of the world soever, all the sages upon the habitable earth feel themselves assisted by it.  Fruition and possession principally appertain to the imagination; it more fervently and constantly embraces what it is in quest of, than what we hold in our arms.  Cast up your daily amusements; you will find that you are most absent from your friend when he is present with you; his presence relaxes your attention, and gives you liberty to absent yourself at every turn and upon every occasion.  When I am away at Rome, I keep and govern my house, and the conveniences I there left; see my walls rise, my trees shoot, and my revenue increase or decrease, very near as well as when I am there: 

          “Ante oculos errat domus, errat forma locorum.”

     ["My house and the forms of places float before my eyes”
     —­Ovid, Trist, iii. 4, 57.]

If we enjoy nothing but what we touch, we may say farewell to the money in our chests, and to our sons when they are gone a hunting.  We will have them nearer to us:  is the garden, or half a day’s journey from home, far?  What is ten leagues:  far or near?  If near, what is eleven, twelve, or thirteen, and so by degrees.  In earnest, if there be a woman who can tell her husband what step ends the near and what step begins the remote, I would advise her to stop between;

              “Excludat jurgia finis . . . . 
               Utor permisso; caudaeque pilos ut equinae
               Paulatim vello, et demo unum, demo etiam unum
               Dum cadat elusus ratione ruentis acervi:” 

["Let the end shut out all disputes . . . .  I use what is
permitted; I pluck out the hairs of the horse’s tail one by one;
while I thus outwit my opponent.”—­Horace, Ep., ii, I, 38, 45]

and let them boldly call philosophy to their assistance; in whose teeth it may be cast that, seeing it neither discerns the one nor the other end of the joint, betwixt the too much and the little, the long and the short, the light and the heavy, the near and the remote; that seeing it discovers neither the beginning nor the end, it must needs judge very uncertainly of the middle: 

          “Rerum natura nullam nobis dedit cognitionem finium.”

     ["Nature has green to us no knowledge of the end of things.” 
     —­Cicero, Acad., ii. 29.]

Are they not still wives and friends to the dead who are not at the end of this but in the other world?  We embrace not only the absent, but those who have been, and those who are not yet.  We do not promise in marriage to be continually twisted and linked together, like some little animals that we see, or, like the bewitched folks of Karenty,—­[Karantia, a town in the isle of Rugen.  See Saxo-Grammaticus, Hist. of Denmark, book xiv.]—­tied together like dogs; and a wife ought not to be so greedily enamoured of her husband’s foreparts, that she cannot endure to see him turn his back, if occasion be.  But may not this saying of that excellent painter of woman’s humours be here introduced, to show the reason of their complaints?