Dickory Cronke

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PREFACE

The formality of a preface to this little boomight have been very well omitted, if it wernot to gratify the curiosity of some inquisitivpeople, who, I foresee, will be apt to make objections against the reality of the narrative.

Indeed the public has too often been imposeupon by fictitious stories, and some of a verlate date, so that I think myself obliged by thusual respect which is paid to candid and impartial readers, to acquaint them, by way ointroduction, with what they are to expect, anwhat they may depend upon, and yet with thcaution too, that it is an indication of ill natur

or ill manners, if not both, to pry into a secrthat is industriously concealed.

However, that there may be nothing wantinon my part, I do hereby assure the reader, tha

the papers from whence the following shee



were extracted, are now in town, in the custodof a person of unquestionable reputation, whI will be bold to say, will not only be ready, bu

proud, to produce them upon a good occasionand that I think is as much satisfaction as thnature of this case requires.

As to the performance, it can signify little now

to make an apology upon that account, anfarther than this, that if the reader pleases hmay take notice that what he has now beforhim was collected from a large bundle of papers, most of which were writ in shorthandand very ill-digested. However, this may brelied upon, that though the language is somthing altered, and now and then a word throwin to help the expression, yet strict care ha

been taken to speak the author’s mind, ankeep as close as possible to the meaning of thoriginal. For the design, I think there is nothinneed be said in vindication of that. Here is dumb philosopher introduced to a wicked an



degenerate generation, as a proper emblem ovirtue and morality; and if the world could bpersuaded to look upon him with candour an

impartiality, and then to copy after him, theditor has gained his end, and would thinhimself sufficiently recompensed for his present trouble.

PART I

Among the many strange and surprising eventhat help to fill the accounts of this last century

I know none that merit more an entire credit, oare more fit to be preserved and handed to poterity than those I am now going to lay beforthe public.

Dickory Cronke, the subject of the followinnarrative, was born at a little hamlet, near SColumb, in Cornwall, on the 29th of May, 166being the day and year in which King Charle

the Second was restored. His parents were o



mean extraction, but honest, industrious people, and well beloved in their neighbourhoodHis father’s chief business was to work at th

tin mines; his mother stayed at home to looafter the children, of which they had severliving at the same time. Our Dickory was thyoungest, and being but a sickly child, had aways a double portion of her care and tende

ness.

It was upwards of three years before it wadiscovered that he was born dumb, the knowedge of which at first gave his mother greauneasiness, but finding soon after that he hahis hearing, and all his other senses to thgreatest perfection, her grief began to abatand she resolved to have him brought up a

well as their circumstances and his capacitwould permit.

As he grew, notwithstanding his want ospeech, he every day gave some instance of

ready genius, and a genius much superior t



the country children, insomuch that severgentlemen in the neighbourhood took particular notice of him, and would often call him Re

toration Dick, and give him money, &c.

When he came to be eight years of age, hmother agreed with a person in the next villagto teach him to read and write, both which, in

very short time, he acquired to such perfectionespecially the latter, that he not only taught hown brothers and sisters, but likewise severyoung men and women in the neighbourhoodwhich often brought him in small sums, whiche always laid out in such necessaries as hstood most in need of.

In this state he continued till he was abou

twenty, and then he began to reflect how scandalous it was for a young man of his age ancircumstances to live idle at home, and so resolves to go with his father to the mines, to trif he could get something towards the suppo

of himself and the family; but being of a tende



constitution, and often sick, he soon perceivethat sort of business was too hard for him, swas forced to return home and continue in h

former station; upon which he grew exceedinmelancholy, which his mother observing, shcomforted him in the best manner she couldtelling him that if it should please God to takher away, she had something left in store fo

him, which would preserve him against publwant.

This kind assurance from a mother whom he sdearly loved gave him some, though not aentire satisfaction; however, he resolves to aquiesce under it till Providence should ordesomething for him more to his content and advantage, which, in a short time happened a

cording to his wish. The manner was thus:—

One Mr. Owen Parry, a Welsh gentleman ogood repute, coming from Bristol to Padstow, little seaport in the county of Cornwall, nea

the place where Dickory dwelt, and hearin



much of this dumb man’s perfections, woulneeds have him sent for; and finding, by hsignificant gestures and all outward appea

ances that he much exceeded the character thathe country gave of him, took a mighty liking thim, insomuch that he told him, if he would gwith him into Pembrokeshire, he would bkind to him, and take care of him as long as h

lived.

This kind and unexpected offer was so wecome to poor Dickory, that without any fartheconsideration, he got a pen and ink and writ note, and in a very handsome and submissivmanner returned him thanks for his favouassuring him he would do his best to continuand improve it; and that he would be ready t

wait upon him whenever he should be pleaseto command.

To shorten the account as much as possible, athings were concluded to their mutual satisfa

tion, and in about a fortnight’s time they se



forward for Wales, where Dickory, notwithstanding his dumbness, behaved himself witso much diligence and affability, that he no

only gained the love of the family where hlived, but of everybody round him.

In this station he continued till the death of hmaster, which happened about twenty year

afterwards; in all which time, as has been confirmed by several of the family, he was neveobserved to be any ways disguised by drinkingor to be guilty of any of the follies and irregularities incident to servants in gentlemenhouses. On the contrary, when he had anspare time, his constant custom was to retirwith some good book into a private placwithin call, and there employ himself in read

ing, and then writing down his observationupon what he read.

