The Virginia Gazette

Sometimes in the Morning, when the Stomach is sick and the Head aches, perhaps from the Effect of nocturnal Revels, the one oppressed with Crudities, the other stung with Fumes, or ailing by Consent, more or less, according to the Irritation of the nervous System, then my Spirits dejected, and my Mind fraught with gloomy Imaginations, contemplates with Horror over the melancholy Picture of all the Ills poor Nature seems to groan under. I behold the Errors, the Pains, the Torments Mankind is delivered up to; I consider with myself the Crimes, the wicked Acts, the Abominations, the Scourges of this impure Race the Devil keeps fast Hold of. I say to Mount Etna, why all these Ravages, whence all these Torrents of Fire that issue out of thy Sides? I desire the Seas to make Restitution of all those mournful Shores which at any Time have disappeared under their angry Waves. I say to Tyrants, "Ye who have been a greater Nuisance to the World, ye who have troubled it more than the Rage of Waves, than the Flames of Volcanoes, ye whose ambitious Caprices have desolated it with War, and its Consequences, Plague, Pestilence, and Famine; in short, when in this wretched Abode, I attentively survey the calamitous Situation of every Being that sees the Light of Day, and that the supreme Law is one of Suffering and for Death, alas! alas! I WEEP!

But when at a delicious Repast, in Company with Friends, Congenial Spirits; in Converse with Ladies of sprightly Notions, elegant Taste, and smart yet unaffected Wit; when, I say, in the Midst of such a Circle of Refinement, my Palate courts the learned Luxury of Petronius; when my Eye smiles on the sparkling Beauties of good Wine, and my Heart is exhilarated by it into Newness of Life; when, far from Knaves and Fools, every Face is lighted up with Pleasure, and Songs, Catches, and Glees, graceful Repartees and Jokes, have all their due Graces, all their engaging Charms, Seasoning critically every Dish and Glass; when, without regretting my Years of Bloom, I whisper something soft into Celia's Ear, not in the Strain of the Inamorato's Raptures, but in the feeling Words of sincere Friendship, the only Tie that binds my Heart; Oh! then do I forget the Approaches of old Age, my Disposition is quite juvenile, I am happier than any King. Thousands! Thousands of Pleasures, warm and reviving my Soul! Good lack! how then I LAUGH!

I see, but I keep myself untainted from their Infection, all the Cabals and Parties that divide and agitate our London Politicians. I am vexed whenever I think that the Pursuit of different Interests must split the Nation into different Factions, It overwhelms me with Grief that infernal Hatred is exercised by forming national Distinctions: Here lurks the Poison that sows in to the Destruction of Society; here is the Source of infamous Calumny, and all the Perverseness of dark Scandal. I am ashamed to hear of the Effusion of human Blood between some northern Nations for Causes quite frivolous, yet their mutual Carnage is unpitied by the Sons of Liberty; the former deem them worthy of their Fate, as being the Enslavers and Enemies of Mankind. How lamentable is the Condition of that wise and clement King, persecuted in his own Country, and not able to find Security in his Royal Residence! The Invasion of Property by Thieves and Robbers is an accursed Wickedness, and punished with Death; but the slaying and plundering of whole Nations is deemed glorious. Alas! how can Man give into so flagrant an Error in moral Rectitude! The Thought afflicts me, and I WEEP!

But, though not rich, while I have Bread and Liberty, while Old England's Constitution remains, and I have nothing to dread from the Usurpation of arbitrary Power, I am happy and contented; and, if at Leisure to amuse myself with Swift and Butler, I shake away the Spleen from my Ribs. I LAUGH, I LAUGH HEARTILY!

Such, I must confess, is the Round of human Life! There are Vicissitudes in all Things, Transitions from Joy to Sadness! I depend, in Spite of me, on five Senses. Man is made, I know, of a divine Mould; we shall hereafter be glorious Spirits. But, in this World, does not Man somehow participate of the Nature of a Machine? At Times, he is Saint or Devil, an Angel of Light, or a Fiend of Darkness. Nature flashes in Changes before our Eyes; and the most sad Heraclitus, when his Affairs have taken another Turn, becomes the merry Democritus.