we conceive at the thoughts of them, there is nothing in nature repugnant against them, but what is built upon mode and custom. A religious Mahometan, that has never tasted any spirituous liquor, and has often seen people drunk, may receive as great an aversion against wine as another with us, of the least morality and education, may have against marrying his sister, and both imagine that their antipathy proceeds from nature. Which is the best religion? is a question that has caused more mischief than all other questions together. Ask it at Peking, at Constantinople, and at Rome, and you'll receive three distinct answers extremely different from one another, yet all of them equally positive and peremptory. Christians are well assured of the falsity of the pagan and Mahometan superstitions; as to this point there is a perfect union and concord among them; but inquire of the several sects they are divided into, Which is the true Church of Christ? and all of them will tell you it is theirs, and, to convince you, go together by the ears.

It is manifest, then, that the hunting after this pulchrum et honestum is not much better than a wild-goose chase that is but little to be depended upon. But this is not the greatest fault I find with it. The imaginary notions that men may be virtuous without self-denial are a vast inlet to hypocrisy, which being once made habitual, we must not only deceive others, but likewise become altogether unknown to ourselves; and in an instance I am going to give, it will appear how, for want of duly examining himself, this might happen to a person of quality of parts and erudition, one every way resembling the author of the Characteristics himself.

A man that has been brought up in ease and affluence, if he is of a quiet, indolent nature, learns to shun everything that is troublesome, and chooses to curb his passions more because of the inconveniencies that arise from the eager pursuit after pleasure, and the yielding to all the demands of our inclinations, than any dislike he has to sensual enjoyments. And it is possible that a person educated under a great philosopher,1 who was a mild and good-natured as well as able tutor, may in such happy circumstances have a better opinion of his inward state than it really deserves, and believe himself virtuous because his passions lie dormant. He may form fine notions of the social 1 John Locke (in Shaftesbury's case).

virtues, and the contempt of death, write well of them in his closet, and talk eloquently of them in company; but you shall never catch him fighting for his country, or laboring to retrieve any national losses. A man that deals in metaphysics may easily throw himself into an enthusiasm, and really believe that he does not fear death, whilst it remains out of sight. But should he be asked why, having this intrepidity, either from nature or acquired by philosophy, he did not follow arms when his country was involved in war; or, when he saw the nation daily robbed by those at the helm, and the affairs of the exchequer perplexed, why he did not go to court, and make use of all his friends and interests to be a Lord Treasurer, that by his integrity and wise management he might restore the public credit, it is probable he would answer that he loved retirement, had no other ambition than to be a good man, and never aspired to have any share in the government, or, that he hated all flattery and slavish attendance, the insincerity of courts and bustle of the world. I am willing to believe him; but may not a man of an indolent temper and unactive spirit say—and be sincere in-all this, and at the same time indulge his appetites without being able to subdue them, though his duty summons him to it? Virtue consists in action, and whoever is possessed of this social love and kind affection to his species, and by his birth or quality can claim any post in the public management, ought not to sit still when he can be serviceable, but exert himself to the utmost for the good of his fellow-subjects. Had this noble person been of a warlike genius or a boisterous temper, he would have chose another part in the drama of life, and preached a quite contrary doctrine; for we are ever pushing our reason which way soever we feel passion to draw it, and self-love pleads to all human creatures for their different views, still furnishing every individual with arguments to justify their inclinations.

LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU

LETTERS

[An unauthorized edition of Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was published in 1763, and these were republished, with additions, at various dates, to the time of the edition of Mr. Moy Thomas, 1861. The letters from the East (written while Lady Mary's husband was English ambassador to the Porte) were given by her to a Rev. Mr. Sowden; and another copy (not identical) she gave to Mr. Molesworth. It has been suspected that they were edited before being copied, or in some cases made from diary notes. The Sowden text, as printed by Mr. Thomas, is used here; the family letters were also printed by him from original MSS. The Countess of Bute was Lady Mary's daughter, and her constant correspondent during her long residence on the Continent, 1739-62.]

TO MR. POPE

ADRIANOPLE, April 1, 1717.