After the death of his master, whose loss aflicted him to the last degree, one Mrs. Mar

Mordant, a gentlewoman of great virtue an



piety, and a very good fortune, took him inther service, and carried him with her, first tBath, and then to Bristol, where, after a linge

ing distemper, which continued for about fouyears, she died likewise.

Upon the loss of his mistress, Dickory grewagain exceeding melancholy and disconsolat

at length, reflecting that death is but a commodebt which all mortals owe to nature, and mube paid sooner or later, he became a little bettesatisfied, and so determines to get togethewhat he had saved in his service, and then treturn to his native country, and there finish hlife in privacy and retirement.

Having been, as has been mentioned, abou

twenty-four years a servant, and having, in thinterim, received two legacies, viz., one othirty pounds, left him by his master, and another of fifteen pounds by his mistress, anbeing always very frugal, he had got by him i

the whole upwards of sixty pounds. Thi



thinks he, with prudent management, will benough to support me as long as I live, and sI’ll e’en lay aside all thoughts of future bus

ness, and make the best of my way to Cornwaland there find out some safe and solitary retreat, where I may have liberty to meditate anmake my melancholy observations upon thseveral occurrences of human life.

This resolution prevailed so far, that no timwas let slip to get everything in readiness to gwith the first ship. As to his money, he alwaykept that locked up by him, unless he sometimes lent it to a friend without interest, for hhad a mortal hatred to all sorts of usury or extortion. His books, of which he had a consideable quantity, and some of them very goo

ones, together with his other equipage, he gopacked up, that nothing might be wantinagainst the first opportunity.

In a few days he heard of a vessel bound t

Padstow, the very port he wished to go to, be



ing within four or five miles of the place wherhe was born. When he came thither, which wain less than a week, his first business was t

inquire after the state of his family. It wasome time before he could get any informatioof them, until an old man that knew his fatheand mother, and remembered they had a sowas born dumb, recollected him, and after

great deal of difficulty, made him understanthat all his family except his youngest sistewere dead, and that she was a widow, anlived at a little town called St. Helen’s, abou

ten miles farther in the country.

This doleful news, we must imagine, must bextremely shocking, and add a new sting to hformer affliction; and here it was that he bega

to exercise the philosopher, and to demonstrathimself both a wise and a good man. All thesthings, thinks he, are the will of Providencand must not be disputed; and so he bore uunder them with an entire resignation, resolv



ing that, as soon as he could find a place wherhe might deposit his trunk and boxes witsafety, he would go to St. Helen’s in quest o

his sister.

How his sister and he met, and how tranported they were to see each other after so lonan interval, I think is not very material. It

enough for the present purpose that Dickorsoon recollected his sister, and she him; anafter a great many endearing tokens of love antenderness, he wrote to her, telling her that hbelieved Providence had bestowed on him amuch as would support him as long as hlived, and that if she thought proper he woulcome and spend the remainder of his days wither.

The good woman no sooner read his proposthan she accepted it, adding, withal, that shcould wish her entertainment was better; but he would accept of it as it was, she would d

her best to make everything easy, and that h



should be welcome upon his own terms, to stawith her as long as he pleased.

This affair being so happily settled to his fusatisfaction, he returns to Padstow to fetch ththings he had left behind him, and the next dacame back to St. Helen’s, where, according this own proposal, he continued to the day o

his death, which happened upon the 29th oMay, 1718, about the same hour in which hwas born.

Having thus given a short detail of the sever

periods of his life, extracted chiefly from thpapers which he left behind him, I come in thnext place to make a few observations how hmanaged himself and spent his time toward th

latter part of it.His constant practice, both winter and summewas to rise and set with the sun; and if thweather would permit, he never failed to wal

in some unfrequented place, for three hour



both morning and evening, and there it is supposed he composed the following meditationsThe chief part of his sustenance was milk, wit

a little bread boiled in it, of which in the morning, after his walk, he would eat the quantity oa pint, and sometimes more. Dinners he neveeat any; and at night he would only have pretty large piece of bread, and drink a draugh

of good spring water; and after this method hlived during the whole time he was at SHelen’s. It is observed of him that he neveslept out of a bed, nor never lay awake in on

which I take to be an argument, not only of strong and healthful constitution, but of a mincomposed and calm, and entirely free from thordinary disturbances of human life. He nevegave the least signs of complaint or dissatisfa

tion at anything, unless it was when he hearthe tinners swear, or saw them drunk; anthen, too, he would get out of the way as sooas he had let them see, by some significansigns, how scandalous and ridiculous the



made themselves; and against the next time hmet them, would be sure to have a paper readwritten, wherein he would represent the foll

of drunkenness, and the dangerous consequences that generally attended it.

Idleness was his utter aversion, and if at antime he had finished the business of the day

and was grown weary of reading and writingin which he daily spent six hours at least, hwould certainly find something either withidoors or without, to employ himself.

Much might be said both with regard to thwise and regular management, and the prudenmethods he took to spend his time well towards the declension of his life; but, as his hi

tory may perhaps be shortly published at largby a better hand, I shall only observe in thgeneral, that he was a person of great wisdomand sagacity. He understood nature beyonthe ordinary capacity, and, if he had had

competency of learning suitable to his geniu



neither this nor the former ages would havproduced a better philosopher or a greateman.

