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exhibited the Calendra, a comedy of intrigue upon a good model, but extremely licentious, as all compositions of that age were. The Mandragora of Machiavel is equally licentious; and, considering the author, the Queen of Navarre’s tales, worst of all.¹⁰

      Swearing as an expletive of speech, is a violent symptom of rough and coarse manners. It prevails among all barbarous nations. Even women in Plautus use it fluently. It prevailed in Spain and in France, till it was banished by polite manners. Our Queen Elisabeth was a bold swearer;^* and the English populace, who are rough beyond their neighbours, <381> are noted by strangers for that vice. John King of England swore commonly “by the teeth of God.” Charles VIII. of France “by God’s day.” Francis I. “upon the faith of a gentleman.” And the oath of Lewis XII. was “may the devil take me.”¹¹ Though swearing, in order to enforce an expression, is not in itself immoral; it is, however, hurtful in its consequences, rendering sacred names too familiar. God’s beard, the common oath of William Rufus, suggests an image of our Maker as an old man with a long beard. In vain have acts of parliament been made against swearing: it is easy to evade the penalty, by coining new oaths; and, as that vice proceeds from an overflow of spirits, people in that condition brave penalties. Polished manners are the only effectual cure for that malady.

      When a people begin to emerge out of barbarity, loud mirth and rough jokes come in place of rancour and resentment. About a century ago, it was usual for the servants and retainers of the Court of Session in Scotland, to break out into riotous mirth and uproar the last day of every term, throwing bags, dust, sand, or stones, <382> all around. We have undoubted evidence of that disorderly practice from an act of the Court, prohibiting it under a severe penalty, as dishonourable to the Court, and unbecoming the civility requisite in such a place^(a).

      And this leads to the lowness of ancient manners; plainly distinguishable from simplicity of manners: the latter is agreeable, not the former. Among the ancient Egyptians, to cram a man was an act of high respect. Joseph, the King’s first minister, in order to honour Benjamin above his brethren, gave him a five-fold mess^(b). The Greeks, in their feasts, distinguished their heroes by a double portion^(c). Ulysses cut a fat piece out of the chine of a wild boar for Demodocus the bard^(d). The same respectful politeness is practised at present among the American savages; so much are all men alike in similar circumstances. Telemachus^(e) complains bitterly of Penelope’s suitors, that they were gluttons, and consumed his beef and<383> mutton. The whole 14th book of the Odyssey, containing the reception of Ulysses by Eumaeus the swine-herd, is miserably low. Manners must be both gross and low, where common beggars are admitted to the feasts of princes, and receive scraps from their hands^(f). In Rome every guest brought his own napkin to a feast. A slave carried it home, filled with what was left from the entertainment. Sophocles, in his tragedy of Iphigenia in Aulis, represents Clytemnestra, stepping down from her car, and exhorting her servants to look after her baggage, with the anxiety and minuteness of a lady’s waiting-woman. In the tragedy of Ion, this man, a servant in the temple of Delphos, is represented cleaning the temple, and calling out to a flock of birds, each by name, threatening to pierce them with his arrows if they dunged upon the offerings. Homer paints in lively colours the riches of the Phoeacians, their skill in navigation, the magnificence of the King’s court, of his palace, and of the public buildings. But, with the same breath, he describes Nausicaa, the King’s daughter, travelling<384> to the river on a waggon of greasy clothes, to be washed by her and her maids. Possibly it may be urged, that such circumstances, however low in our opinion, did not appear low in Greece, as they were introduced by their chief poet, and the greatest that ever existed. I acknowledge the force of this argument: but what does it prove, more than that the Greeks were not sensible of the lowness of their manners? Is any nation sensible of the lowness of their own manners? The manners of the Greeks did not correspond to the delicacy of their taste in the fine arts: nor can it be expected, when they were strangers to that polite society with women, which refines behaviour, and elevates manners. The first kings in Greece, as Thucydides observes, were elective, having no power but to command their armies in time of war; which resembles the government that obtains at present in the isthmus of Darien. The Greeks had no written laws, being governed by custom merely. To live by plunder was held honourable; for it was their opinion, that the rules of justice are not intended for restraining the powerful. All strangers were accounted<385> enemies, as among the Romans; and inns were unknown, because people lived at home, having very little intercourse even with those of their own nation. Inns were unknown in Germany, and to this day are unknown in the remote parts of the highlands of Scotland; but for an opposite reason, that hospitality prevailed greatly among the ancient Germans, and continues to prevail so much among our highlanders, that a gentleman takes it for an affront if a stranger pass his door. At a congress between Francis I. of France and Henry VIII. of England, among other spectacles for public entertainment, the two Kings had a wrestling-match. Had they forgot that they were sovereign princes?

