The second volume of letters writ by a Turkish spy who lived five and forty years undiscover'd at Paris : giving an impartial account to the Divan at Constantinople of the most remarkable transactions of Europe, and discovering several intrigues and secrets of the Christian courts (especially of that of France) continued from the year 1642 to the year 1682 / written originally in Arabick, translated into Italian, and from thence into English, by the translator of the first volume.

LETTER XVIII.

To Dgnet Oglou.

THOU wilt wonder when I tell thee, I am melancholy for want of Solitude▪ That which administers Occasion of Sadness to others, is the onely Cure of my Grief. Yet, this will not seem a Paradox, when thou con∣siderest, that Conversation is the Air of the Soul, and that he who values the Health and Ease of his Mind, ought to chuse such an Ele∣ment for it to breathe in, as is pure and serene, which is very Difficult to find in any Society. This is the Reason, that I never think my self more alone, than when I am confin'd to some Kind of Company.

Thou hast observed, that most Men will engross all the Talk to themselves; this is ve∣ry Irksom. Yet, I should not grudge them the Monopoly, were their Discourse pertinent and agreeable; but, to be forc'd to hearken to all their empty Tattle of Hawks and Hounds, Garbs and Fashions, with an endless Jargon of Things less to the Purpose than the former, which will keep their Tongues employ'd some∣times two or three Hours together; renders their Converse more troublesome, than that of the Spark, who pick'd up Horace in the Streets of Rome.

Others are of a quite contrary Humour; and, thou mayst as soon get a Word from

the Mufti, as from them. They sit like Statues, as if they emulated the Chara∣cter of Griuli Eben Sagran, one of the Vizirs of the Bench, who in ten Years that he had sat in the Divan, was never observed to speak a Syllable.

Yet, this sort is more tolerable than the o∣ther, who with their Everlasting Chat, rock the Company asleep, and take from them the very Power of Thinking.

However, I prefer the Retirement of my Chamber, to both these Inconveniences. There I can enter into my self, and by retreat∣ing from all Commerce with my Senses, I find a private Back Way to converse with the whole Universe. Think not this a Chimaera, or that Mahmut pretends to extraordinary Illumina∣tions; 'tis nothing but what every Man may experience, who will but take the Pains to be throughly acquainted with Himself. If he can but gain a familiar Access to the in∣ward Apartments of his own Breast, he will soon find a Postern there, which will readily open and let him into the most retired Closets of Nature: From thence he may sally forth, and take a better Survey of the World, than he can by his Eyes. Here he will behold all Things undisguised, and in their true Quan∣tities and Qualities. And, which is more ad∣mirable, he will be able, without the Help of Opticks, to see himself enjoying this Felicity, and to know that he sees it, which is a sufficient Conviction, that he is not in a Dream.

Wouldst thou improve thy Knowledge,

affect not a Multitude of Books; there are but few worth the Reading. What is the whole Creation, but one Great Library; e∣very Volume in which, and every Page in those Volumes, are impress'd with Radi∣ant Characters of infinite Wisdom? And, all the Perfections of the Universe, are con∣tracted with such unimitable Art in Man, that he needs no other Book but himself, to make him a complete Philosopher. Thou wilt say, that this requires too great an Abstract∣edness of Mind, and is very painful. I tell thee, my dear Friend, I am extremely subject to Melancholy; whose Effect, thou know∣est, is to render one very thoughtful, and those Thoughts rack the Soul with intolerable An∣guish. Yet I do not fly from them, as gene∣rally Men are accustom'd, neither do I seek to drown them in Wine, or chase them a∣way with any Sociable Divertisements. My usual Way is, to bid them Battel, oppose Thoughts against Thoughts; and, with the Dint of Reason, to subdue this peevish Hu∣mour. To this End, I hunt up and down for my Enemy, and rummage every Corner of my Soul, pursuing the Cause of my Sad∣ness, with such Arguments as these: Why should I be melancholy, who possess Nothing that I fear to lose, and yet enjoy all that I could wish for, were I without what I now Possess? I am a Mussulman, and therefore under the Protection of God: I serve his Vice∣gerent, the Grand Signior, faithfully, and find Acceptance with the Bassa's of the Port: I am

in France, yet cannot call it a Foreign Coun∣try, since Innocence and Vertue naturalize a Man in all Parts of the World. I cannot say I am unfortunate, so long as I have no Vice, for which I need either to Blush, or grow Pale. If I am slander'd, this ought to be an Occasion of Joy, since it ranks me with Men of the Greatest Merit, who could never escape the Calumnies of the Envious. And, I have reason to Triumph, in that I find no Incli∣nation to revenge my self, but rather to pi∣ty my Traducers. If any Man should play the Satyrist with my Deformity, and rudely descant on my Ugly Countenance, or the Disproportion of my Limbs; there is no more Reason to be grieved at this, than to be af∣fronted at the Wind for blowing off my Hat, or the Rain for wetting my Cloaths, or a Dog for barking at me as I go along the Streets, the one being as Natural as the other.

Thus I argue with my self, Dear Oglou, when assaulted with Melancholy; these are the Remedies which I apply to that black Distemper of the Mind: And sometimes I go farther, if these will do no good: I then ask my self, whether it be the fear of Death that thus perplexes me? And here begins my Cure. This kindles the Brightest Spark of Reason, which in a Moment disperses all the Mists. The dismal Pageantry of Chimera's vanishes, and all the Tragick Pomp of Grief streight disappear. Not, that I would have thee think I am fond of dying, but I consider Death as the unavoidable Fate of all Men

and, that therefore it is reasonable to be chear∣ful, since that which no Man can escape, will one Time or other, release me and every Man from the Miseries of this Life. This Thought recovers me from the worst Effects of Melan∣choly; and, I believe, the Damned themselves would sometimes be in a good Humour, if they had but the least Glimpse of Hope, that they should one Day be deliver'd from their Torments. For, whatsoever sorts of Men there are in this Life, I cannot think, there be any Stoicks in Hell.

And now I have entertained thee with Com∣pany and Solitude, with Books and Men, with Life and Death, with Earth and Hell; let us take one Step farther, and refresh our selves with the Remembrance of Heaven, the Joys of the Bless'd in Paradise; which, certainly is the best Relief of Anxious Thoughts, the most perfect Cure of Melan∣choly, the Guide of Life, and the Comfort of Death.

God grant, that thou and I may see each other, and drink together in the Arbours of Eden, and kiss the Daughters of Paradise.

Paris, 14th. of the 8th. Moon, of the Year 1643.