I come next to speak of the manner of his deatand the consequences thereof, which are, indeed, very surprising, and, perhaps, not altogether unworthy a general observation. I sha

relate them as briefly as I can, and leave everone to believe or disbelieve as he thinks proper

Upon the 26th of May, 1718, according to husual method, about four in the afternoon, h

went out to take his evening walk; but beforhe could reach the place he intended, he wasiezed with an apoplectic fit, which only gavhim liberty to sit down under a tree, where, i

an instant, he was deprived of all manner osense and motion, and so he continued, as appears by his own confession afterwards, fomore than fourteen hours.



His sister, who knew how exact he was in ahis methods, finding him stay a considerabtime beyond the usual hour, concludes tha

some misfortune must needs have happened thim, or he would certainly have been at hombefore. In short, she went immediately to athe places he was wont to frequent, but nothincould be heard or seen of him till the next mo

ning, when a young man, as he was going twork, discovered him, and went home and tolhis sister that her brother lay in such a placunder a tree, and, as he believed had been rob

bed and murdered.

The poor woman, who had all night been under the most dreadful apprehensions, was nowfrightened and confounded to the last degree

However, recollecting herself, and findinthere was no remedy, she got two or three oher neighbours to bear her company, and shastened with the young man to the tree, wher



she found her brother lying in the same posturthat he had described.

The dismal object at first view startled and suprised everybody present, and filled them fuof different notions and conjectures. But somof the company going nearer to him, and finding that he had lost nothing, and that ther

were no marks of any violence to be discovereabout him, they conclude that it must be aapoplectic or some other sudden fit that hasurprised him in his walk, upon which his siter and the rest began to feel his hands anface, and observing that he was still warm, anthat there were some symptoms of life yet remaining, they conclude that the best way wato carry him home to bed, which was accord

ingly done with the utmost expedition.

When they had got him into the bed, nothinwas omitted that they could think of to brinhim to himself, but still he continued utterl

insensible for about six hours. At the sixt



hour’s end he began to move a little, and in very short time was so far recovered, to thgreat astonishment of everybody about him

that he was able to look up, and to make a sigto his sister to bring him a cup of water.

After he had drunk the water he soon peceived that all his faculties were returned t

their former stations, and though his strengtwas very much abated by the length and rigouof the fit, yet his intellects were as strong anvigorous as ever.

His sister observing him to look earnestly upothe company, as if he had something extraordnary to communicate to them, fetched him pen and ink and a sheet of paper, which, after

short pause, he took, and wrote as follows:—“Dear sister,

“I have now no need of pen, ink, and paper, ttell you my meaning. I find the strings th



bound up my tongue, and hindered me fromspeaking, are unloosed, and I have words texpress myself as freely and distinctly as an

other person. From whence this strange anunexpected event should proceed, I must nopretend to say, any farther than this, that it doubtless the hand of Providence that has donit, and in that I ought to acquiesce. Pray let m

be alone for two or three hours, that I may be aliberty to compose myself, and put mthoughts in the best order I can before I leavthem behind me.”

The poor woman, though extremely startled what her brother had written, yet took care tconceal it from the neighbours, who, she knewas well as she, must be mightily surprised at

thing so utterly unexpected. Says she, my broher desires to be alone; I believe he may havsomething in his mind that disturbs him. Upowhich the neighbours took their leave and r



turned home, and his sister shut the door, anleft him alone to his private contemplations.

After the company were withdrawn he fell inta sound sleep, which lasted from two till siand his sister, being apprehensive of the returof his fit, came to the bedside, and, askinsoftly if he wanted anything, he turned about t

her and spoke to this effect: Dear sister, you seme not only recovered out of a terrible fit, bulikewise that I have the liberty of speech, blessing that I have been deprived of almosixty years, and I am satisfied you are sincereljoyful to find me in the state I now am in; bualas! it is but a mistaken kindness. These arthings but of short duration, and if they were tcontinue for a hundred years longer, I can’t se

how I should be anyways the better.

I know the world too well to be fond of it, anam fully satisfied that the difference between long and a short life is insignificant, especiall

when I consider the accidents and company



am to encounter. Do but look seriously animpartially upon the astonishing notion of timand eternity, what an immense deal has run ou

already, and how infinite it is still in the futurdo but seriously and deliberately consider thiand you will find, upon the whole, that thredays and three ages of life come much to thsame measure and reckoning.

As soon as he had ended his discourse upothe vanity and uncertainty of human life, hlooked steadfastly upon her. Sister, says he,conjure you not to be disturbed at what I amgoing to tell you, which you will undoubtedlfind to be true in every particular. I perceivmy glass is run, and I have now no more to din this world but to take my leave of it; for to

morrow about this time my speech will bagain taken from me, and, in a short time, mfit will return; and the next day, which I undestand is the day on which I came into this troublesome world, I shall exchange it for anothe



where, for the future, I shall for ever be frefrom all manner of sin and sufferings.