I DARE say you expect at least something very new in this letter, after I have gone a journey not undertaken by any Christian for some hundred years. The most remarkable accident that happened to me, was my being very near overturned into the Hebrus; and, if I had much regard for the glories that one's name enjoys after death, I should certainly be sorry for having missed the romantic conclusion of swimming down the same river in which the musical head of Orpheus repeated verses so many ages since. . . . Who knows but some of your bright wits might have found it a subject affording many poetical turns, and have told the world, in an heroic elegy, that,

As equal were our souls, so equal were our fates?

I despair of ever having so many fine things said of me, as so extraordinary a death would have given occasion for.

I am at this present writing in a house situated on the banks of the Hebrus, which runs under my chamber window. My garden is full of tall cypress-trees, upon the branches of which several couple of true turtles are saying soft things to one another from morning till night. How naturally do boughs and vows come into my head at this minute! And must you not

ment.

confess, to my praise, that 't is more than ordinary discretion that can resist the wicked suggestions of poetry, in a place where truth, for once, furnishes all the ideas of pastoral? The summer is already far advanced in this part of the world; and, for some miles round Adrianople, the whole ground is laid out in gardens, and the banks of the river set with rows of fruittrees, under which all the most considerable Turks divert themselves every evening; not with walking, that is not one of their pleasures; but a set party of them choose out a green spot, where the shade is very thick, and there they spread a carpet, on which they sit drinking their coffee, and generally attended by some slave with a fine voice, or that plays on some instruThe young lads generally divert themselves with making garlands for their favorite lambs, which I have often seen, painted and adorned with flowers, lying at their feet while they sung or played. It is not that they ever fead romances, but these are the ancient amusements here, and as natural to them as cudgel-playing and football to our British swains; the softness and warmth of the climate forbidding all rough exercises, which were never so much as heard of amongst them, and naturally inspiring a laziness and aversion to labor, which the great plenty indulges. . . . I no longer look upon Theocritus as a romantic writer; he has only given a plain image of the way of life amongst the peasants of his country, who, before oppression had reduced them to want, were, I suppose, all employed as the better sort of them are now. I don't doubt, had he been born a Briton, his Idylliums had been filled with descriptions of threshing and churning, both which are unknown here, the corn being all trod out by oxen, and butter (I speak it with sorrow) unheard of.

I read over your Homer here with an infinite pleasure, and find several little passages explained, that I did not before entirely comprehend the beauty of; many of the customs, and much of the dress then in fashion, being yet retained; and I don't wonder to find more remains here of an age so distant, than is to be found in any other country, the Turks not taking that pains to introduce their own manners as has been generally practiced by other nations that imagine themselves more polite.

TO THE COUNTESS OF MAR

PERA OF CONSTANTINOPLE, March 10, 1718.

We travelers are in very hard circumstances. If we say nothing but what has been said before us, we are dull, and we have observed nothing. If we tell anything new, we are laughed at as fabulous and romantic, not allowing for the difference of ranks, which afford difference of company, more curiosity, or the change of customs, that happen every twenty years in every country. But people judge of travelers exactly with the same candor, good nature, and impartiality, they judge of their neighbors upon all occasions. For my part, if I live to return amongst you, I am so well acquainted with the morals of all my dear friends and acquaintance, that I am resolved to tell them nothing at all, to avoid the imputation (which their charity would certainly incline them to) of my telling too much. But I depend upon your knowing me enough to believe whatever I seriously assert for truth, though I give you leave to be surprised at an account so new to you.

But what would you say if I told you that I have been in a harem where the winter apartment was wainscoted with inlaid work of mother-of-pearl, ivory of different colors, and olive wood, exactly like the little boxes you have seen brought out of this country; and those rooms designed for summer, the walls all crusted with japan china, the roofs gilt, and the floors spread with the finest Persian carpets? Yet there is nothing more true; such is the palace of my lovely friend, the fair Fatima, whom I was acquainted with at Adrianople. I went to visit her yesterday; and, if possible, she appeared to me handsomer than before. She met me at the door of her chamber, and, giving me her hand with the best grace in the world, "You Christian ladies," said she, with a smile that made her as handsome as an angel, "have the reputation of inconstancy, and I did not expect, whatever goodness you expressed for me at Adrianople, that I should ever see you again. But I am now convinced that I have really the happiness of pleasing you; and if you knew how I speak of you amongst our ladies, you would be assured that you do me justice if you think me your friend." She placed me in the corner of the sofa, and I spent the afternoon in her conversation, with the greatest pleasure in the world.