rs. It is but a poor
Sentiment of the illustrious _Xenophon_'s, 'That Praise is sweet to
those, who are Conscious they deserve it;' for on the contrary, I
believe most of those, who truly deserve Praise, have look'd on it as
the poorest and lowest Reward of well-doing. Great Minds who aim in
their best Actions at the Glory of their Maker, and the pleasing that
Author of all Good, by labouring to imitate him here below, have
superior Views, and do not only look down with a generous Disdain on
the Applause of others, as it is really trivial and mean, but also as
they know, they never receive it pure, but dash'd with the Malice of
Detractors, and the Spleen of those little Souls, who Envy them. As
they are Deaf to their Praise, so great Minds from their natural
Superiority, bear the Malice of their Enemies with equal Indifference,
and strive to Copy after him whom they serve, by smiling at, and
over-looking the base Ingratitude of those they have done Good to. I am
sensible, _Dean_, as even your Donations will survive both the World
and your own Name, you know from whom to expect your Wages, and when
they will be paid you; but really when one considers, what wretched
wicked, senseless, Mortals crowd this World, it wou'd make one, out of
Countenance to be actuated merely by a Love to themselves and
Descendants, without any Regard to him, who has commanded us to assist
and befriend them.

SWIFT. I agree with you entirely; I have observed and studied Mankind
too long, not to know the _animali Initus & in Cute_, and to look on
their Service as perfect Slavery. I have lov'd some odd Men in my Time,
but the whole Race in a Lump, are a dreadful Carnage of Sins and
Infirmities, Errors and Failings, Reason and Passion, that make a kind
of Twilight in the best Understandings, that is neither Day nor Night,
Knowledge or Ignorance, Vice or Virtue; but a kind of Olio of them all.
Even the highest Characters have their weak-sides, and the most
refin'd, their Defects and their Failures, with all the Infirmities
which Flesh is heir to, and this World where we dwell is apt to taint
Men with. Nay I must tell you in some Verses of mine, which never fell
into _Faulkner_'s Hands,

_Prone to all Ill, the Flesh still warps the Soul,
Hung like a Byass on the devious Bowl.
This gives a worldly Cast to all we do,
Tho' Patriots, Heroes, Saints,----we're Sinners too!
Tho' some quite faultless in their Lives appear,
Yet cha