The good woman would have made him a reply, but he prevented her by telling her he hano time to hearken to unnecessary complainor animadversions. I have a great many thingin my mind, says he, that require a speedy an

serious consideration. The time I have to stais but short, and I have a great deal of impotant business to do in it. Time and death arboth in my view, and seem both to call aloud tme to make no delay. I beg of you, therefornot to disquiet yourself or me. What must bmust be. The decrees of Providence are eternand unalterable; why, then, should we tormenourselves about that which we cannot remedy

I must confess, my dear sister, I owe you manobligations for your exemplary fondness to mand do solemnly assure you I shall retain thsense of them to the last moment. All that

have to request of you is, that I may be alon



for this night. I have it in my thoughts to leavsome short observations behind me, and likewise to discover some things of great weigh

which have been revealed to me, which maperhaps be of some use hereafter to you anyour friends. What credit they may meet withcannot say, but depend the consequence, acording to their respective periods, will accoun

for them, and vindicate them against the supposition of falsity and mere suggestion.

Upon this, his sister left him till about four ithe morning, when coming to his bedside tknow if he wanted anything, and how he harested, he made her this answer; I have beetaking a cursory view of my life, and thoughfind myself exceedingly deficient in sever

particulars, yet I bless God I cannot find I havany just grounds to suspect my pardon. Ishort, says he, I have spent this night with morinward pleasure and true satisfaction than eve



I spent a night through the whole course of mlife.

After he had concluded what he had to saupon the satisfaction that attended an innocenand well-spent life, and observed what mighty consolation it was to persons, not onlunder the apprehension, but even in the ver

agonies of death itself, he desired her to brinhim his usual cup of water, and then to helhim on with his clothes, that he might sit upand so be in a better posture to take his leave oher and her friends.

When she had taken him up, and placed him aa table where he usually sat, he desired her tbring him his box of papers, and after he ha

collected those he intended should be preserved, he ordered her to bring a candle, thhe might see the rest burnt. The good womaseemed at first to oppose the burning of hpapers, till he told her they were only useles

trifles, some unfinished observations which h



had made in his youthful days, and were not fto be seen by her, or anybody that should comafter him.

After he had seen his papers burnt, and placethe rest in their proper order, and had likewissettled all his other affairs, which was only fto be done between himself and his sister, h

desired her to call two or three of the moreputable neighbours, not only to be witnesseof his will, but likewise to hear what he hafarther to communicate before the return of hfit, which he expected very speedily.

His sister, who had beforehand acquainted twor three of her confidants with all that had happened, was very much rejoiced to hear her bro

her make so unexpected a concession; and accordingly, without any delay or hesitationwent directly into the neighbourhood, anbrought home her two select friends, upowhose secrecy and sincerity she knew sh

might depend upon all accounts.



In her absence he felt several symptoms of thapproach of his fit, which made him a littuneasy, lest it should entirely seize him befor

he had perfected his will, but that apprehensiowas quickly removed by her speedy returnAfter she had introduced her friends into hchamber, he proceeded to express himself ithe following manner; Dear sister, you now se

your brother upon the brink of eternity; and athe words of dying persons are commonly thmost regarded, and make deepest impressionI cannot suspect but you will suffer the few

am about to say to have always some place iyour thoughts, that they may be ready for yoto make use of upon any occasion.

Do not be fond of anything on this side of ete

nity, or suffer your interest to incline you tbreak your word, quit your modesty, or to danything that will not bear the light, and loothe world in the face. For be assured of this; thperson that values the virtue of his mind an



the dignity of his reason, is always easy anwell fortified both against death and misfotune, and is perfectly indifferent about th

length or shortness of his life. Such a one solicitous about nothing but his own conducand for fear he should be deficient in the dutieof religion, and the respective functions of reason and prudence.

Always go the nearest way to work. Now, thnearest way through all the business of humalife, are the paths of religion and honesty, ankeeping those as directly as you can, you avoiall the dangerous precipices that often lie in throad, and sometimes block up the passage entirely.

Remember that life was but lent at first, anthat the remainder is more than you have reason to expect, and consequently ought to bmanaged with more than ordinary diligence. wise man spends every day as if it were h



last; his hourglass is always in his hand, and his never guilty of sluggishness or insincerity.

He was about to proceed, when a suddesymptom of the return of his fit put him imind that it was time to get his will witnessedwhich was no sooner done but he took it uand gave it to his sister, telling her that thoug

all he had was hers of right, yet he thought proper, to prevent even a possibility of a dipute, to write down his mind in the nature ofwill, wherein I have given you, says he, thlittle that I have left, except my books and papers, which, as soon as I am dead, I desire mabe delivered to Mr. Anthony Barlow, a nearelation of my worthy master, Mr. Owen Parry

This Mr. Anthony Barlow was an old contemplative Welsh gentleman, who, being undesome difficulties in his own country, waforced to come into Cornwall and take sanctuary among the tinners. Dickory, though h

kept himself as retired as possible, happened t



meet him one day upon his walks, and preently remembered that he was the very persothat used frequently to come to visit his maste

while he lived in Pembrokeshire, and so wento him, and by signs made him understanwho he was.

The old gentleman, though at first surprised a

this unexpected interview, soon recollected thahe had formerly seen at Mr. Parry’s a dumman, whom they used to call the dumb phlosopher, so concludes immediately that consquently this must be he. In short, they soomade themselves known to each other; anfrom that time contracted a strict friendshiand a correspondence by letters, which for thfuture they mutually managed with the grea

est exactness and familiarity.

But to leave this as a matter not much materiaand to return to our narrative. By this timDickory’s speech began to falter, which his si

ter observing, put him in mind that he woul



do well to make some declaration of his faitand principles of religion, because some refletions had been made upon him upon the a

count of his neglect, or rather his refusal, tappear at any place of public worship.

