born by something stronger than reason. Sure, some divinity speaks within me; but prithee, Philocles, give me cooly the cause, why this rational and moral good so infinitely excels the mere natural or sensual.

Phil. I think, Horatio, that I have clearly shewn you the difference between merely natural or sensual good, and rational or moral good. Natural or sensual pleasure continues no longer than the action itself; but this divine or moral pleasure continues when the action is over, and swells and grows upon your hand by reflection: the one is inconstant, unsatisfying, of short duration, and attended with numberless ills; the other is constant, yields full satisfaction, is durable, and no evils preceding, accompanying, or following it. But if you enquire farther into the cause of this difference, and would know why the moral pleasures are greater than the sensual; perhaps the reason is the same, as in all other creatures, that their happiness or chief good consists in acting up to their chief faculty, or that faculty which distinguishes them from all creatures of a different species. The chief faculty in man is his reason; and consequently, his chief good; or, that which may be justly called his good consists not merely in action, but in reasonable action. By reasonable actions, we understand those actions, which are preservative of the human kind, and naturally tend to produce real and unmixed happiness; and these actions, by way of distinction, we call actions morally good.

Hor. You speak very clearly, Philocles; but, that no difficulty may remain upon your mind, pray tell me, what is the real difference between natural good and evil, and moral good and evil; for I know several people who use the terms without ideas.

Phil. That may be the difference lies only in this, that natural good and evil, are pleasure and pain: moral good and evil, are pleasure or pain produced with intention and design. For, it is the intention only that makes the agent morally good or bad.

Hor. But may not a man, with a very good intention, do an evil action?

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Phil. Yes; but then he errs in his judgment, though his design be good: if his error is invincible, or such as, all things considered, he could not help, he is inculpable; but, if it arose through want of diligence in forming his judgment about the nature of human actions, he is immoral and culpable.

Hor. I find then, that in order to please ourselves rightly, or to do good to others morally, we should take great care of our opinions.

Phil. Nothing concerns you more; for, as the happiness or real good of men consists in right action; and right action cannot be produced without right opinion; it behoves us, above all things in this world, to take care that our own opinions of things be according to the nature of things. The foundation of all virtue and happiness is thinking rightly. He who sees an action is right, that is, naturally tending to good, and does it because of that tendency, he only is a moral man; and he alone is capable of that constant, durable, and invariable good, which has been the subject of this conversation.

Hor. How, my dear philosophical guide, shall be able to know, and determine certainly, what is right and wrong in life?

Phil. As easily as you distinguish a circle from a square, or light from darkness. Look, Horatio, into the sacred book of nature; read your own nature, and view the relation which other men stand in to you, and you to them, and you will immediately see what constitutes human happiness, and consequently, what is right.

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Hor. We are just coming into town, and can more at present. You are my good genius, Philocles, you have shewed me what is good; you have redeemed me from the slavery and misery of folly and vice; and made me a free and happy being.

Phil. Then am I the happiest man in the world; be you steady, Horatio, never depart from reason and virtue.

. Hor. Sooner will I lose my existence. Good night, Philocles.

Phil. Adieu, dear Horatio.

PUBLIC MEN.

From the Pennsylvania Gazette, No. 95, September 3, 1730. The following is a dialogue between Socrates, the great Athenian philosopher, and one Glaucon a private man, of mean abilities, but ambitious of being chosen a senator, and of governing the republic; wherein Socrates, in a pleasant manner, convinces him of his incapacity for public affairs, by making him sensible of his ignorance of the interests of his country, in their several branches, and entirely dissuades him from any attempt of that nature. There is also added, at the end, part of another dialogue, the same Socrates had with one Charmidas, a worthy man, but too modest, wherein he endeavors to persuade him to put himself forward and undertake public business, as being very capable of it. The whole is taken from Xenophon's Memorable things of Socrates, lib. 3.

