Epistle VII. To Lepidus.
by
the Same. [Mr. Henley.]
[_]
Another on the Mourning of Regulus for his Son.
I often tell you, that there is a deal of Violence in the Nature of
Regulus: 'Tis surprizing how he effects a Thing he designs. He was pleas'd to mourn for his Son;
he does mourn as none ever did in the World. He thought fit to make as many Images for him as possible,
and this is his Employ about all the Shops in Town: He takes the Figure of him in Colours,
in Wax, in Brass, in Silver, in Gold, in Ivory, in Marble. Lately too he recited himself a Piece concerning his Life,
getting a numerous Audience for the Purpose, and then dispers'd it, written out into a thousand Copies,
thro' all Italy, and the Provinces. He wrote it publickly, that the
Decurions might pitch upon one of the loudest among themselves to read it to the People.
It was done. If he had turn'd this Force of his Temper (or however else you please) to better Aims,
what good Purposes might he have accomplish'd! Tho' the Virtuous have less of this violent
Spirit than the Bad; and, as Ignorance is attended with Boldness,
but Consideration is slow, so Modesty enfeebles a regular Mind, but Assurance hardens the perverse.
Regulus is an Instance of it. A weak Constitution, a confus'd Visage,
a faultering Tongue, a very heavy Invention, no Memory: Nothing, in short,
but a furious Temper; and yet he is advanc'd so far by that very Impudence and Frenzy,
that a great Number think him an Orator. Hence it is, that
Herennius Senecio
with a particular Grace, turns that of the Orator, spoken by
Cato,
to him, by a reverse of Expression: An Orator is a wicked Man, unskill'd in speaking.
Really,
Cato himself did not express a true Orator so well as he drew a
Regulus. Have you wherewithall to return an Epistle of this Vein? You have,
if you send me an Account, whether any of my Acquaintance in your town,
or you your self have read this sorrowful Piece of
Regulus, in the Market-place,
like a Mountebank or a Stroller; raising your voice (as
Demosthenes says) and I laughing heartily, and straining your Throat.
For it is so absurd, that it might create a Laugh rather than a Sigh,
You wou'd imagine it to be written, not upon a Child, but by one.