“Dear sister,” says he, “you observe very weland I wish the continuance of my speech for

few moments, that I might make an ample delaration upon that account. But I find that cannot be; my speech is leaving me so fast thatcan only tell you that I have always lived, annow die, an unworthy member of the anciencatholic and apostolic church; and as to mfaith and principles, I refer you to my paperwhich, I hope, will in some measure vindicatme against the reflections you mention.”

He had hardly finished his discourse to his siter and her two friends, and given some shodirections relating to his burial, but his speecleft him; and what makes the thing the mor

remarkable, it went away, in all appearanc



without giving him any sort of pain or uneasness.

When he perceived that his speech was entirelvanished, and that he was again in his originstate of dumbness, he took his pen as formerland wrote to his sister, signifying that whereathe sudden loss of his speech had deprived him

of the opportunity to speak to her and hefriends what he intended, he would leave it fothem in writing, and so desired he might not bdisturbed till the return of his fit, which he expected in six hours at farthest. According to hdesire they all left him, and then, with the greatest resignation imaginable, he wrote down thmeditations following:

PART II

An Abstract of his Faith, and the Principles ohis Religion &c., which begins thus:



Dear Sister; I thank you for putting me in minto make a declaration of my faith, and the principles of my religion. I find, as you very we

observe, I have been under some reflectionupon that account, and therefore I think highly requisite that I set that matter right ithe first place. To begin, therefore, with mfaith, in which I intend to be as short and a

comprehensive as I can:

1. I most firmly believe that it was the eternwill of God, and the result of his infinite widom, to create a world, and for the glory of hmajesty to make several sorts of creatures iorder and degree one after another; that is tsay, angels, or pure immortal spirits; men, consisting of immortal spirits and matter, havin

rational and sensitive souls; brutes, havinmortal and sensitive souls; and mere vegetatives, such as trees, plants, &c.; and these creatures so made do, as it were, clasp the higheand lower world together.



2. I believe the holy Scriptures, and everythintherein contained, to be the pure and essentiword of God; and that, according to these sa

cred writings, man, the lord and prince of thcreation, by his disobedience in Paradise, fofeited his innocence and the dignity of his nature, and subjected himself and all his posteritto sin and misery.

3. I believe and am fully and entirely satisfiedthat God the Father, out of his infinite goodnesand compassion to mankind, was pleased tsend his only Son, the second person in thholy and undivided Trinity, to meditate fohim, and to procure his redemption and eternsalvation.

4. I believe that God the Son, out of his infinitlove, and for the glory of the Deity, was pleasevoluntarily and freely to descend from heavenand to take our nature upon him, and to leaan exemplary life of purity, holiness, and pe

fect obedience, and at last to suffer an igno



minious death upon the cross, for the sins othe whole world, and to rise again the third dafor our justification.

5. I believe that the Holy Ghost out of his infnite goodness was pleased to undertake thoffice of sanctifying us with his divine gracand thereby assisting us with faith to believ

will to desire, and power to do all those thingthat are required of us in this world, in order tentitle us to the blessings of just men made pefect in the world to come.

6. I believe that these three persons are of equpower, majesty, and duration, and that thGodhead of the Father, of the Son, and of thHoly Ghost is all one, and that they are equall

uncreate, incomprehensible, eternal, and amighty; and that none is greater or less than thother, but that every one hath one and the samdivine nature and perfections.



These, sister, are the doctrines which have beereceived and practised by the best men of everage, from the beginning of the Christian relig

ion to this day, and it is upon this I ground mfaith and hopes of salvation, not doubting buif my life and practice have been answerable tthem, that I shall be quickly translated out othis kingdom of darkness, out of this world o

sorrow, vexation and confusion, into thablessed kingdom, where I shall cease to grievand to suffer, and shall be happy to all eternity

As to my principles in religion, to be as brief aI can, I declare myself to be a member oChrist’s church, which I take to be a universsociety of all Christian people, distributed under lawful governors and pastors into particu

lar churches, holding communion with eacother in all the essentials of the Christian faithworship, and discipline; and among these look upon the Church of England to be thchief and best constituted.



times collected together, more particularlthose since my retirement to St. Helen’s.

Meditations and Observations relating t

the Conduct of Human Life in general.

1. Remember how often you have neglectethe great duties of religion and virtue, an

slighted the opportunities that Providence haput into your hands; and, withal, that you hava set period assigned you for the managemenof the affairs of human life; and then refleseriously that, unless you resolve immediatel

to improve the little remains, the whole munecessarily slip away insensibly, and then yoare lost beyond recovery.

2. Let an unaffected gravity, freedom, justicand sincerity shine through all your actionand let no fancies and chimeras give the leacheck to those excellent qualities. This is aeasy task, if you will but suppose everythin

you do to be your last, and if you can keep you



passions and appetites from crossing your reason. Stand clear of rashness, and have nothinof insincerity or self-love to infect you.

3. Manage all your thoughts and actions witsuch prudence and circumspection as if yowere sensible you were just going to step intthe grave. A little thinking will show a man th

vanity and uncertainty of all sublunary thingand enable him to examine maturely the manner of dying; which, if duly abstracted from thterror of the idea, will appear nothing morthan an unavoidable appendix of life itself, ana pure natural action.

