to call vice should not have as fair play as what you choose to denominate virtue.

"To avoid the charge of egotism, I will say no more of myself, though I must own I was on the point of presenting you with a very astonishing history, but will proceed to the consideration of the subject alluded to above, which is that of the practice of acting and speaking with an intention to deceive, or what is vulgarly called a habit of lying. I maintain that the idea of sin will only then properly attach to this universal practice, when it destroys more pleasure than it procures, or tends actually to diminish the quantity of solid happiness permitted to mankind. To talk of any intrinsic turpitude in a lie, or any inward sense of corruption or reproach of conscience in the fabrication of an imposture, is an absurdity which every true philosopher must heartily despise, and which tends to rob life of all its spirit and pleasantry.

"Were the influence of truth, by the exertions of its advocates, to be very much increased upon earth, I should fear it would become a very sombre world, and lose all its merriment, almost all its amusement, and much of its good-humour. We should no longer see ignorance and deformity with smiling faces; and folly would want that confidence in itself which makes life so rich in ridicule and burlesque. Moreover, what a topsy-turvy disposition of things would result from such an arrangement in favour of truth! We should have physicians refusing fees for consciencesake, and apothecaries throwing away their gallipots and phials; officers declining promotion; bishops begging absolution; 'squires pulling off their hats to their coachmen; lords over-awed by chimneysweepers, and countesses confused in the presence of their dairy-maids. What is there like fiction that

sweetens and adorns life? It gives, as it were, a varnish to Nature's work, a sort of polish to our existence, and blends into one shining mass of gay confusion those mortifying differences and inequalities which are planted in the real constitution of things. No shape so crooked, no face so forbidding, no faculties so obtuse, no manners so coarse, but what may be kept in countenance by this lying system, which happily prevails more and more in the world.

"A sober inquiry into the nature of civilization and refinement will prove to us that these are only modifications of this great and ruling plan of imposition; and that in proportion as men advance in the art of lying, they advance in all the delicacies and elegancies of behaviour. Life itself is but one lengthened lie, with those who aspire to the praise of po lished manners, or, in other words, who undertake to keep mankind in good-humour with themselves. But not only in the lighter concerns of life does the happy operation of this system of imposture appear, but in its graver duties and employments it is of equal use and importance. So necessary an accomplishment is it thought to the most sanctified situations, that the whole bench of bishops receive their dignities with a manifest lie in their mouths, and declare themselves adverse to their exaltation, at the same time that all the world knows to what they have submitted to obtain it. The solemnity of aspect, and formality of deportment, assumed in certain professions, are nothing but grave lies and a more studied kind of imposture. This is the garnish of life, and without which, existence would hardly be swallowed.

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It is the same principle that governs us all. The bishop refuses his dignity, the physician his fee, and the lady her lover's kiss, in conformity with this

same universal rule of lying, to which all things must bend in a civilized country. Let us only reflect for a moment on the situation of the lover without this happy resource: what would become of all his gay comparisons and devout protestations? Alas! he could no longer assume that irresistible eloquence with which I seem to hear him repeat this tender falsehood— Indeed, my Laura, it is not your fortune, immense as it is, nor your person, though that was made for princes to bow before it, which has robbed me of my rest. No, by those eyes I swear, I am a martyr to your mind alone, in which I behold, as in a mirror, the very form of virtue reflected; and which taste and elegance, and wit and wisdom, have made their favourite abode.' But if the lover would have reason to repine at the overthrow of this lying system, how would the poet exist in such an inverted order of things? Tell him to be splendidè mendax no longer-no longer to devote his talents to the propagation and embellishment of lies, you impose silence upon him for ever, and wantonly throw up the greatest privilege of man, the right to be imposed upon.

"For my part, I am determined never to abandon this great ornament of our nature, and to be true to this lying system as long as I have the faculty of invention and the power of utterance. But as I consider it as my duty to lie, I consider it also as my province to believe, that I may be passively as well as actively a promoter of this enchanting commerce. There is therefore nothing so marvellous but what I easily admit, and nothing so incredible but what I receive as gospel; by which means I overflow with ideas, and have in a manner doubled my existence. I enjoy the spirit as well as the letter of life; can ramble, and be at home; know more than I know;

see more than I see; have two stories for every event, and two faces for every occasion. I am never put to the blush by any detection; and if a person gives me the lie, I take it as a compliment, and generally ask him to dinner. By your frequent quotations from Lucian, I presume he is a favourite author; on which account it rather surprises me that you have never entertained your readers with any of those pleasant stories related in his dialogue, called The Liars. Give me leave to conclude this long letter with a specimen from that ingenious ancient.

"You mean,' interrupted Arignotus, 'the famous Pancrates, my preceptor, a most divine man, and endued with a most expressive countenance; bald, with a flat nose, thick lips, and long legs; he used to wear a linen robe, and spoke the best Greek'— The same indeed,' cried Eucrates; though when I met him first, I did not know whom I had with me. But in the course of the voyage I observed him perform a great many wonderful actions, such as riding upon crocodiles, and swimming among sea-monsters, who, appearing perfectly subjected to him, would wag their tails, and fawn upon him. I soon began to consider him as something above humanity; and having by degrees acquired his friendship, he trusted me with all his secrets, and prevailed upon me to leave my servants at Memphis, and follow him; assuring me we should have no occasion for attendWhen he came to an inn, he would take the bar of the door, or a broom, or a wooden pestle, dress it properly, and repeating certain magical words, command it to walk about as a man. It would immediately proceed to draw water, prepare the dinner, and act in every respect as a dexterous waiter; but this secret I never could prevail upon

ants.

him to communicate, though his conduct in every other instance was extremely obliging. One day, however, I happened to overhear the charm, as we stood together in a dark place; and the morning after, while he was absent upon business in the market-place, I took my little pestle, dressed it up, and using the proper conjuration, commanded it to bring me some water. When it had filled the cask -Now leave off, my friend, said I, and be a pestle again. It refused, however, to obey me, and persevered in fetching water till the whole house was nearly deluged. I had forgotten the counter charm, and not knowing what to do in this difficulty, and being very much afraid of the displeasure of Pancrates, I took an axe, and split the pestle in two; but both the parts thus severed, carried off the pitcher, and continued to draw water; so that I saw my servants multiplying upon me, and my distress increasing in spite of all I could do; till at length Pancrates, coming in, reduced, in a moment, my retinue to wood, as before, and saved me from being overwhelmed by their assiduities. Pancrates, however, withdrew himself privately from me, and I never set eyes on him afterwards.'

“Now, Mr. Olive-Branch, I need not inform you that Eucrates was a very ancient man, and a very great philosopher : and yet among other philosophers of the first reputation, he did not scruple to tell this enormous lie. I may hope, therefore, that you will follow so respectable an example, and entertain your readers with some agreeable and engaging lies. In the mean time, I beg you to believe, if you can, that I am your most obliged, humble, obedient, and devoted servant,

"PSEUDOPHILUS."