife's virtue has been brought to the same extremity, the taper having been almost extinguished, she must have been almost frail. In every instance the taper follows accurately the example of the lady." The wife was so overcome by the unforeseen exposure of the fault, which she had not quite committed, that by shame and silence she confessed herself to have been nearly faithless. She was conducted to the mirror, into which the husband looking anxiously for the tempter, that he might provide against a return of the danger, saw one of his dearest friends, according to the plan of human affairs. In the case of another wife, the taper gave the same verdict of an approach to error, and when she was brought before the mirror it presented a singular spectacle. The form of a certain young man appeared in it for an instant and vanished, and it was followed by twenty others in succession, only a glimpse being given of each. Being desired to interpret this, I informed the husband, that the fault of his wife had been only thought of, and no choice had been made of an associate; but in her imagination all these young men had been competitors for the office.

It often happened that when a lady was presented to the taper it would decay and revive many times, and some appeared to have been constantly preparing for frailty, yet still without attainment. When the fading of the taper was gradual, its restoration was always by a sudden effort. In several cases, after growing dim, and blazing forth again many times, it went out at last, showing that much endeavour and resolution had been wasted. In the decays of light the flame was more or less reduced in proportion as the danger had been urgent. Sometimes when the alteration was not very palpable there was a dispute about it, the wife urging the husband not to see any diminution of the light.

The fame of these discoveries being spread through the city, every married man was seized with a desire of being set at rest, and those wives who refused the experiment fell under a reproach little less than conviction. For many days the taper continued its information, to the great disturbance of numberless families.

I next undertook to try the fidelity of friends, and fixed a day for exposing pretended kindness. The first who came to this examination were two men celebrated for inviolable friendship to each other. The one owed his life to the courage of the other at sea, and had since, at the risk of his own ruin, preserved the fortune of his friend, in danger of bankruptcy. They had been friends so long and so securely as to want no confirmation, but had been provoked to this trial by the sneers of a satirist, who had written an ingenious treatise to prove that friendship has no real being, and in truth is nothing more than a few letters of the alphabet joined together. This doctrine he enforced also in conversation, and attacking these two supposed friends, he had entreated them to undergo the trial which I had announced, and so confirm the discoveries of his book; upon which they had undertaken, by complying with his desire, to show the fallacy of his tenets. He accompanied them to the experiment for triumph and derision.

I told these inquirers that I could subject their friendship to two kinds of scrutiny, one of which taught a man the secret wishes of his friend concerning him, and the other betrayed what he had said of him when absent. The malicious author advised them to choose this last trial, and strengthen their friendship by their mutual praises out of hearing. To procure this intercourse, I drew back a small sliding door in the wall, and showed the mouth of a funnel. I then desired one of these friends to listen, informing him that from this funnel would issue all that the other had said of him in conversation during the previous month. All were silent and attentive, and very soon a voice was heard in the funnel, which the chief listener recognised as his friend's. The voice first said something moderately in praise of his disposition, and then proceeded to his faults, which it confessed with great sincerity, explaining certain bad propensities, which he had fancied unknown to all the world except himself, and to himself even he had acknowledged them only in moments of uncommon frankness. His countenance betrayed his resentment at his friend's knowledge of these things, but he appeared to be still more mortified when the voice, with much wit, ridiculed his peculiarities of manner and gesture. It seemed that he never could talk earnestly without the cooperation of all his limbs, and embroiling his arms, legs, and body in the discourse. These unnecessary efforts were now represented by his friend so as much to amuse the hearers, whose laughter was preserved in the funnel, and heard at suitable times. While he listened, his guilty friend stood confounded to hear his past remarks coming out of the wall, and had not confidence to disown them. The author was the first who made any observation on the revived detraction. He offered to comfort and appease the injured man. "I fear," he said, "you are discomposed by what you hear; but you should remember that your friend did not mean to vex you, for when he said all this he did not expect it to be kept in a funnel, and let out in your hearing: had he had the least suspicion of such a contrivance, undoubtedly he would have been more circumspect. Pray consider, also, that he has great sagacity, and excels in discerning the characters of men, and that all persons love to exercise any faculty which they have in perfection. Your friend could not avoid observing these particulars; for you cannot expect that a man who has sagacity shall not use it."

"I think," said the injured friend, "if it was necessary for the exercise of what you call his sagacity that he should observe these things he might have kept them secret."

"But then," said the other, "he has a great deal of wit, and to debar him from your failings, which he knows so accurately, and can, therefore, excel with, would be to require too great a sacrifice from his friendship."

The victim would not allow that an urgent want of being witty was a sufficient reason for making a friend ridiculous, but left the house abruptly, and his friend was too much abashed to pursue him with any defence. A reconciliation was afterwards attempted, but in vain.