4. Consider that ill-usage from some sort opeople is in a manner necessary, and therefor

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 littltime your very memories will be extinguished



5. Among your principal observations upohuman life, let it be always one to take noticwhat a great deal both of time and ease th

man gains who is not troubled with the spirit ocuriosity, who lets his neighbours’ affairs alonand confines his inspections to himself, anonly takes care of honesty and a good conscience.

6. If you would live at your ease, and as mucas possible be free from the incumbrances olife, manage but a few things at once, and lthose, too, be such as are absolutely necessaryBy this rule you will draw the bulk of your business into a narrow compass, and have thdouble pleasure of making your actions goodand few into the bargain.

7. He that torments himself because things dnot happen just as he would have them, is butsort of ulcer in the world; and he that is selfishnarrow-souled, and sets up for a separate inte



est, is a kind of voluntary outlaw, and disincorporates himself from mankind.

8. Never think anything below you which reason and your own circumstances require, annever suffer yourself to be deterred by the ilgrounded notions of censure and reproach; buwhen honesty and conscience prompt you t

say or do anything, do it boldly; never balyour resolution or start at the consequence.

9. If a man does me an injury, what is that tme? It is his own action, and let him accoun

for it. As for me, I am in my proper stationand only doing the business that Providenchas allotted; and withal, I ought to considethat the best way to revenge, is not to imitat

the injury.10. When you happen to be ruffled and put ouof humour by any cross accident, retire immediately into your reason, and do not suffer you

passion to overrule you a moment; for the soo



ner you recover yourself now, the better yowill be able to guard yourself for the future.

11. Do not be like those ill-natured people thathough they do not love to give a good word ttheir contemporaries, yet are mighty fond otheir own commendations. This argues a peverse and unjust temper, and often exposes th

authors to scorn and contempt.

12. If any one convinces you of an error, change your opinion and thank him for it: truth aninformation are your business, and can neve

hurt anybody. On the contrary, he that proud and stubborn, and wilfully continues ia mistake, it is he that receives the mischief.

13. Because you see a thing difficult, do no

instantly conclude it to be impossible to masteit. Diligence and industry are seldom defeated. Look, therefore, narrowly into the thinitself, and what you observe proper and pract



cable in another, conclude likewise within youown power.

14. The principal business of human life is ruthrough within the short compass of twentyfour hours; and when you have taken a deliberate view of the present age, you have seen amuch as if you had begun with the world, th

rest being nothing else but an endless round othe same thing over and over again.

15. Bring your will to your fate, and suit youmind to your circumstances. Love your friend

and forgive your enemies, and do justice to amankind, and you will be secure to make youpassage easy, and enjoy most of the comforhuman life is capable to afford you.

16. When you have a mind to entertain youself in your retirements, let it be with the gooqualifications of your friends and acquainance. Think with pleasure and satisfactio

upon the honour and bravery of one, the mod



world, and to be even, that all the world wihave forgot us likewise.

20. He that would recommend himself to thpublic, let him do it by the candour and modesty of his behaviour, and by a generous indiference to external advantages. Let him lovmankind, and resign to Providence, and the

his works will follow him, and his good actionwill praise him in the gate.

21. When you hear a discourse, let your undestanding, as far as possible, keep pace with i

and lead you forward to those things which famost within the compass of your own observations.

22. When vice and treachery shall be re

warded, and virtue and ability slighted andiscountenanced; when ministers of state sharather fear man than God, and to screen themselves run into parties and factions; when nois

and clamour, and scandalous reports sha



carry everything before them, it is natural tconclude that a nation in such a state of infatuation stands upon the brink of destruction, an

without the intervention of some unforeseeaccident, must be inevitably ruined.

23. When a prince is guarded by wise and honest men, and when all public officers are sure t

be rewarded if they do well, and punished they do evil, the consequence is plain; justicand honesty will flourish, and men will be aways contriving, not for themselves, but for thhonour and interest of their king and country.

24. Wicked men may sometimes go unpunished in this world, but wicked nations nevedo; because this world is the only place of pun

ishment of wicked nations, though not for prvate and particular persons.

25. An administration that is merely foundeupon human policy must be always subject t

human chance; but that which is founded o



the divine wisdom can no more miscarry thathe government of heaven. To govern by paties and factions is the advice of an atheist, an

sets up a government by the spirit of Satan. Isuch a government the prince can never be scure under the greatest promises, since, amen’s interest changes, so will their duty anaffections likewise.

26. It is a very ancient observation, and a vertrue one, that people generally despise wherthey flatter, and cringe to those they design tbetray; so that truth and ceremony are, analways will be, two distinct things.

27. When you find your friend in an error, undeceive him with secrecy and civility, and l

him see his oversight first by hints and glanceand if you cannot convince him, leave him witrespect, and lay the fault upon your own management.



28. When you are under the greatest vexationthen consider that human life lasts but for moment; and do not forget but that you are lik

the rest of the world, and faulty yourself imany instances; and withal, remember thanger and impatience often prove more michievous than the provocation.

29. Gentleness and good humour are invincble, provided they are without hypocrisy andesign; they disarm the most barbarous ansavage tempers, and make even malicashamed of itself.

30. In all the actions of life let it be your firand principal care to guard against anger othe one hand, and flattery on the other, for the

are both unserviceable qualities, and do a greadeal of mischief in the government of humalife.