A certain man, whose name was Glaucon, the son of Ariston, had so fixt it in his mind to govern the republic, that he frequently presented himself before the people to discourse of affairs of state, though all the world laughed at him for it; nor was it in the power of his relations or friends to dissuade him from that design. But Socrates had a kindness for him, on account of Plato his brother, and he only it was who made him change his resolution; he met him, and accosted him in so winning a manner, that he first obliged him to hearken to his discourse. He began with him thus: You have a mind then to govern the republic? I have so, answered Glaucon. You cannot, replied Socrates, have a more noble design; for if you can accomplish it so as to become absolute, you will be able to serve your friends, you will raise your family, you will extend the bounds of your country, you will be known, not only in Athens, but through all Greece, and perhaps your renown will fly even to the barbarous nations, as did that of Themistocles. In short, wherever you come, you will have the respect and admiration of all the world. These words soothed Glaucon, and won him to give ear to Socrates, who went on in this manner. But it is certain, VOL. IV.

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that if you desire to be honored, you must be useful to the state. Certainly, said Glaucon. And in the name of all the gods, replied Socrates, tell me, what is the first service that you intend to render the state? Glaucon was considering what to answer, when Socrates continued. If you design to make the fortune of one of your friends, you would endeavor to make him rich, and thus perhaps you will make it your business to enrich the republic? I would, answered Glaucon. Socrates replied: would not the way to enrich the republic be to increase its revenue? It is very likely it would, said Glaucon. Tell me then in what consists the revenue of the state, and to how much it may amount? I presume you have particularly studied this matter, to the end that if any thing should be lost on one hand, you might know where to make it good on another, and that if a fund should fail on a sudden, you might immediately be able to settle another in its place? I protest, answered Glaucon, I have never thought of this. Tell me at least the expences of the republic, for no doubt you intend to retrench the superfluous? I never thought of this neither, said GlauYou were best then to put off to another time your design of enriching the republic, which you can never be able to do, while you are ignorant both of its expences and revenue. There is another way to enrich a state, said Glaucon, of which you take no notice, and that is by the ruin of its enemies. You are in the right, answered Socrates: but to this end, it is necessary to be stronger than they, otherwise we shall run the hazard of losing what we have: he therefore who talks of undertaking a war, ought to know the strength on both sides, to the end that if his party be the stronger, he may boldly advise for war, and that if it be the weaker, he may dissuade the people from engaging themselves in so dangerous an enterprise. All this is true. Tell me then, continued Socrates, how strong our forces are by sea and land, and how strong are our enemies? Indeed, said Glaucon, I cannot tell you on a sudden. If you have a list of them in writing, pray shew it me, I should be glad to hear it read. I have it not yet. I see then, said Socrates, that

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we shall not engage in war so soon: for the greatness of the undertaking will hinder you from maturely weighing all the consequences of it in the beginning of your government. But, continued he, you have thought of the defence of the country, you know what garrisons are necessary, and what are not; you know what number of troops is sufficient in one, and not sufficient in another: you will cause the necessary garrisons to be reinforced, and will disband those that are useless? I should be of opinion, said Glaucon, to leave none of them on foot, because they ruin a country, on pretence of defending it. But, Socrates objected, if all the garrisons were taken away, there would be nothing to hinder the first comer from carrying off what he pleased: but how come you to know that the garrisons behave themselves so ill? Have you been upon the place, have you seen them? Not at all; but I suspect it to be so. When therefore we are certain of it, said Socrates, and can speak upon better grounds than simple conjectures, we will propose this advice to the senate. It may be well to do so, said Glaucon. It comes in to my mind, too, continued Socrates, that you have never been at the mines of silver, to examine why they bring not in so much now as they did formerly. You say true, I have never been there. Indeed they say the place is very unhealthy, and that may excuse you. You rally me now, said Glaucon. Socrates added; but I believe you have at least observed how much corn our lands produce, how long it will serve to supply our city, and how much more we shall want for the whole year; to the end you may not be surprised with a scarcity of bread, but may give timely orders for the necessary provisions. There is a deal to do, said Glaucon, if we must take care of all these things. There is so, replied Socrates, and it is even impossible to manage our own families well, unless we know all that is wanting, and take care to provide it. As you see therefore that our city is composed of above ten thousand families, and it being a difficult task to watch over them all at once, why did you not first try to retrieve your uncle's affairs which are running to decay, and after having given that proof of