When a report had been spread of the funnel, and its success in separating two such friends, great numbers soon came to consult it. They did not come in pairs like the two friends just mentioned, but each visiter was led in singly, and being placed at the funnel with no witness, except myself, heard out of it every thing that had been said concerning him in his absence during the month before. The praise from this funnel was so much exceeded by the censure, that to listen was in most cases a very painful duty, yet every sufferer seemed under a charm to remain till the end of the discipline, and would not lose a single sneer. My employment was to watch the countenance, and observe what pain was given by the several kinds of animadversion.

Some accusations, which I thought the most severe, were heard with perfect calmness, while many trifling charges, not at all injurious to the character, caused great rage and uneasiness.

One man, who without disturbance had heard a violent and arbitrary temper imputed to him, was unable to command himself at the ridicule of some peculiar and established gesture with which he saluted his friends. Another being accused of inordinate vices showed no concern; but it being added, that he had a tiresome way of telling a story in conversation, he was overwhelmed with shame.

Most listeners seemed more ready to pardon the being supposed to want a kind disposition, than being thought defective in understanding. But the charge of any bodily imperfection was chiefly resented both by men and women; and many, who were armed against satire on all their endowments of mind, could not sustain with any firmness a jest on the shape of their features, or the management of their limbs. I observed that the most painful and masterly strokes of censure were always by an intimate friend. In which cases not only was the sufferer incensed against his friend for divulging his infirmities, but he regarded even a knowledge of them as a vile breach of fidelity, which made me consider how unreasonable we are in imposing this blindness on our associates; for we expect the greatest ignorance of our faults in those who have the best opportunities of knowing them.

Few friendships could stand against the information of this funnel. All the listeners went from it enraged or dejected; some sought new companions, and others had recourse to solitude as the only security against deceitful friendship. I have mentioned besides the funnel a trial of friendship, by which any person might discover the secret wishes of another concerning him. A rich old man desired to make this inquiry into the inclinations of his grandson, whom he had made his heir. The youth had just sent him a present of some quails, together with an anxious wish that he might have life and health for many years.

"Now," said the old man, "let me know whether he would have sent me this wish had he thought that I should live the longer by virtue of it?"

For this scrutiny I placed the old man in front of the mirror, and told him that on pronouncing his grandson's name he would see in it any fate that the youth really wished him. He spoke the name, and I asked him what he saw.

"I see," he answered, "my own figure lying on a bed, and seemingly I am at the point of death,—my grandson kneels at the bed-side with a countenance full of grief. He is very dutiful, indeed, to wish me dead that he may show his sorrow. I seem to be giving him my last advice, and with what submission he receives it! But now I have sunk back, and I believe am effectually dead; the young man thinks so too, for he jumps up and goes to my chest, he unlocks it, and surveys my treasure with delight. I have an excellent grandson! He has sent me a present of quails! but I will take care that the latter part of his vision shall never be fulfilled; he shall not be the invader of that chest. I must provide another heir."

"But," said I, "if some young man is to inherit your property only on condition of not wishing you dead, you may perhaps hardly find one who will be able to perform his part of the contract. Besides, if this young man attacks your life with no weapon more hurtful than a wish, you may live in defiance of him. It is some merit that he has not contrived your death, instead of being content with wishing it. Many an heir has hastened possession by his own industry."

"So," answered he, "you think I ought to give this youth my property as a reward for not having poisoned me."

"It is probable," I said, "if you were more generous to him now, he would wait for your death with a grateful patience."

"What!" he replied, "it is advisable that with half my wealth I should bribe him not to wish for my death! that would be employing my money to great advantage!"

"Well," I said, "if you are determined to have an heir who will prefer your enjoyment of this money to his own, you should lose no time in seeking for him; so singular a man will not be easy to find."

This old man having appointed several heirs in succession, and discarded them after trial of their wishes in the mirror, at last died without a will, and his grandson came into possession.

The mirror was next consulted by a merchant who had just taken leave of his wife to go to sea. At parting she had prayed earnestly for his safety, and he came to try the sincerity of these prayers. As soon as he had pronounced the name of his wife he saw the mirror filled with a violent storm at sea, and his ship tossed about by it, his own figure standing on the deck. The lady's wish proceeded, and very soon the ship sunk without a hope of preservation to any on board. He then saw his own dead body driven on shore amongst other ruins; his wife was on the beach, accompanied by a young man whom he knew: she pointed to the body smiling, then stooped, and drawing from its finger a ring, which had been her own present, placed it on the finger of her living companion, who succeeded to it with great joy.