31. When a man turns knave or libertine, an

gives way to fear, jealousy, and fits of th



spleen; when his mind complains of his fotune, and he quits the station in which Provdence has placed him, he acts perfectly counte

to humanity, deserts his own nature, and, as 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 actionfriendly, and your mind contented; let themcurse you, threaten you, or despise you; lthem go on; they can never injure your reasoor your virtue, and then all the rest that thecan do to you signifies nothing.

33. The only pleasure of human life is dointhe business of the creation; and which way

that to be compassed very easily? Most cetainly by the practice of general kindness, brejecting the importunity of our senses, by ditinguishing truth from falsehood, and by contemplating the works of the Almighty.



34. Be sure to mind that which lies before youwhether it be thought, word, or action; annever postpone an opportunity, or make virtu

wait for you till to-morrow.

35. Whatever tends neither to the improvemenof your reason nor the benefit of society, thinit below you; and when you have done an

considerable service to mankind, do not lesseit by your folly in gaping after reputation anrequital.

36. When you find yourself sleepy in a morn

ing, rouse yourself, and consider that you arborn to business, and that in doing good iyour generation, you answer your characteand act like a man; whereas sleep and idlenes

do but degrade you, and sink you down to brute.

37. A mind that has nothing of hope, or fear, oaversion, or desire, to weaken and disturb it,

the most impregnable security. Hither we ma



with safety retire and defy our enemies; and hthat sees not this advantage must be extremelignorant, and he that forgets it unhappy.

38. Do not disturb yourself about the faults oother people, but let everybody’s crimes be atheir own door. Have always this great maximin your remembrance, that to play the knave

to rebel against religion; all sorts of injusticbeing no less than high treason against Heaveitself.

39. Do not contemn death, but meet it with

decent and religious fortitude, and look upon as one of those things which Providence haordered. If you want a cordial to make the apprehensions of dying go down a little the mor

easily, consider what sort of world and whasort of company you will part with. To conclude, do but look seriously into the world, anthere you will see multitudes of people prepaing for funerals, and mourning for their friend

and acquaintances; and look out again a littl



afterwards, and you will see others doing thvery same thing for them.

40. In short, men are but poor transitorthings. To-day they are busy and harassewith the affairs of human life; and to-morrowlife itself is taken from them, and they are returned to their original dust and ashes.

PART III

Containing prophetic observations relating t

the affairs of Europe and of Great Britain, morparticularly from 1720 to 1729.

1. In the latter end of 1720, an eminent old ladshall bring forth five sons at a birth; the young

est shall live and grow up to maturity, but thfour eldest shall either die in the nursery, or ball carried off by one sudden and unexpecteaccident.



2. About this time a man with a double heashall arrive in Britain from the south. One othese heads shall deliver messages of great im

portance to the governing party, and the otheto the party that is opposite to them. The firshall believe the monster, but the last shall dicover the impostor, and so happily disengagthemselves from a snare that was laid to de

stroy them and their posterity. After this thtwo heads shall unite, and the monster shaappear in his proper shape.

3. In the year 1721, a philosopher from LoweGermany shall come, first to Amsterdam iHolland, and afterwards to London. He wibring with him a world of curiosities, anamong them a pretended secret for the tran

mutation of metals. Under the umbrage of thmighty secret he shall pass upon the world fosome time; but at length he shall be detectedand proved to be nothing but an empiric and cheat, and so forced to sneak off, and leave th



people he has deluded, either to bemoan theloss, or laugh at their own folly. N.B.—Thwill be the last of his sect that will ever ventur

in this part of the world upon the same errand

4. In this year great endeavours will be usefor procuring a general peace, which shall be snear a conclusion that public rejoicings shall b

made at the courts of several great potentateupon that account; but just in the critical junture, a certain neighbouring prince shall comto a violent death, which shall occasion newwar and commotion all over Europe; but thesshall continue but for a short time, and at laterminate in the utter destruction of the firaggressors.

5. Towards the close of this year of mysteries,person that was born blind shall have his sighrestored, and shall see ravens perch upon thheads of traitors, among which the head of notorious prelate shall stand upon the highe

pole.



6. In the year 1722, there shall be a grand congress, and new overtures of peace offered bmost of the principal parties concerned in th

war, which shall have so good effect that a cesation of arms shall be agreed upon for smonths, which shall be kept inviolable till certain general, either through treachery oinadvertency, shall begin hostilities before th

expiration of the term; upon which the injureprince shall draw his sword, and throw thscabbard into the sea, vowing never to return till he shall obtain satisfaction for himself, an

done justice to all that were oppressed.

7. At the close of this year, a famous bridgshall be broken down, and the water that rununder it shall be tinctured with the blood o

two notorious malefactors, whose unexpectedeath shall make mighty alterations in the present state of affairs, and put a stop to the ruin oa nation, which must otherwise have been unavoidable.



8. 1723 begins with plots, conspiracies, anintestine commotions in several countries; noshall Great Britain itself be free from the calam

ity. These shall continue till a certain younprince shall take the reins of government inthis own hands; and after that, a marriage shabe proposed, and an alliance concluded between two great potentates, who shall join the

forces, and endeavour, in good earnest, to sall matters upon a right foundation.

9. This year several cardinals and prelates shabe publicly censured for heretical principleand shall narrowly escape from being torn tpieces by the common people, who still looupon them as the grand disturbers of publtranquillity, perfect incendiaries, and the chie

promoters of their former, present, and futurcalamities.

