shrink into nothing, at the sight of
drawn swords, that are thus quashed and stunned at the delivery of bare
words?

[Illustration: 113]

Now then let Plato's fine sentence be cried up, that "happy are those
commonwealths where either philosophers are elected kings, or kings turn
philosophers." Alas, this is so far from being true, that if we consult
all historians for an account of past ages, we shall find no princes
more weak, nor any people more slavish and wretched, than where the
administrations of affairs fell on the shoulders of some learned bookish
governor. Of the truth whereof, the two Catos are exemplary instances:
the first of which embroiled the city, and tired out the senate by his
tedious harangues of defending himself, and accusing others; the younger
was an unhappy occasion of the loss of the peoples' liberty, while
by improper methods he pretended to maintain it To these may be added
Brutus, Cassius, the two Gracchi, and Cicero himself, who was no less
fatal to Rome, than his parallel Demosthenes was to Athens: as likewise
Marcus Antoninus, whom we may allow to have been a good emperor, yet the
less such for his being a philosopher; and certainly he did not do half
that kindness to his empire by his own prudent management of affairs,
as he did mischief by leaving such a degenerate successor as his son
Commodus proved to be; but it is a common observation, that _A wise
father has many times a foolish son_, nature so contriving it, lest the
taint of wisdom, like hereditary distempers, should otherwise descend by
propagation. Thus Tully's son Marcus, though bred at Athens, proved but
a dull, insipid soul; and Socrates his children had (as one ingeniously
expresses it) "more of the mother than the father," a phrase for their
being fools. However, it were the more excusable, though wise men are so
awkward and unhandy in the ordering of public affairs, if they were
not so bad, or worse in the management of their ordinary and domestic
concerns; but alas, here they are much to seek: for place a formal wise
man at a feast, and he shall, either by his morose silence put the whole
table out of humour, or by his frivolous questions disoblige and tire
out all that sit near him. Call him out to dance, and he shall move no
more nimbly than a camel: invite him to any public performance, and by
his very looks he shall damp the mirth of all the spectators, and at
last be forced, like Cato, to leave the theatre, becaus