Many other husbands pronounced the name of their wives before the mirror, and saw themselves in the agonies of death, and many wives by the name of their husbands incurred the same doom. A man who had consulted the funnel, and heard much detraction against himself, was however greatly pleased with one of his friends, whose voice had said many things in his praise without the least censure. That his friendship might be quite certain, he resorted to the other trial also, pronounced his name before the mirror, and immediately saw himself standing on the sea-shore, and watching three ships which contained his whole wealth, for he, too, was a merchant. These ships were in danger by a storm, and very soon he saw them perish. His representative in the mirror stood fixed in distress and ruin, when his friend, the author of the storm, approached him with consolation, led him to his house, and there presented to him a deed which put him in possession of an easy maintenance. The merchant saw this with great astonishment. "What!" he exclaimed; "my friend wishes me ruined that he may restore my fortune! He is very generous; but I think had he let my ships come safe into port without being at the pains of raising this tempest, and drowning so many innocent men, he would have acted more beneficently and more to my advantage." He seemed hardly able to determine whether he should be grateful or angry on account of this singular kind of generosity, but on the whole I thought he resented the loss of his ships. The mirror afterwards showed many instances of the same thing, so as to make it appear that a man often wishes the distress of his friend for the sake of being his comforter.

Indeed, the mirror declared a strange opposition between the actions of a friend and his secret wishes; for many who had lived in the constant practice of kindness and benefits towards a companion, yet appeared to have pleased themselves at their leisure with involving him in imaginary troubles. The injury was not to be inflicted by them, but by fortune, and they were to have no share in it except by a secret satisfaction. Great was the resentment of many at seeing the distresses wished them by friends to whom they had given no kind of provocation. And what aggravated the cruelty was, that these malicious friends proposed no advantage to themselves from the desired calamities. I endeavoured to explain to some of these injured and incensed people, that they were not to suppose, because a friend wished them to be unfortunate, he would make them so if it were in his power; all he had done was to consider, in a kind of dream, that if such distresses should occur to those he loved he could find a singular pleasure in them. But none would allow this distinction; and by all a misfortune wished was resented as much as one inflicted. In several of these trials it appeared, that a man had at the same time wished a disaster from fortune to his friend, and an opportunity to himself of doing him good.

This trial of friendship was made by several persons to whom some gift of fortune had suddenly accrued, and they seldom failed to see themselves deprived of it in the mirror by the wishes of those who had been full of joy and congratulation at their success. I learned from these trials, that whatever prize or advantage a man obtains, every other man thinks it taken from himself.

I announced another discovery to be made by the mirror; which was, the showing every man his own character. The importance of this knowledge is owned by all, and by all the study is neglected, perhaps from its difficulty, since it is as hard to know our own faults as not to know the faults of our friend. I proposed this trial, thinking it the most useful of all, and persuaded that Truth could not make a nobler communication to man than his own mind. The first who came for intelligence about himself was a philosopher, renowned for his virtues, and for the number and probity of his disciples. He said the study of his life had been to know himself, and he believed that nothing remained for him to discover, but he had come to have his judgment confirmed. I desired him to stand before the mirror, in which he would immediately see his whole character. "But," said he, "how am I to distinguish the qualities of my mind by the eye? I can reason about them, but I know not any one of them by sight. How can a virtue have shape or colour?" I told him, that by looking in the mirror, he would discover more of his character than by disputing the possibility of seeing it. I informed him that he would see two reflections of his face; the one on his right hand, expressing the character which he attributed to himself, and that on the left representing his real disposition.

I looked over his shoulder while he made the trial. It is impossible to describe the peculiar clearness with which the qualities of mind were declared in these two faces. On the right hand, I saw the face of the philosopher, beautiful with the practice of every virtue; this was his character according to his own judgment. On the left were the same features, but corrupted into a countenance wholly different, so as to signify a foolish love of applause, voluptuousness awkwardly concealed, avarice, treachery, haughtiness; and all covered by a hypocritical pomp and solemnity. The teacher of wisdom stood in dismay at this discovery; he was no longer at a loss to conceive how qualities of mind could be subject to the eye. After gazing some time in horror, he turned suddenly away, and sought refuge at home. His pupils assembled at the usual hour for a lecture, but he had not the boldness to confront them, imagining that he now carried about with him the face that he had seen in the mirror. He dismissed them, renounced the trade of wisdom, and lived melancholy and alone.

Many others came for a view of their characters; and it appeared, that men are willing to know themselves when they can do so with no farther toil than the looking into a mirror, though they will not undertake the study requisite for acquiring that knowledge in the ordinary way. The sight struck them all with misery and aversion, and not one who had visited the mirror for this inquiry was to be seen in public for a long time after.