10. In 1724-5 there will be many treaties annegociations, and Great Britain, particularly

will be crowded with foreign ministers an



ambassadors from remote princes and statesTrade and commerce will begin to flourish anrevive, and everything will have a comfortabl

prospect, until some desperadoes, assisted by monster with many heads, shall start new diffculties, and put the world again into a flambut these shall be but of short duration.

11. Before the expiration of 1725, an eagle fromthe north shall fly directly to the south, anperch upon the palace of a prince, and first unravel the bloody projects and designs of a wicked set of people, and then publicly discovethe murder of a great king, and the intendeassassination of another greater than he.

12. In 1726, three princes will be born that wi

grow up to be men, and inherit the crowns othree of the greatest monarchies in Europe.

13. About this time the pope will die, and aftea great many intrigues and struggles, a Spanis

cardinal shall be elected, who shall decline th



dignity, and declare his marriage with a grelady, heiress of one of the chief principalities iItaly, which may occasion new troubles in Eu

rope, if not timely prevented.

14. In 1727, new troubles shall break out in thnorth, occasioned by the sudden death of a cetain prince, and the avarice and ambition o

another. Poor Poland seems to be pointed abut the princes of the south shall enter into confederacy to preserve her, and shall at lengtrestore her peace, and prevent the perpeturuin of her constitution.

15. Great endeavours will be used about thtime for a comprehension in religion, supported by crafty and designing men, and

party of mistaken zealots, which they shall arfully draw in to join with them; but as the project is ill-concerted, and will be worse managedit will come to nothing; and soon afterwards aeffectual mode will be taken to prevent the lik

attempt for the future.



16. 1728 will be a year of inquiry and retrospetion. Many exorbitant grants will be reasumed, and several persons who thought them

selves secure will be called before the senatand compelled to disgorge what they have unjustly pillaged either from the crown or thpublic.

17. About this time a new scaffold will be ereted upon the confines of a certain great citywhere an old count of a new extraction, thahas been of all parties and true to none, will bdoomed by his peers to make his first appeaance. After this an old lady who has often beeexposed to danger and disgrace, and sometimes brought to the very brink of destructionwill be brought to bed of three daughters a

once, which they shall call Plenty, Peace, anUnion; and these three shall live and grow utogether, be the glory of their mother, and thcomfort of posterity for many generations.

* * * * *



This is the substance of what he either writ oextracted from his papers in the interval between the loss of his speech and the return o

his fit, which happened exactly at the time hhad computed.

Upon the approach of his fit, he made signs tbe put to bed, which was no sooner done but h

was seized with extreme agonies, which hbore up under with the greatest steadfastnesand after a severe conflict, that lasted near eighhours, he expired.

Thus lived and thus died this extraordinarperson; a person, though of mean extractioand obscure life, yet when his character cometo be fully and truly known, it will be read wit

pleasure, profit, and admiration.His perfections at large would be the work ofvolume, and inconsistent with the intention othese papers. I will, therefore, only add, for

conclusion, that he was a man of uncommo



thought and judgment, and always kept happetites and inclinations within their just limits.

His reason was strong and manly, his undestanding sound and active, and his temper seasy, equal, and complaisant, that he never feout, either with men or accidents. He bore a

things with the highest affability, and computed justly upon their value and consequencand then applied them to their proper uses.

A LETTER FROM OXFORD

Sir,

Being informed that you speedily intend t

publish some memoirs relating to our dumcountryman, Dickory Cronke, I send you herwith a few lines, in the nature of an elegywhich I leave you to dispose of as you think fitI knew and admired the man; and if I were ca



pable, his character should be the first thingwould attempt.

Yours. &c.

AN ELEGYIN MEMORY OF DICKORY CRONKETHE DUMB PHILOSOPHER.

Vitiis nemo sine nascitur; optimus ille esQui minimus urgetur.—HORACE.

If virtuous actions emulation rais

Then this good man deserves immortal praisWhen nature such extensive wisdom lenShe sure designed him for our precedenSuch great endowments in a man unknownDeclare the blessings were not all his own

But rather granted for a time to showWhat the wise hand of Providence can dIn him we may a bright example seOf nature, justice, and moralityA mind not subject to the frowns of fat



But calm and easy in a servile statHe always kept a guard upon his wiAnd feared no harm because he knew no il

A decent posture and an humble mienIn every action of his life were seenThrough all the different stages that he wenHe still appeared both wise and diligenFirm to his word, and punctual to his trus

Sagacious, frugal, arable, and jusNo gainful views his bounded hopes coulsway,No wanton thought led his chaste soul astray

In short, his thoughts and actions both declarNature designed him her philosopheThat all mankind, by his example taughMight learn to live, and manage every thoughOh! could my muse the wondrous subje

grace,And, from his youth, his virtuous actions tracCould I in just and equal numbers teHow well he lived, and how devoutly fel



And all the world should for his virtue prizStop, gentle passenger, and drop a teaTruth, justice, wisdom, all lie buried here.

What, though he wants a monumental stonThe common pomp of every fool or knavThose virtues which through all his actionshone

Proclaim his worth, and praise him in thgrave.His merits will a bright example givWhich shall both time and envy too outlive.

Oh, had I power but equal to my mindA decent tomb should soon this place adornWith this inscription: Lo, here lies confineA wondrous man, although obscurely born

A man though dumb yet he was nature’s carWho marked him out her own philosopher

Dickory Cronke

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