      One would imagine war to be a soil too rough for the growth of civilization; and yet it is not always an unkindly soil. War between two small tribes is fierce and cruel: but a large state mitigates resentment, by directing it not against individuals, but against the state. We know no enemies but those who are in arms: we have no resentment against others, but rather find a pleasure in treating<386> them with humanity.^* Cruelty, having thus in war few individuals for its object, naturally subsides; and magnanimity in its stead transforms soldiers from brutes to heroes. Some time ago, it was usual in France to demand battle; and it was held dishonourable to decline it, however unequal the match. Before the battle of Pavia, Francis I. wrote to the Marquis Pescara, the Imperial General, “You will find me before Pavia, and you ought to be here in six days: I give you twenty. Let not the superiority of my forces serve for an excuse; I will fight you with equal numbers.” Here was heroism without prudence; but, in all reformations, it is natural to go from one extreme to the other. While the King of England held any possessions in France, war was perpetual between the two nations, which was commonly carried on<387> with more magnanimity than is usual between inveterate enemies. It became customary to give prisoners their freedom, upon a simple parole to return with their ransom at a day named. The same was the custom in the border-wars between the English and Scots, before their union under one monarch. But parties found their account equally in such honourable behaviour. Edward Prince of Wales, in a pitched battle against the French, took the illustrious Bertrand du Gueselin prisoner. He long declined to accept a ransom; but, finding it whispered that he was afraid of that hero, he instantly set him at liberty without a ransom. This may be deemed impolitic or whimsical: but is love of glory less praise-worthy than love of conquest? The Duke of Guise, victor in the battle of Dreux, rested all night in the field of battle; and gave the Prince of Condé, his prisoner, a share of his bed, where they lay like brothers. The Chevalier Bayard, commander of a French army anno 1524, being mortally wounded in retreating from the Imperialists, placed himself under a tree, his face, however, to the enemy. The Marquis de Pescara, ge-<388>neral of the Imperialists, finding him dead in that posture, behaved with the generosity of a gallant adversary: he directed his body to be embalmed, and to be sent to his relations in the most honourable manner. Magnanimity and heroism, in which benevolence is an essential ingredient, are inconsistent with cruelty, perfidy, or any grovelling passion. Never was gallantry in war carried to a greater height, than between the English and Scotch borderers before the crowns were united. The night after the battle of Otterburn, the victors and vanquished lay promiscuously in the same camp, without apprehending the least danger one from the other. The manners of ancient warriors were very different. Homer’s hero, though superior to all in bodily strength, takes every advantage of his enemy, and never feels either compassion or remorse. The policy of the Greeks and Romans in war, was to weaken a state by plundering its territory, and destroying its people. Humanity with us prevails even in war. Individuals not in arms are secure, which saves much innocent blood. Prisoners were set at liberty upon paying a ransom; and, by later im-<389>provements in manners, even that practice is left off as too mercantile, a more honourable practice being substituted, namely, a cartel for exchange of prisoners. Humanity was carried to a still greater height, in our late war with France, by an agreement between the Duke de Noailes and the Earl of Stair, That the hospitals for the sick and wounded soldiers should be secure from all hostilities. The humanity of the Duke de Randan in the same war, makes

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