I now made it known that all authors who chose to bring their works to the torch might have them cleared from error. I was soon visited for this purpose by the philosopher Eucritus, who had lately finished a treatise on which he had been employed for several years. This he now brought to be corrected by the torch. I had nothing more to do than to open his book, and let the light of the torch fall upon it, after which I restored it to him, saying, that all its fallacies had been expunged. He opened it with great eagerness to see how many of his opinions were disallowed, and found the whole book a blank, every word of his treatise having disappeared. I advised him to bring me his other works, which perhaps might be capable of the same improvement. He was unable to speak a word on seeing the fate of his doctrines, but retired in dismay. To my surprise he brought no more of his writings for amendment; and this judgment being made known, all the authors of Miletus used the same precaution against being in error, and declined the trial, so that the torch had no farther employment in correcting books.

I now published that I could free men from vain wandering hopes, leaving them only such as were to be fulfilled, which must give them wonderful prudence and success in their undertakings. The first who came for this relief was a young man, who told me he was not conscious of any extravagant dreams, but as he knew how much the management of a man's hopes contributes to his prosperity, he had come to be quite sure that his expectations were all perfectly moderate. I produced the torch, and desired him to look steadily upon it, which when he had done for a short time, I told him that if he had any visionary hopes he would see them leaving him. Accordingly many projects, which he had secretly enjoyed at his leisure, appeared one after another, seeming to come out of his brain. The first was the figure of a crown that he was to have won by a series of great exploits, for which opportunities were to have occurred at favourable times. This crown had the appearance of a shadow; it issued from his head, and floating away into the air, was soon turned into a smoke and vanished. He was much startled by the loss of his crown, and surprised that this design was not to be accomplished. After the crown went shadows of the great actions by which he had intended to obtain it. Several battles came out of his brain, and soared through the air; the fighting in them was very vehement, and the figure of this young man appeared conspicuous in the danger. The battles, like the crown, soon vanished. Next came forth some pictures of him declaiming to the people, for his crown was to have been won by oratory as well as war. When all his achievements had left him he stood in despair; he was no more to be an orator, a general, or a king, though before this time the transition from one exploit to another had been so easy that a crown seemed inevitable. He left me abruptly, and lived a few days in the utmost dejection, for a hope thus banished can never return; and finding it impossible to recover his crown, he very soon put himself to death as the only cure. Great numbers of people came to this trial, though it may appear strange that they should desire to be made melancholy; but as this proceeding was to clear them from all fallacious hopes, it seemed to give a foresight of the future, which is always sought very eagerly; many, therefore, came to procure despair.

Amongst these were five young men of obscure rank, each of whom had privately aspired to the empire of the world, and hoped to sit on the throne of Constantinople. When they had looked at the torch their heads were disburdened of a great crowd of guards and attendants. I remonstrated with one of these men on the extravagance of his designs, when he declared that he could not understand the folly of his hopes, for Diocletian was not from a higher origin than himself. These five competitors for the empire had concealed their ambition, and passed a quiet, harmless life, not at all distinguished from their fellow citizens, having yet to begin the great exploits which were to gain the empire.

Many other young men of boundless hopes came to this trial. When the torch was applied, each of them saw his own figure issuing from the brain, engaged in whatever mighty action he had secretly designed, and very soon vanishing in smoke. Several were reciting to a crowd of people, who seemed full of admiration; these were to have been celebrated poets, and certainly an ample supply of them was prepared for Miletus.

There were also orators, soldiers, and statesmen. In short, from these heads came every great intention which is apt to be entertained by young men who have nothing to do. Every one of them gazed after his hope with a countenance full of misery. It was impossible to regain a hope once dismissed by the torch, and those who had undergone this clearing of the mind were overcome by despair; some put themselves to death, and others lived disconsolate and incapable of any effort.

During these achievements of Truth many complaints had been made to the prÆtor by perverse men, who doubted the utility of what was done; and at last he resolved to make a strict examination of the city, and satisfy himself whether its improvement was as great as he had expected. When he had completed his observations, he sent for me and described to me the consequences of what I had been doing. The peace of numberless families, he said, had been quite destroyed by the discoveries of the torch concerning married women; almost all who had been firm friends were quite alienated by the information of the funnel; and besides these disturbances, the city was full of miserable wretches who had lost their principal hopes, and had no longer energy for any enterprise, or even for their common business. He had resolved, therefore, to stop the progress of Truth, lest the city should be quite ruined, and for this he thought the most effectual device was to throw back the goddess into the same well which had so long kept her harmless and quiet.

This design was immediately executed; the goddess was seized, and I being commanded to lead the way to the residence where I had found her, in spite of her remonstrances she was thrown in, together with her torch and mirror. The mouth of the well was then covered and carefully hid, and every person engaged in the transaction was bound by oath not to disclose the spot.

I have written you an account of these adventures, my friend Rhodius, that you may consider whether your late discoveries, if let loose, are likely to confer as much benefit on the world, and as much honour on yourself, as you have imagined. The obvious conclusion from my narrative is, that when we have drawn Truth out of her well, the only use we can safely make of her is to throw her back again.