we eagerly covet to see, though but in shadow and the fables of theatres,
the pomp of tragic representations of human fortune; 'tis not without
compassion at what we hear, but we please ourselves in rousing our
displeasure, by the rarity of these pitiable events. Nothing tickles
that does not pinch. And good historians skip over, as stagnant water
and dead sea, calm narrations, to return to seditions, to wars, to which
they know that we invite them.

I question whether I can decently confess with how small a sacrifice of
its repose and tranquillity I have passed over above the one half of my
life amid the ruin of my country. I lend myself my patience somewhat too
cheap, in accidents that do not privately assail me; and do not so much
regard what they take from me, as what remains safe, both within and
without. There is comfort in evading, one while this, another while
that, of the evils that are levelled at ourselves too, at last, but at
present hurt others only about us; as also, that in matters of public
interest, the more universally my affection is dispersed, the weaker it
is: to which may be added, that it is half true:

"Tantum ex publicis malis sentimus,
quantum ad privatas res pertinet;"

["We are only so far sensible of public evils as they respect our
private affairs."--Livy, xxx. 44.]

and that the health from which we fell was so ill, that itself relieves
the regret we should have for it. It was health, but only in comparison
with the sickness that has succeeded it: we are not fallen from any great
height; the corruption and brigandage which are in dignity and office
seem to me the least supportable: we are less injuriously rifled in a