me your free opinion of what I have already sent you thereof. I fear your public business will, in some measure, take you off from your more retired thoughts, by which the world were gainers every day. But, good sir, let me intreat you, that, at your leisure hours, you would think on, and send a line to Your most affectionate, and humble servant, WILL. MOLYNEUX. SIR, Mr. LOCKE to Mr. MOLYNEUX. London, July 2, 1696. I CANNOT, without great trouble, hear of any indisposition of yours: your friendship, which heaven has bestowed on me, as one of the greatest blessings I can enjoy, for the remainder of my life, is what I value at so high a rate, that I cannot consider myself within danger of losing a person, every way so dear to me, without very great uneasiness of mind. Thus far I got, when I sat down to write to you, about a month since, as you will see by the date at the top; business, and a little excursion into the country, has hindered me ever since. Were you a man I only cared to talk with, out of civility, I should sooner answer your letters. But, not contenting myself with such formal correspondence with you, I cannot find in my heart to begin writing to you, 'till I think I shall have time to talk a great deal, and pour out my mind to a man, to whom I make sure I can do it with freedom; his candour and friendship allow that, and I find I know not what pleasure in doing it. I promised myself abundance of pleasure this summer, in seeing you here, and the disappointment is one of the most sensible I could have met with, in my private concerns; and the occasion, that robbed me of that satisfaction, frights me. I have, I thank God, now as much health, as my constitution will allow me to expect. But yet, if I will think like a reasonable man, the flattery of my summer vigour ought not to make me count beyond the next winter, at any time for the future. The last sat so heavy upon me, that it was with difficulty I got through it; and you will not blame me, if I have a longing to see and embrace a man I esteem and love so much, before I leave this silly earth; which, when the conveniencies of life are moderately provided for, has nothing of value in it equal to the conversation of a knowing, ingenious, and large-minded friend, who sincerely loves and seeks truth. When I took pen in hand to continue this letter, I had yours of March and June last before me, with a design to answer them. But my pen run on, as you see, before I could get leave of my forward thoughts, to come to what was my chief business, viz. to read again and answer those kind letters of yours. That of March 28, brought me a sample of Mr. Burridge's translation: upon my reading of it, I began to correct it after my fashion, and intended to have gone through that, and so all the rest of the sheets, as they came to my hand: but some other more pressing occasion interrupted me, and now I am past all hopes to have any leisure at all to do any thing more to it in that kind, and must wholly leave it to his and your care. When I say your care, I do not make so ill an use of your kindness, as to expect you should look it over and correct it; but I doubt not but you have such an interest in your college, that you can have the assistance of some able man there to do it. The subject itself, and my way of expressing my thoughts upon them, may, I doubt not, but be very different from the genius of the Latin tongue, and therefore I should not think it amiss, if Mr. Burridge would take more liberty to quit the scheme and phrase of my style, and so he takes but my sense, to comply more with the turn and manner of Tully's philosophical language. For so he has but my sense, I care not how much he neglects my words; and whether he expresses my thoughts, you are as good judge as I, for I think you as much master of them. I say this to excuse you from the trouble of sending his papers over to me, as he dispatches them; for in my present circumstances I shall hardly have time so much as to peruse them. Pray, when you see, or send to him, give him my humble service. Though your colic has done me no small prejudice, yet I am much more angry with it, upon the account of those inconveniencies it has made you suffer. I know you are in skilful, as well as careful hands, under the. care of your brother, and it could not be advisable in. any one to draw you from them. The colic is so general a name for pains in the lower belly, that I cannot, from thence pretend to make any judgment of your case; but it can be no harm to advise you to ask him, whether he does not think that the drinking of our Bath waters may be useful to you in your case. I know those waters mightily strengthen those parts. Your congratulation to me I take, as you meant, kindly and seriously, and it may be it is what another would rejoice in: but, if you would give me leave to whisper truth without vanity, in the ear of a friend, it is a preferment which I shall get nothing by, and I know not whether my country will, though that I shall aim at with all my endeavours. Riches may be instrumental to so many good purposes, that it is, I think, vanity, rather than religion or philosophy, to pretend to contemn them. But yet they may be purchased too dear. My age and health demand a retreat from bustle and business, and the pursuit of some inquiries, I have in my thoughts, makes it more desirable than any of those rewards, which public employments tempt people with. I think the little I have enough, and do not desire to live higher, or die richer than I am. And therefore you have reason rather to pity the folly, than congratulate the fortune, that engages me in the whirlpool. It is your pre-occupation, in favour of me, that makes you say what you do of Mr. Wynne's abridgment; I know not, whether it be that, or any thing else, that has occasioned it; but I was told some time since, that my essay began to get some credit in Cambridge, where I think, for some years after it was published, it was scarce so much as looked into. But now I have some reason to think it is a little more favourably received there, by these two questions held there this last commencement; viz. "Probabile est animam non semper "cogitare:" and, " Idea Dei non est innata." What you say of the Reasonableness of Christianity, gives me occasion to ask your thoughts of that treatise, and also how it passes amongst you there; for here, at its first coming out, it was received with no indifferency, some speaking of it with great commendation, but most censuring it as a very bad book. What you say of Mr. Edwards is so visible, that I find all the world of your mind. This is now a third sitting before I finish this letter, whereby, I fear, I shall give you an ill picture of myself. By the reading of the next paragraph of your obliging letter of June 6, I am mightily comforted to find that it is not want of health (as it run in my head by a strong impression, I found remained in my mind, from the colic mentioned in the beginning of your letter) but business, that keeps me this year from the happiness of your company. This is much more tole rable to me than the other, and though I suffer by it, yet I can bear it the better, whilst there is room to hope it may be such, that both you and your country may receive advantage by it. Mr. Howard, whom I was resolving yesterday morning to inquire after, prevented me by a visit he made me, wherein he gave me an account he had received a letter from you, since his return from Cambridge. That which you desire of me, as the chief reason of affording me his acquaintance, is what I cannot refuse, and yet it causes in me some confusion to grant. If the original could do you any service, I shall be glad; but to think my picture worth your having, would carry too much vanity with it, to allow my consent, did not the skill of the painter often make amends for the meanness of the subject, and a good pencil frequently make the painted representation of more value than the real substance. This may probably be my case. Mr. Howard is a very pretty young gentleman, and I thank you for his acquaintance. I wish it lay in my power to do him any service, whilst he is here. If the length of my letter could be an excuse for the slowness of its coming, I have certainly made a very ample apology; though I satisfy myself neither in being silent so long, nor in tiring you with talking so much now; but it is from an heart wholly devoted to you. I am, SIR, COULD the painter have made a picture of me, capable of your conversation, I should have sat to him with more delight, than ever I did any thing in my life. The honour you do me, in giving me thus a place in your house, I look upon as the effect of having a place already in your esteem and affection; and that made me more easily submit to what methought looked too much like vanity in me. Painting was designed to represent the gods, or the great men that stood next to them. But friendship, I see, takes no measure of any thing, but by itself: and where it is great and high, will make its object so, and raise it above its level. This is that which has deceived you into my picture, and made you put so great a compliment upon me; and I do not know what you will find to justify yourself to those who shall see it in your possession. You may, indeed, tell them the original is as much yours as the picture; but this will be no great boast, when the man is not more considerable than his shadow. When I looked upon it, after it was done, me |